The Dig

by Alan Dean Foster

  The stony flotilla lay anchored in an otherwise featureless sea. From each of the secondary islets a single shining spire shot skyward. Disturbed by the silent arrival in their midst of the mile-long mass, a few primitive island dwellers had taken fright. Reassured by the object's continued lack of motion, they soon returned huffily to their places of rest and nest.

  It was Brink who first noticed that a gauge on his arm was signaling the presence of external atmosphere. When it had begun to infiltrate their formerly airless prison no one could say, but their suits pronounced it eminently inhalable. Despite Low's cautionary protestations, the scientist was quick to crack his helmet seal. The commander did not argue overmuch. All three of them were nearly out of air anyway.

  The addition of a breathable atmosphere gave them something else to think about, not to mention a greater degree of comfort. They remained close to their suits, the shed skins laid out nearby lest invisible and unknown powers decide to withdraw the fresh air as capriciously as they had provided it. Robbins was understandably more eager than either of her companions to avail herself of the opportunity.

  "What happens now?" Robbins was trying to unfasten the arm camera from the sleeve of her suit. She had managed to clean herself up reasonably well.

  The last of the flaring illumination flickered and went out, as though someone had turned out the floor. Low considered the situation. "We try to get back in touch with the shuttle somehow. The manipulator arm won't reach very far down the fissure, but if it's still clear of debris, then Ken could lower a line to us. Drop us some refills for our suit tanks first, of course, and then—"

  And then never came about, because one wall began to groan like an old Cyclops with a bad stomach, and an opening appeared in the side of the asteroid. There was no visible door. The wall simply separated and crinkled back in upon itself, like a torn sheet of aluminum foil.

  Wan, yellow sunlight poured through the gap. Beyond, they could see peculiar-shaped trees and bushes; short, scruffy grasslike vegetation; rocks, clouds and sky.

  Low took a cautious step toward the portal. "You know what? I don't think we're in geosynchronous orbit above Kansas anymore."

  "Should've listened to the dog," Robbins remarked uneasily. "The dog always had more sense than any of them."

  "Tell it to the wizard." Low was striding purposefully toward the light. "At this point, I'm willing to believe he just might be hanging around."

  "Different milieu, if I am interpreting the reference correctly." Brink followed closely. "I see no Emerald City, Commander."

  Low reached the opening. Sure enough, it went all the way through the outer wall of the asteroid. "Given where we were just a few hours ago, Ludger, I personally find the presence of trees even more remarkable."

  They exited simultaneously, and even the redoubtably loquacious Robbins was at a loss for words.

  The gleaming outer surface of what had once looked like an asteroid was mirror-smooth and nonreflective. The object now rested in a hollow that it had gouged in the ground ... or that had been prepared to receive it. Beyond and around there was only air, sea, sky and plant life. The appearance of the few clouds hovering overhead was achingly normal. Low estimated the temperature to be between seventy and seventy-five degrees, with the ambient humidity appropriately reflective of their coastal locale. Except for the lapping of small waves on the nearby shore, it was silent, though Low had experienced greater silence elsewhere. Northwest Australia, for example.

  As if further proof was needed, the silhouettes of two moons hung conveniently in the sky, proclaiming with lunar finality the alienness of their location.

  That did not prevent them from seeking signs of familiarity. As to the atmosphere, if it contained anything poisonous or otherwise lethal, they would discover it soon enough. Their nearly airless suits offered a poor second choice. Besides, it smelled good; fresh, sweet and unpolluted, with a faint mix of natural fragrances Low was unable to identify.

  Each of them wore a service belt equipped with a number of efficient, miniaturized devices, for use both onboard the shuttle and outside it in the event any of their suit units should malfunction. Removing the small subsidiary communicator, he switched it on. It was encouraging to see the tiny green indicator light respond, though when he spoke into the pickup, he was lacking both hope and enthusiasm in equal measure.

  "Borden, this is Low. Come in, please. Ken, do you read?"

  There was no response, not even static. Not that he had expected any. The unit emitted a faint, mournful echo of a whisper, barely enough to confirm that it was functioning normally. Alien sunlight filtered languidly through high, greasy clouds and warmed his neck and shoulders.

  Just to be sure, he had Brink try on his own communicator. Requesting a response in English, German and Russian, the scientist received none. A tepid breeze rose from the silent sea to ruffle their hair.

  At least they were out of the damn suits, Low thought. It was a great relief, after the strain and tension of the last few hours. It would have been nicer to have been out of their suits and onboard the Atlantis, or better still, striding down the landing ramp at the Cape.

  Squinting skyward, he saw that the two visible moons differed in outline and mass. As he stared upward, a trio of narrow gliding shapes passed silently between his view and the moons. They had yard-long, membranous wings through which the sun shone brown, and angular, pointed skulls.

  The spires that dominated the surrounding islets hinted at the presence of additional otherworldly revelations. Smooth of side, they pierced the silent alien sky like needles, mysterious messengers removed from their bottles. At this distance he could not tell whether they were solid or hollow. If hollow, he found himself wondering, what might they contain? Were they identical inside as well as out? He wondered if they might somehow be connected to one another, or even to the island on which they presently found themselves.

