The Mote in God's Eye - Larry Niven [76]
“Um. All right. Thank you.”
After some thought, Rod put the pictures on the intercom. Nearly everything went on the intercom, which served as library, amusement center, and communications for MacArthur. In intervals between alerts, or during a battle, one channel of the intercom might show anything. Canned entertainments. Chess tournaments. Spatball games between the champions of each watch. A play, if the crew had that much time on their hands—and they did, sometimes, on blockade duty.
The alien ship was naturally the main topic of conversation in the wardroom.
“There are shadows in yon hollow doughnuts,” Sinclair stated. “And they move.”
“Passengers. Or furniture,” Renner said. “Which means that at least these first four sections are being used as living space. That could be a lot of Moties.”
“Especially,” Rod said as he entered, “if they’re as crowded as that mining ship was. Sit down, gentlemen. Carry on.” He signaled to a steward for coffee.
“One for every man aboard MacArthur,” Renner said. “Good thing we’ve got all this extra room, isn’t it?”
Blaine winced. Sinclair looked as if the next intercom event might star the Chief Engineer and the Sailing Master, fifteen rounds...
“Sandy, what do you think of Horvath’s idea?” Renner asked. “I don’t care much for his theory of launching the fuel balloons with a metal core. Wouldn’t metal shells around the tanks be better? More structural support. Unless . . .”
“Aye?” Sinclair prompted. Renner said nothing.
“What is it, Renner?’ Blaine demanded.
“Never mind, sir. It was a real blue-sky thought. I should learn to discipline my mind.”
“Spill it, Mr. Renner.”
Renner was new to the Navy, but he was learning to recognize that tone. “Yessir. It occurred to me that hydrogen is metallic at the right temperature and pressure. If those tanks were really pressurized, the hydrogen would carry a current—but it would take the kind of pressures you find at the core of a gas giant planet.”
“Renner, you don’t really think—”
“No, of course not, Captain. It was just a thought.”
Renner’s oddball idea bothered Sandy Sinclair well into the next watch. Engineer officers normally stand no watches on the bridge, but Sinclair’s artificers had just finished an overhaul of the bridge life-support systems and Sinclair wanted to test them. Rather than keep another watch officer in armor while the bridge was exposed to vacuum, Sandy took the watch himself.
His repairs worked perfectly, as they always did. Now, his armor stripped off, Sinclair relaxed in the command chair watching the Moties. The Motie program had tremendous popularity throughout the ship, with attention divided between the big Motie in Crawford’s stateroom and the miniatures. The big Motie had just finished rebuilding the lamp in her quarters. Now it gave a redder, more diffused light, and she was cutting away at the length of Crawford’s bunk to give herself nearly a square meter of working space. Sinclair admired the Motie’s work; she was deft, as sure of herself as anyone Sinclair had ever seen. Let the scientists debate, Sandy thought; that beastie was intelligent.
On Channel Two, the miniatures played. People watched them even more than the big Motie; and Bury, watching everyone watch the little Moties, smiled to himself.
Channel Two caught Sinclair’s eye and he looked away from the big Motie, then suddenly sat bolt upright. The miniatures were having sexual intercourse. “Get that off the intercom!” Sinclair ordered. The signal rating looked pained, but switched the screen so that Channel Two went blank. Moments later, Renner came onto the bridge.
“What’s the matter with the intercom, Sandy?” he asked.
“There is nothing wrong with the intercom,” Sinclair said stiffly.
“There is too. Channel Two is blank.”
“Aye, Mr. Renner. 'Tis blank at my orders.” Sinclair looked uncomfortable.
Renner grinned. “And who did you think would object to the—ah, program?” he asked.
“Mon, we will nae show dirty pictures aboard this ship—and with a chaplain