Fossil Hunter

by Robert J. Sawyer

  “Yes, Your Luminance. I cast a shadow in your presence.”

  “Do you know Sal-Afsan, a savant and my advisor?”

  “By reputation, of course,” stammered Gathgol. He tipped his body toward the blind one, then after a moment said, “I’m, uh, bowing at you.” Afsan’s muzzle swiveled toward him, but that was his only response. Gathgol felt like a fool.

  “And you?” said Dybo.

  Gathgol was now completely confused. “I’m, uh, the undertaker. I’m sorry. I thought you wanted—”

  Dybo made an exasperated sound. “I know what you do. What’s your name?”

  “Oh. Gathgol. Var-Gathgol.”

  Dybo nodded. “How exactly did Haldan die?”

  Gathgol gestured at the table. “Her throat was cut open by a jagged piece of mirror.”

  Afsan’s head snapped up. “Mirror? Is that what it is?”

  Gathgol nodded. “Yes, mirror. That’s, um, glass with a silvered backing. You can, ah, see your reflection in it.”

  Afsan’s tone was neutral, perhaps that of one accustomed to such gaffes. “I appreciate your explanation, Gathgol, but I’ve not been blind my whole life. I know what a mirror is.”

  “My apologies,” Gathgol said.

  “How could a mirror cut one’s neck open?” asked Afsan.

  “Well, the glass is broken,” said Gathgol. “The pieces have a sharp edge—beveled, almost. A large section was drawn across her neck, quite rapidly, I should think.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Afsan. “Did she trip somehow? I’ve felt with my walking stick for an obstacle but can’t find one.”

  “Trip, savant? No, she didn’t trip. She was probably seated on that stool when it happened.”

  “Did the mirror fall off the wall, then? Had it been mounted poorly? Was there a little landquake today?”

  Gathgol shook his head. “A piece of art hangs on the wall above the table, savant. It’s still there now. A still life of some sort.”

  “A still life.” Afsan nodded. “But then how did the accident happen?”

  Gathgol felt his nictitating membranes fluttering. “It was not an accident, savant.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Could a genius of Afsan’s rank be so thick? “Good Sal-Afsan, Haldan was killed. Deliberately. By an intruder, most likely.”

  “Killed,” said Afsan slowly, as if he’d never heard the word, moving it around inside his mouth like an odd-tasting piece of meat. “You mean murdered?”

  “Yes.”

  “Murdered. Somebody took her life?”

  “Yes, savant.”

  “But surely it was dagamant, then—a territorial challenge of some sort, an instinctive reaction.”

  Gathgol shook his head. “No. This was planned, savant. We’ve gathered up all the shards of the mirror. They don’t form a complete rectangle. Somebody brought a large jagged piece of mirrored glass here, probably approached Haldan from behind, and, with a quick movement, slit her throat. The mirror was still partly in a wooden frame, and that gave it rigidity, as well as something for the assailant to hold on to without risking cutting his or her hands.”

  “Murder,” said Dybo, who was looking quite queasy. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

  “I haven’t heard of one in modern times,” said Gathgol, “but when I was apprenticing to be an undertaker, my master taught me a little about such things. Of course, she said I would never need to know this, that the knowledge was only for historical overview, but…yes, there are stories of murder from the past. Myths about the Lubalites and so on.”

  “Murder,” said Afsan softly. And then, a few beats later: “But how? Surely the demon responsible, whoever it was, couldn’t have opened the door and sneaked up on Haldan. She doubtless would have heard the approach and turned to face her attacker.”

  “It is puzzling,” said Gathgol. “But I’m sure of the cause of death. I mean, it’s obvious.”

  “Well,” said Dybo, “what do we do now?”

  “We find the person who did this,” said Afsan flatly.

  Dybo nodded slowly. “But how? I don’t know anyone who has experience with such matters.” He turned toward Gathgol. “Do you know how to do it, undertaker?”

  “Me? I don’t have the slightest idea.”

  Afsan spoke softly. “I’ll do it.”

  Dybo’s voice was equally soft. “My friend, even you—”

  Afsan’s claws peeked out. “I will do it. She was my daughter, Dybo. If not me, who?”

  “But Afsan, friend, you are…without sight. I will assign another to the task.”

