The Mote in God's Eye
“Horst Staley’s boots clumped hollowly as they approached. Whitbread looked up, noticed the Motie’s walk, and said “Fyunch(click)?”
“Fyunch(click).”
“We’ve been exploring your—”
“Jonathon, we don’t have time,” the Motie said. The other Brown-and-white eyed them with an air of impatience.
“We’re under a death sentence for trespassing,” Staley said flatly. “I don’t know why.”
There was silence. Whitbread said, “Neither do I. This is nothing but a museum—”
“Yes,” Whitbread’s... Motie said. “You would have to land here. It’s not even bad luck. Your dumb animal miniatures must have programmed the reentry cones not to hit water or cities or mountain peaks. You were bound to come down in farm lands. Well, that’s where we put museums.”
“Out here? Why?” Potter asked. He sounded as if he already knew.MoreLess
“Fyunch(click).”
“We’ve been exploring your—”
“Jonathon, we don’t have time,” the Motie said. The other Brown-and-white eyed them with an air of impatience.
“We’re under a death sentence for trespassing,” Staley said flatly. “I don’t know why.”
There was silence. Whitbread said, “Neither do I. This is nothing but a museum—”
“Yes,” Whitbread’s... Motie said. “You would have to land here. It’s not even bad luck. Your dumb animal miniatures must have programmed the reentry cones not to hit water or cities or mountain peaks. You were bound to come down in farm lands. Well, that’s where we put museums.”
“Out here? Why?” Potter asked. He sounded as if he already knew.MoreLess
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