The Mote in God's Eye Read Online Free PDF Page A

and him not know it? Ain’t reason.”
    “You’re absolutely right. What’s a beam?”
    “What’s a beam? Oh ho, you’re from Tabletop, aren’t you? Well, a beam is sawn wood-wood. It comes from a tree. A tree, that’s a great, big ...”
    The voices faded out. Blaine made his way quickly back to the bridge. If Sally Fowler had been the only passenger he would have been happy to meet her at the hangar deck, but he wanted this Bury to understand their relationship immediately. It wouldn’t do for him to think the captain of one of His Majesty’s warships would go out of his way to greet a Trader.
    From the bridge Rod watched the screens as the wedge-shaped craft matched orbit and was winched aboard, drifting into MacArthur between the great rectangular wings of the hangar doors. His hand hovered near the intercom switches. Such operations were tricky.
     
    Midshipman Whitbread met the passengers. Bury was first, followed by a small dark man the Trader didn’t bother to introduce. Both wore clothing reasonable for space, balloon trousers with tight ankle bands, tunics belted into place, all pockets zipped or velcroed closed. Bury seemed angry. He cursed his servant, and Whitbread thoughtfully recorded the man’s comments, intending to run them through the ship’s brain later. The midshipman sent the Trader forward with a petty officer, but waited for Miss Fowler himself. He’d seen pictures of her.
    They put Bury in the Chaplain’s quarters, Sally in the First Lieutenant’s cabin. The ostensible reason she got the largest quarters was that Annie, her servant, would have to share her cabin. The menservants could be bunked down with the crew, but a woman, even one as old as Annie, couldn’t mingle with the men. Spacers off-planet long enough develop new standards of beauty. They’d never bother a senator’s niece, but a housekeeper would be something else. It all made sense, and if the First Lieutenant’s cabin was next to Captain Blaine’s quarters, while the Chaplain’s stateroom was a level down and three bulkheads aft, nobody was going to complain.
    “Passengers aboard, sir,” Midshipman Whitbread reported.
    “Good. Everyone comfortable?”
    “Well, Miss Fowler is, sir. Petty Officer Allot showed the Trader to his cabin...”  
    “Reasonable.” Blaine settled into his command seat. Lady Sandra — no, she preferred Sally, he remembered — hadn’t looked too good in the brief moments he’d seen her in the prison camp. The way Whitbread talked, she’d recovered a bit. Rod had wanted to hide when he first recognized her striding out of a tent in the prison camp. He’d been covered with blood and dirt — and then she’d come closer. She’d walked like a lady of the Court, but she was gaunt, half-starved, and great dark circles showed under her eyes. And those eyes. Blank. Well, she’d had two weeks to come back to life, and she was free of New Chicago forever.
    “I presume you’ll demonstrate acceleration stations for Miss Fowler?” Rod asked.
    “Yes, sir,” Whitbread replied. And null gee practice too, he thought.
    Blaine regarded his midshipman with amusement. He had no trouble reading his thoughts. Well, let him hope, but rank hath its privileges. Besides, he knew the girl; he’d met her when she was ten years old.
    “Signal from Government House,” the watch reported.
    Cziller’s cheerful, careless voice reached him. “Hello, Blaine! Ready to cast off?” The fleet Captain was slouched bonelessly in a desk chair, puffing on an enormous and disreputable pipe.
    “Yes, sir.” Rod started to say something else, but choked it off.
    “Passengers settled in all right?” Rod could have sworn his former captain was laughing at him.
    “Yes, sir.”
    “And your crew? No complaints?”
    “You know damned well —  We’ll manage, sir.” Blaine choked back his anger. It was difficult to be angry with Cziller; after all he’d given him his ship, but blast the man! “We’re not