  “To another, it would be exactly that: a task. I—I can’t explain my feelings in this matter. We were related, she and I. I’ve never known what import, if any, that had, whether she and I would have been friends regardless of the odd circumstances that led to her knowing that I was indeed her father, she in truth my daughter. But I feel it now, Dybo, a—a special obligation to her.”

  Dybo nodded; Gathgol saw that he and the savant were old friends, that Dybo knew when to give up arguing with Afsan. “Very well,” said the Emperor. “I know that once you sink your teeth into a problem, you do not let go.”

  Afsan took the comment easily, Gathgol saw—a simple statement of fact, something both Afsan and Dybo knew to be true. But then the savant’s face hardened. “I swear,” he said, “I will not give up until I have found her killer.”

  Rockscape

  Rockscape at sunset. Pal-Cadool, straddling one of the ancient boulders, his long legs dangling to the ground, loved the sight: it was one of the rare times when he still pitied Afsan. The sun was no longer a tiny blazingly white disk; it had swollen and grown purple. From here amongst the ancient boulders the sun would set behind the Ch’mar volcanoes to the west. Their caps, some pointed, some ragged calderas, were stained dark blue. Above the sun, along the ecliptic—a word Afsan had taught Cadool—three crescent moons were visible, their illuminated limbs curving up like drinking bowls.

  The lizard Gork needed no more cue than this that night was coming. It had already curled up at Afsan’s feet, sleeping, its body pressed against the savant’s legs so that he would know where the lizard was. Afsan was perched on his usual rock, his face, coincidentally, turned toward the glorious sunset spectacle that he could not see. It would soon be time for him to go back indoors.

  “I don’t understand,” said Afsan slowly, interrupting Cadool’s reverie.

  Something Afsan didn’t understand? Surely, Cadool thought, there was nothing he could do to help in such a circumstance. Still, he asked, “What is it?”

  Afsan’s head was tilted at an odd angle. “Who,” he said at last, “would want to kill Haldan?”

  Cadool wished Afsan would let go of this problem. It pained him to see Afsan so distraught. “I don’t know who would want to kill anyone,” said Cadool, spreading his arms. “I mean, I get angry from time to time, angry at other people. But the hunt is supposed to purge those emotions. It certainly does that for me.”

  “Indeed,” said Afsan. “But someone had enough fury to kill my daughter.”

  The darkness was gathering rapidly, as it always did. Stars were becoming visible overhead.

  “I’ve never known anyone who has killed,” said Cadool.

  “Yes, you do.”

  “Who?”

  “Me,” said Afsan softly. “I killed a person once. Nor-Gampar was his name. He was crazed, in full dagamant. It happened sixteen kilodays ago, during my pilgrimage voyage aboard the Dasheter.”

  “Dagamant doesn’t count,” said Cadool quickly. “You had no choice.”

  “I know that. But not a day goes by that I don’t think of it. It is not an easy burden to carry.”

  “You bear it well.”

  “Do I?” Afsan sounded surprised. “Perhaps.” He fell silent for several heartbeats. “Perhaps, indeed, some small good came of it. I will never completely forgive Emperor Dybo for allowing my blinding, but I know he feels
great guilt and sadness over it. Just as I feel guilt and sadness over the death of Gampar. I can’t forgive Dybo—I try to, but I can’t. But I do understand that if he could do it over differently, he would. Just as I would.” Afsan’s muzzle creased. “I’m sorry, Cadool. I didn’t mean to burden you with stories of my past.”

  Cadool bowed. “It is an honor for me to hear them…friend.”

  “‘Friend,’” repeated Afsan, surprised. “We’ve known each other an awfully long time, Cadool—I count anyone whose appearance I actually know as a long acquaintance—but in all that time, you’ve never called me friend.”

  Cadool looked at Afsan, almost a silhouette now in the gathering darkness. “It was not for lack of affection, Afsan. You know that. You have always been special to me. But you are a savant, you can read—” He stopped himself. “I’m sorry; you used to be able to read. We are not of equal stations in life.”

  “We are friends, Cadool.”

  “Yes.”

  They were both quiet for a time.

  “Are you sure,” Cadool said at last, “that Haldan’s death was murder? Could she not have taken her own life? Again, I don’t know anyone who has ever contemplated that, but—”

  “Yes, you do, my friend. I thought about it once, when I saw what my discoveries about the Face of God would do to our people. I was atop the foremast of the Dasheter, doing a turn as lookout. I thought about jumping to the deck below.”

