The Mote in God's Eye - Larry Niven [52]
Buckman smiled. “So theatrical, Bury. But I suppose I can spare a few minutes. All we’re doing now is waiting for that signal light to go off.”
“A signal from the Mote planet?”
“From Mote Prime, yes, at least it came from the right place. But we can’t see the planet until they turn off the laser, and they won’t. They talk and talk, and for what? What can they tell us if we don’t speak a common language?”
“After all, Doctor, how can they tell us anything until they teach us their language? I presume that’s what they’re trying to do now. Isn’t anyone working on that?”
Buckman gave a feral snarl. “Horvath has all the instruments feeding information to Hardy and the linguists. Can’t get any decent observations of the Coal Sack—and no one’s ever been this close to it before!” His look softened. “But we can study the Trojan asteroids.”
Buckman’s eye took on that look, the focus on infinity. “There are too many of them. And not enough dust. I was wrong, Bury; there’s not enough dust to capture so many rocks, or to polish them either. The Moties probably did the polishing, they must be all through those rocks, the neutrino emissions are fantastic. But how did so many rocks get captured?”
“Neutrino emissions. That means a fusion technology.”
Buckman smiled. “One of a high order. Thinking of trade possibilities?”
“Of course. Why else would I be here?” And I would be here even if the Navy had not made it clear that the alternative was a formal arrest . . . but Buckman wouldn’t know that. Only Blaine did. “The higher their civilization, the more they’ll have to trade.” And the harder they’d be to cheat; but Buckman wouldn’t be interested in such things.
Buckman complained, “We could move so much faster if the Navy didn’t use our telescopes. And Horvath lets them! Ah, good.” Nabil entered, pushing a tray.
Buckman ate like a starved rat. Between mouthfuls he said, “Not that all the Navy’s projects are totally without interest. The alien ship—”
“Ship?”
“There’s a ship coming to meet us. Didn’t you know?”
“No.”
“Well, its point of departure is a large, stony asteroid well outside the main cluster. The point is, it’s very light. It must have a very odd shape, unless there are gas bubbles all through the rock, which would mean—”
Bury laughed outright. “Doctor, surely an alien space craft is more interesting than a stony meteorite!”
Buckman looked startled. “Why?”
The slivers turned red, then black. Clearly the things were cooling; but how had they become hot in the first place?
The Engineer had stopped wondering about that when one of the slivers came toward her. There were power sources inside the metal bulks.
And they were self-motivated. What were they? Engineers, or Masters, or senseless machinery? A Mediator on some incomprehensible task? She resented the Mediators, who could so easily and so unreasonably interfere with important work.
Perhaps the slivers were Watchmakers; but more likely they contained a Master. The Engineer considered running, but the approaching bulk was too powerful. It accelerated at 1.14 gravities, nearly the limit of her ship. There was nothing for an Engineer to do but meet it.
Besides . . . all that metal! In useful form, as far as she could tell. The Clusters were full of metal artifacts, but in alloys too tough to convert.
All that metal.
But it must meet her, not the other way around. She had not the fuel or the acceleration. She worked out turnover points in her head. The other would do the same, of course. Luckily the solution was unique, assuming constant acceleration. There would be no need for communication.
Engineers were not good at communication.
14 The Engineer
The alien ship was a compact bulk, irregular of shape and dull gray in color, like modeling clay molded in cupped hands. Extrusions sprouted at seeming random: a ring of hooks around what Whitbread took for the aft end; a thread of bright silver girdling its waist; transparent bulges fore and aft; antennae in highly imaginative curves; and dead aft, a kind of stinger: a spine many times the length of the hull,