Read Online The Mote in God's Eye by Larry Niven, Jerry Pournelle - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Larry Niven, Jerry Pournelle
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provided the vessel hasn’t melted and the shrouds haven’t parted or the sail ripped. But it is such a close thing that they simply have to skydive; they have no choice.”
“Ah,” said Blaine.
“One need hardly mention,” Renner added, “that when we match course with them, we too will be moving straight toward the sun. .
“At 7 percent of the speed of light?”
“At 6. The intruder will have slowed somewhat by then. It will take us one hundred twenty-five hours, doing four gees most of the way, slowing somewhat near the end.”
“That’s going to be hard on everybody,” Blaine said. And suddenly he wondered, belatedly, if Sally Fowler had in fact gotten off. “Especially the passengers. Couldn’t you give me an easier course?”
“Yes, sir,” Renner said instantly. “I can pull alongside in one hundred and seventy-hours without ever going over two and a half gees—and save some fuel too, because the probe will have more time to slow down. The course we’re on now gets us to New Ireland with dry tanks, assuming we take the intruder under tow.”
“Dry tanks. But you liked this course better.” Rod was learning to dislike the Sailing Master and his grin that constantly implied that the Captain had forgotten something crucial and obvious. “Tell me why,” he suggested.
“It occurred to me the intruder might be hostile.”
“Yes. So?”
“If we were to match courses with him and he disabled the engines...”
“We’d be falling into the sun at 6 percent of light speed. Right. So you match us up as far from Cal as possible, to leave time to do something about it.”
“Yessir. Exactly.”
“Right. You’re enjoying this, aren’t you, Mr. Renner?”
“I wouldn’t have missed it for anything, sir. What about you?”
“Carry on, Mr. Renner.” Blaine guided his acceleration chair to another screen and began checking the Sailing Master’s course. Presently he pointed out that the Sailing Master could give them nearly an hour at one gee just before intercept, thereby giving everyone a chance to recuperate. Renner agreed with idiot enthusiasm and went to work on the change.
“I can use friends aboard my ship,” Captain Cziller used to tell his midshipmen, “but I’d sell them all for a competent sailing master.” Renner was competent. Renner was also a smartass; but that was a good bargain. Rod would settle for a competent smartass.
At four gravities nobody walked; nobody lifted anything. The black box replacements in the hold stayed there while MacArthur ran on Sinclair’s makeshifts. Most of the crew worked from their cots, or from mobile chairs, or didn’t work at all.
In crew sections they played elaborate word games, or speculated on the coming encounter, or told stories. Half the screens on the ship showed the same thing: a disc like the sun, with Murcheson’s Eye behind it and the Coal Sack as background.
The telltales in Sally’s cabin showed oxygen consumption. Rod said words of potent and evil magic under his breath. He almost called her then, but postponed it. He called Bury instead.
Bury was in the gee bath: a film of highly elastic mylar over liquid. Only his face and hands showed above the curved surface. His face looked old—it almost showed his true age.
“Captain, you chose not to put me off on Brigit. Instead, you are taking a civilian into possible combat. Might I ask why?”
“Of course, Mr. Bury. I supposed it would be most inconvenient for you to be stranded on a ball of ice with no assured transportation. Perhaps I was mistaken.”
Bury smiled—or tried to. Every man aboard looked twice his age, with four times gravity pulling down on the skin of his face. Bury’s smile was like weight lifting. “No, Captain, you were not mistaken. I saw your orders in the wardroom. So. We are on our way to meet a nonhuman spacecraft.”
“It certainly looks that way.”
“Perhaps they will have things to trade. Especially if they come from a
“Ah,” said Blaine.
“One need hardly mention,” Renner added, “that when we match course with them, we too will be moving straight toward the sun. .
“At 7 percent of the speed of light?”
“At 6. The intruder will have slowed somewhat by then. It will take us one hundred twenty-five hours, doing four gees most of the way, slowing somewhat near the end.”
“That’s going to be hard on everybody,” Blaine said. And suddenly he wondered, belatedly, if Sally Fowler had in fact gotten off. “Especially the passengers. Couldn’t you give me an easier course?”
“Yes, sir,” Renner said instantly. “I can pull alongside in one hundred and seventy-hours without ever going over two and a half gees—and save some fuel too, because the probe will have more time to slow down. The course we’re on now gets us to New Ireland with dry tanks, assuming we take the intruder under tow.”
“Dry tanks. But you liked this course better.” Rod was learning to dislike the Sailing Master and his grin that constantly implied that the Captain had forgotten something crucial and obvious. “Tell me why,” he suggested.
“It occurred to me the intruder might be hostile.”
“Yes. So?”
“If we were to match courses with him and he disabled the engines...”
“We’d be falling into the sun at 6 percent of light speed. Right. So you match us up as far from Cal as possible, to leave time to do something about it.”
“Yessir. Exactly.”
“Right. You’re enjoying this, aren’t you, Mr. Renner?”
“I wouldn’t have missed it for anything, sir. What about you?”
“Carry on, Mr. Renner.” Blaine guided his acceleration chair to another screen and began checking the Sailing Master’s course. Presently he pointed out that the Sailing Master could give them nearly an hour at one gee just before intercept, thereby giving everyone a chance to recuperate. Renner agreed with idiot enthusiasm and went to work on the change.
“I can use friends aboard my ship,” Captain Cziller used to tell his midshipmen, “but I’d sell them all for a competent sailing master.” Renner was competent. Renner was also a smartass; but that was a good bargain. Rod would settle for a competent smartass.
At four gravities nobody walked; nobody lifted anything. The black box replacements in the hold stayed there while MacArthur ran on Sinclair’s makeshifts. Most of the crew worked from their cots, or from mobile chairs, or didn’t work at all.
In crew sections they played elaborate word games, or speculated on the coming encounter, or told stories. Half the screens on the ship showed the same thing: a disc like the sun, with Murcheson’s Eye behind it and the Coal Sack as background.
The telltales in Sally’s cabin showed oxygen consumption. Rod said words of potent and evil magic under his breath. He almost called her then, but postponed it. He called Bury instead.
Bury was in the gee bath: a film of highly elastic mylar over liquid. Only his face and hands showed above the curved surface. His face looked old—it almost showed his true age.
“Captain, you chose not to put me off on Brigit. Instead, you are taking a civilian into possible combat. Might I ask why?”
“Of course, Mr. Bury. I supposed it would be most inconvenient for you to be stranded on a ball of ice with no assured transportation. Perhaps I was mistaken.”
Bury smiled—or tried to. Every man aboard looked twice his age, with four times gravity pulling down on the skin of his face. Bury’s smile was like weight lifting. “No, Captain, you were not mistaken. I saw your orders in the wardroom. So. We are on our way to meet a nonhuman spacecraft.”
“It certainly looks that way.”
“Perhaps they will have things to trade. Especially if they come from a
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