  Behind him, the enormous metamorphosed mass of the unasteroid rested unassuming in its crater, or landing platform, or whatever the depression in the ground constituted. It was a gateway, a link, transportation to this world for whoever had the brains, wherewithal and misfortune to deduce that inserting the four metal plates into four empty receptacles might produce interesting consequences.

  Couldn't deny that what had happened to them was interesting, he decided. Now, if only there had been some way to control the process. He felt like a five-year-old who knew how to start his parents' car but didn't have a clue as to how to steer it. They'd turned the ignition key on the asteroid-ship and accelerated on down the road, only to fetch up here, unable to restart the vehicle or turn it around.

  He doubted the alien version of an auto club was to be found anywhere in the immediate vicinity.

  On another plane of existence, which occupied a region indescribable in human terms, the warm breeze and the meteorological mechanics that had generated it remained imperceptible. It was the same with the diffused sunlight and the sweet-smelling air. In their place, other realities, other perceptions held sway. Time and space fraternized in a flurry of vulgar mathematics, with the result that both became bastardized.

  Amid this confusion of totality, a multiplicity of intelligences were present, riding the currents of a deformed actuality like so many moon doggies surfing a succession of predictable curls. This they did effortlessly, pushing themselves along with earnest thought-waves, interconnecting with lazy notions, rising and falling on the back of abstruse speculations.

  They were not ignorant of real-time or real-space. It was visible to them as a parade of images viewed through thick glass. Much of the time they did not look. The memories had become too painful, and it was easier to ignore the falling of a leaf, the splash of a leaping fish on the surface of a real sea, than to deal with what might have been.

  Within themselves, they were omnipotent. But they were not happy.

  "Others have come," declared the presence nearest the unexpected new disturbance. Initially perceive
d as a ripple in reality, on closer inspection the intrusion had resolved itself into a trio of intelligent physicalities. It was a surprise that engendered casual inspection but no hope.

  "Again?" The response took the form of a voiceless chorus, a coordinated disturbance of subatomic particles that came together with the usual perfect, dreary unity.

  "So it would seem." Without eyes, the discoverer gazed speculatively upon the bipeds as they moved hesitantly through the tumid slipstream that was the real universe. "These are different from any who have come before."

  "As those who preceded them differed from their predecessors." The new presence stank of the same resigned ennui that afflicted them all. "It is ever the same. They will be no more successful than any of the others."

  On this point there was universal agreement. It was not voiced, or felt. It simply was, and by virtue of being, became simultaneously known to any who had an interest. Of these there were few, boredom having largely obliterated all but the last traces of curiosity among those who were present.

  The equivalent of thought-ideograms passed between individuals, the shape and style of each serving to identify those who generated them more accurately than any name. It was the mental equivalent of thinking in fully formed pictures, complete to coloristic shadings and fine detail. Communication as art, art as communication. It was very nearly the only aesthetic left to those who propounded it. As such, they clung to it, molded it, and refined it with care. They had forsaken all other forms of art, much to their eventual regret.

  Realization had become tainted by despair, which had given way finally to resignation. All that remained to them of existence was overtones, shadings, smoke and suggestion. Rather than being prized, the bipedal interruption served only to remind them of what had been lost. It was painful to perceive.

  Nevertheless, several persisted. Stubbornness, too, was a means for combating boredom.

  "They don't look like much," remarked another presence as it hovered directly above the new arrivals.

  Robbins frowned at Low. "Did you feel that?"

  Low was eyeing the interior of the island. The plateau on which they were standing gave way to low but rugged peaks. Twisted vegetation clung to hollows and small canyons. Some of the growths were yellow and purple rather than green, while one spotted a multiple trunk that formed a single stem, as if it had been planted in reverse. Tiny, brightly colored arthropods skittered from rock to bush, crevice to tree, minimizing their exposure to the open sky. He remembered the flying creatures they had seen earlier.

  "Feel what?"

  "I don't know," she replied impatiently. "If I knew, I wouldn't be asking you."

  "And if I'd felt anything, I'd have given you an answer." He took a step forward. "Probably just a little wind. Looks like that little arroyo might be passable."

  The reporter blinked, then whirled sharply. There was nothing behind her, nothing close, not even an alien gnat. Yet the feeling of something watching her was one she had encountered and acted upon many times in the past.

  Absurd, of course. There was nothing here to do the watching. If she persisted, she'd only end up irritating and probably amusing both of her companions. Was the sea watching her? The rocks, the sun? She couldn't shake the feeling, but as she turned back to follow Low, she did her best to ignore it.

  "They have awareness," proclaimed another presence.

  "No more so than many who have come before," argued another.

  "That is so." This from the one who had made first notice. "But it behooves one to be optimistic."

  "To be foolish, you mean." Thought-forms swirled about one another in a realm outside experience. "Optimism is an outmoded concept with no validity in the present. I ceased practicing it, even as a theory, about a thousand years ago."

  "More or less," agreed another.

