The Mote in God's Eye

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Book: Read The Mote in God's Eye for Free Online
Authors: Larry Niven, Jerry Pournelle
Sinclair as she did. She could sense the engineer’s desperate pride.
    “Well said,” Bury applauded. “I seem to have met a number of anthropologists lately. Is it a new specialty?”
    “Yes. Pity there weren’t more of us earlier. We’ve destroyed all that was good in so many places we’ve taken into the Empire. We hope never to make those mistakes again.”
    “I suppose it must be something of a shock,” said Blaine, “to be brought into the Empire, like it or not, without warning—even if there weren’t any other problems. Perhaps you should have stayed on New Chicago. Captain Cziller said he was having trouble governing the place.”
    “I couldn’t.” She looked moodily down at her plate, then glanced up with a forced smile. “Our first rule is that we must be sympathetic toward the people we study. And I hate that place,” she added with venomous sincerity. The emotion felt good. Even hatred was better than emptiness.
    “Aye,” Sinclair agreed. “Anyone would, being kept in prison camp for months.”
    “Worse than that, Commander. Dorothy disappeared. She was the girl I came with. She just — vanished.” There was a long silence, and Sally was embarrassed. “Please, don’t let me spoil our party.”
    Blaine was searching for something to say when Whitbread gave him his opportunity. At first Blaine saw only that the junior midshipman was doing something under the edge of the table—but what? Tugging at the tablecloth, testing its tensile strength. And earlier he’d been looking at the crystal. “Yes, Mr. Whitbread,” Rod said. “It’s very strong.”
    Whitbread looked up, flushing, but Blaine didn’t intend to embarrass the boy. “Tablecloth, silverware, plates, platters, crystal, all have to be fairly durable,” he told the company at large. “Mere glassware wouldn’t last the first battle. Our crystal is something else. It was cut from the windscreen of a wrecked First Empire reentry vehicle. Or go I was told. It’s certain we can’t make such materials any longer. The linen isn’t really linen, either; it’s an artificial fiber, also First Empire. The covers on the platter are crystal-iron electroplated onto beaten gold.”
    “It was the crystal I noticed first,” Whitbread said diffidently.
    “So did I, some years ago.” Blaine smiled at the middies. They were officers, but they were also teenage boys, and Rod could remember his days in the gunroom. More courses were brought, to meet with shoptalk scaled down for laymen, as Kelley orchestrated the dinner. Finally the table was clear except for coffee and wines.
    “Mr. Vice,” Blaine said formally.
    Whitbread, junior to Staley by three weeks, raised his glass. “Captain, my lady. His Imperial Majesty.” The officers lifted their glasses to their sovereign, as Navy men had done for two thousand years.
    “You’ll let me show you around my homeland,” Sinclair asked anxiously.
    “Certainly. Thank you, but I don’t know how long we’ll be there.” Sally looked expectantly to Blaine.
    “Nor I. We’re to put in for a refit, and how long that takes is up to the Yard.”
    “Well, if it’s not too long, I’ll stay with you. Tell me, Commander, is there much traffic from New Scotland to the Capital?”
    “More than from most worlds this side of the Coal Sack, though that’s nae saying a lot. Few ships with decent facilities for carrying passengers. Perhaps Mr. Bury can say more; his liners put into New Scotland.”
    “But, as you say, not to carry passengers. Our business is to disrupt interstellar trade, you know.” Bury saw quizzical looks. He continued, “Imperial Autonetics is the business of transporting robotic factories. Whenever we can make something on a planet cheaper than others can ship it in, we set up plants. Our main competition’s the merchant carriers.”
    Bury poured himself another glass of wine, carefully selecting one that Blaine had said was in short supply. (It must be a good one; otherwise

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