Destroyer of Worlds by Larry Niven

tranquil meadows helped. A dollop of synthed grain mush sat in its bowl, scarcely touched.
    And they had hours to go before
Don Quixote
approached the gas giant.
    Over the intercom: an unfamiliar chime. Baedeker wondered if the tone was a new affectation from Jeeves.
    He was wrong.
    â€œAll hands,” Jeeves announced a moment later. “The Gw’oth are hailing.”
    Baedeker gaped at the latched door of his cabin, as though aliens were about to swim through it. His reaction was foolish, of course. This ship was stealthed. The Gw’oth hail had to be a broadcast of some sort, in the hope that someone had responded to their earlier message.
    He was wrong again.
    â€œComm laser,” Sigmund announced, surprise plain in his voice. Laser communication was directional. “The Gw’oth know we’re here. Everyone to duty stations.”
    Duty stations meant Kirsten and Sigmund on the bridge and Eric in the engine room. And himself? Anywhere not underhoof. Sigmund had phrased it more tactfully as “on call.”
    The others reported in from their posts. “I’ll remain in my cabin for now,” Baedeker declared for completeness. “Jeeves, what is the nature of the hail?”
    â€œI’m streaming the incoming signal, receive only,” Kirsten answered for the AI.
    To all appearances, rolling hills of lush purple meadowplant surrounded Baedeker for as far as the eye could see. He banished the idyllic pastoral setting from one cabin wall. The incoming message filled the cleared space.
    A Gw’o undulated before an unseen camera. In parallel rows, cryptic squiggles and English translation straddled the image. “Thank you for responding. Once you are closer, we will talk.”

14
    Â 
    Don Quixote
plunged deep into the Gw’oth system, with every sensor straining for data.
    From bases across the Gw’oth solar system, radio chatter spiked. (Perhaps laser comm spiked, too. With no way to intercept directional traffic, how could one know?) Surface vehicles massed in large formations, fanning out from the few mountain peaks that poked above the ice. Spaceships maneuvered, their fusion flames hot and unmistakable. Electromagnetic launchers stretching far across the ice flung yet more vessels into space.
    So many ships! So many EM launchers! It seemed less and less likely the Puppeteers had intervened here since Kirsten’s last visit.
    Sigmund focused on more pressing matters: the present flurry of Gw’oth activity. Defensive measures? Factional rivalries? Preparation to attack
Don Quixote
? Knowing as little as he did about the aliens, Sigmund could rationalize any of those scenarios. Being who he was, he suspected the last.
    He was sharing the bridge with Kirsten. Leaving the piloting to her, he studied the tactical summary in the main holo display. It showed far too much activity for his liking. Kirsten’s certain disappointment notwithstanding, they would
not
meet soon with the Gw’oth on their home ice. That would simply be imprudent. Perhaps later, when they knew more.
    â€œJeeves,” Sigmund said, “I assume you can also translate from English.”
    â€œCorrect, Sigmund. Barring vocabulary shortfalls, of course.”
    â€œGood. Send this: We wish to meet first with those who invited us.”
    Kirsten squirmed in her crash couch.
    â€œSomething on your mind, Kirsten?” Sigmund finally asked.
    â€œNo. Well, yes. We know who on the ice moon contacted us. I backtracked the laser.”
    So why not land near there, she meant. And if that’s a trap? “Whoinitially asked for our help and who contacted us when we arrived might not be the same.”
    â€œBesides whoever used our beacon, who knew to look for us?” she countered.
    Even those Sigmund had trained seldom thought to consider spies and traitors, comm taps, or the general perversity of the universe. He couldn’t
not
think of them. His gift. His curse.