  They were exempt from the ravages of senility, the organized thought-forms that composed their minds and their selves un-threatened by the slow disintegration that reduced to rubble creatures of flesh and blood. But they were not immune to argument, which they relished as one of the last vestiges of a fading commitment to reality.

  "Problem solvers. They must be problem solvers, or they would not be here." Curious, several new individuals joined the convocation of thought-forms.

  "As were those who preceded them." The loudest font of negativity sounded tired. "It will make no difference. A diversion only. Remembrance brings pain."

  "Pain can be tolerated and is a concept only," insisted the discoverer. "Even pain is variety, and that is something I still value."

  "Then you are a fool," insisted the other. Together it drifted away with its companions of like perception, leaving only a few behind to maintain the discussion.

  These continued to observe the newcomers: from above, from the sides, from below, from inside their bodies, the detailed examination taking place without the examined aware they were being probed. No great revelations were forthcoming. Structurally the bipeds were unexceptional.

  Maggie Robbins put a hand to her stomach. "Didn't you feel something just now?"

  Preoccupied with his inspection of the terrain, Low replied absently. "What? No, nothing." If this world was inhabited, he thought, the locals were keeping to themselves. Their works were self-evident—those spires towering above the other islands—but of the builders themselves there was no sign. Had they died out, leaving only their buildings and machines behind? If so, how long ago had it happened? Perhaps they might find something useful.

  They damned well better, he told himself. Any hope of returning home lay locked within alien structures and alien artifacts. He wasn't even sure how to start looking. An experienced archaeologist would have known where to look, where to dig. Would have known which building to start with and which to avoid. He'd been exposed to very little archaeology while in school. Did you dig up or down, plan a search grid first or just start in on the most likely structure? With no convenient text to refer to, they were going to have to improvise as they went along. Improvise, and hope they didn't make too many mistakes as they learned.

  Especially of the fatal kind, he thought. While some alien relics might prove useful, others could as easily possess less benign functions. How to tell which from what? He'd always been a supporter of hands-on learning, but right now he wished fervently for some simple visual aids.

  One thing he was certain of: This was no dream. The ocean smelled too strongly of salt, the air too pungently of growing things. His companions were real enough, as was the pain he felt when he bit his lower lip.

  So much, he mused, for the easy way out.

  He sucked oxygen-rich air into his lungs, grateful for small favors. The world on which they had been dumped might have differed only slightly if they'd been unlucky. Same rock, same ocean, same sights, hut an atmosphere of methane. Or an ambient temperature of a hundred below. Things could be worse.

  They had air. Potable water next, then edibles. Only then would he devote his energies to finding a way home. The water and liquid nutrients in their suit systems, even if carefully husbanded, wouldn't last more than a day or two. They were intended for day use, not long-term camping. In crude confirmation of higher thoughts, his stomach growled.

  Brink sidled over to the journalist. "Spirits, Maggie? Ghosts? Ubermenschen?"

  "What? I don't know any German, Ludger. You know that." She turned away. "I just thought I felt something, that's all."

  "Gas," he suggested pithily. "Wind on your cheeks within and without." His gaze roved the landscape. "We are blessed beyond all scientists since the world began. You wanted an alien artifact, Maggie Robbins. You have been given an entire world."

  "Right now I'd trade it all for a cheeseburger and a lift home." She sniffed a strange odor, like burnt cinnamon.

  "Stick out your thumb." Brink chuckled. "You never know."

  "Very funny." But when he'd turned away and when she was sure Low wasn't watching, she did exactly that, feeling foolish as she did so
. She only did it once, and then not for very long.

  "It is clear that the object we believed to be an asteroid is in reality some kind of automatic transport. When activated, it returns automatically to this place. We found the key and unwittingly engaged its systems." Brink knelt to examine a white rock full of tiny clear crystals. "It brought us here."

  "Fine. So we're the greatest explorers since Columbus. I'd still like to know where 'here' is." She tried not to think of food.

  "Columbus?" Brink looked up from the crystals. "Columbus was a neighborhood layabout compared with us. This is the find of the ages. What we have done ranks with the discovery of the wheel, of fire."

  The journalist eyed a tree that was short on leaves and long on spray-tipped needles. "I'd rather discover a cheeseburger."

  "We may need wheels and fire before we're through here." Low leaned back to study the cliffs before them. None appeared insurmountable, but it would be easier and smarter to find a way through or around instead of trying to go over. He had no idea what he hoped to find, only knew that it was better to be searching than to stand around waiting for fate to intervene.

  "Patience, Commander." Brink held the cluster of crystals up to the light. "I share your anxieties, but can you not take a moment to contemplate the wonder of what has happened to us? We have accomplished a marvel."

  "Have we? I'm not so sure we've done that much. Given enough time, rats in a maze eventually find the bait, but it still doesn't make them anything more then clever rats. It's not like we found plans and built a space drive."

  Brink was not discouraged. "Then let us at least explore the maze." He smiled thinly. "Perhaps we may find the bait."

  "That's what I had in mind." So saying, the Commander turned and started off toward the cleft in the rocks.

  Robbins lengthened her stride to catch up to him. "We're stranded here, God knows how far from home. Doesn't Brink care?"