The Mote in God's Eye by Larry Niven, Jerry Pournelle Page B

without being asked.
    “Thank you, Mr. Renner. Commander Cargill, take the con. You will take that pod in tow.”
    And Rod felt a wild internal glee at Renner’s astonishment.

7  The Crazy Eddie Probe
    “But — ” said Renner and pointed at Cal’s growing image on the bridge screens. Before he could say anything else MacArthur leaped ahead at six gees, no smooth transition this time. Jolt meters swung wildly as the ship hurtled straight toward the looming sun.
    “Captain?” Through the roaring blood in his ears Blaine heard his exec call from the after bridge. “Captain, how much damage can we sustain?”
    It was an effort to speak. “Anything that’ll get us home,” Rod gasped.
    “Roger.” Cargill’s orders sounded through the intercom. “Mr. Potter! Is hangar deck clear to vacuum? All shuttles stowed?”
    “Yes, sir.” The question was irrelevant under battle conditions, but Cargill was a careful man.
    “Open the hangar doors,” Cargill ordered. “Captain, we might lose the hangar deck hatches.”
    “Rape ‘em.”
    “I’m bringing the pod aboard fast, no time to match velocities. We’ll take damage—”
    “You have the con, Commander. Carry out your orders.” There was a red haze on the bridge. Rod blinked, but it was still there, not in the air but in his retinas. Six gravities was too much for sustained effort. If anyone fainted—well, they’d miss all the excitement.
    “Kelley!” Rod barked. “When we turn ship, take the Marines aft and stand by to intercept anything coming out of that pod! And you’d better move fast. Cargill won’t hold acceleration.”
    “Aye aye, sir.” Six gravities and Kelley’s gravel rasp was the same as ever.
    The pod was three thousand kilometers ahead, invisible even to the clearest vision, but growing steadily on the bridge screens, steadily but slowly, much too slowly, even as Cal seemed to grow too fast.
    Four minutes at six gravities. Four minutes of agony, then the alarms hooted. There was a moment of blessed relief. Kelley’s Marines clattered through the ship, diving in the low, shifting gravity as MacArthur turned end for end. There wouldn’t be acceleration couches back there where the Marines would cover hangar deck. Webbing straps to suspend the men in corridors, others in the hangar space itself hung like flies in a spider web, weapons ready — ready for what?
    The alarms sounded, and jolt meters swung again as MacArthur braked toward the pod. Rod turned his screen controls with an effort. There was hangar deck, cold and dark, the fuzzy outline of the inner surface of the ship’s defensive field an impossible black. Good, he thought. No significant heat storage. Plenty of capacity to take up the rotational energy of the pod if it had any, slow down the impact to something that MacArthur might be able to handle.
    Eight minutes at six gees, the maximum the crew would be able to stand. Then the intruder was no longer ahead as MacArthur turned and fell toward it sidewise. The crushing acceleration ended, then there was low side thrust as Cargill fired the port batteries to slow their headlong rush to the pod.
    It was cylindrical, with one rounded end, tumbling through space. As it turned Rod saw that the other end was jagged with a myriad of projections—thirty-two projections? But there should have been shrouds trailing from those knobs, and there was nothing.
    It was moving up to MacArthur far too fast, and it was too big to fit in the hangar deck. The thing was massive, too damn massive! And there was nothing to brake with to the sides but the port batteries!
    It was here . Hangar deck camera showed the rounded end of the intruder, dull and metallic, pushing through the Langston Field, slowing, the rotation stopping, but still it moved relative to MacArthur . The battle cruiser surged sidewise, terribly, throwing the crew against their harness straps, while the rounded end of the pod grew and grew and—CRUNCH!
    Rod shook his head to