  “Oh.” Cadool’s voice was thin.

  “But, no, Gathgol has described the way in which the mirror was drawn across the throat. It could only have been done by someone standing behind Haldan while she was seated on a bench in front of her worktable. It was not suicide.”

  Cadool said nothing. After a time, Afsan spoke again. “I’ve disturbed you with my own tale of pondered suicide, haven’t I?”

  Cadool could have lied, of course, since Afsan couldn’t see his muzzle, but he did not. He never did. “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “There’s much I didn’t know about you, I guess.”

  “Friends should share, Cadool.” In the darkness, Afsan’s torso tipped in Cadool’s direction. “I’m sorry to have not told you before.”

  “Your secret is safe with me.”

  “I know it is, Cadool. We’ve been through much together; I trust you completely.”

  “I’m bowing.”

  “I need someone I can trust, Cadool. I need someone to help me.”

  “I am always there for you.”

  “Yes, you always are. And although I may not say it often, I am grateful. It—I’m sorry, it’s just that, even though I prize your company greatly, I feel some resentment that I can’t always get along on my own. I do appreciate your help.”

  “I know you do. The words aren’t necessary.”

  “Sometimes,” Afsan said slowly, “I do wonder why, though. Why you give so much of your time to helping me. Early on, I could understand it. You thought I was The One foretold by Lubal. I rarely speak about claims that I’m The One, but, down deep, Cadool, you must know that it’s not true.”

  “I know it. It doesn’t matter. You are trying to save our people. I have no skills, except butchery and animal handling—and those are hardly rare vocations. Helping you out is the way I play my part in saving the Quintaglio race.”

  Afsan nodded. “You are a good person, Cadool.”

  “Thank you—but it is my pleasure to help, for you, Afsan, you are a great person.”

  “Some might say that, I suppose, but like you, I have but a single talent. I can solve puzzles; it’s all I’ve ever been really good at.”

  “Except the hunt.”

  Afsan nodded again. “Except the hunt.” The moons blazed overhead. “And now, Cadool, I have a difficult puzzle indeed to solve. I have sworn to find out who is responsible for the murder of Haldan. This puzzle will depend upon hearing the testimony of many people. People can lie to me, Cadool. I can’t see their muzzles. I need someone whom I trust absolutely to tell me if what I’m hearing is said honestly. I ask you now to accompany me on my quest, to be my arbiter of honesty. There is no one else I trust so completely.”

  Cadool was silent for a few beats. Then: “Exactly what oath did you swear?”

  “To not rest until I’d found the killer of Haldan.”

  Cadool stood up. “Come with me now to the Hall of Worship, Afsan. I shall stand before the statue of Lubal and swear the same thing.”

  Chapter 23

  The Dasheter

  Babnol had known this moment had to come, and she had been dreading it for days. She was up on the foredeck of the Dasheter, clad in the jacket of her snowsuit, performing one of the jobs that had been assigned to her: tightening the many knots that anchored the web of climbing ropes to the boom.

  Toroca was approaching now from the rear deck, having just come up the ramp that led from his quarters. As he headed across the little connecting piece that joined the Dasheter’s two diamond-shaped hulls, Babnol wondered how long ago Toroca had noticed the blue artifact was missing. Had he mulled over for days what to do about it? Or had he only now noticed its absence? Had he questioned anyone else? Or did he immediately suspect Babnol?

  She bent to the task of relying knots, pretending to take no notice of his approach. Overhead, towering gray clouds marred the purple bowl of the sky.

  “Greetings,” said Toroca, stopping about ten paces short of her, the word appearing as a puff of condensation.

  Babnol pulled tightly on the ropes, but didn’t look up. “Hahat dan.”

  “There’s something I want to talk to you about,” Toroca said.

  She gestured at the climbing web. “I’ve got a lot of work left to do still. Perhaps we can speak later?”

  “No, I think now would be best. This task can wait.”

  “Keenir needs it done.”

  “Keenir works for me on this voyage,” said Toroca with uncharacteristic firmness. “My needs outweigh his.”

  She stopped working on the knots and straightened. “Of course.”

  “The object is missing from my cabin,” said Toroca.

  “Object?” repeated Babnol innocently.

  “The artifact from Fra’toolar. The blue hemisphere with the strange handgrip.”

  “Ah,” said Babnol. “And you say it is missing?”

  Toroca’s fingers flexed, a reaction of shock, an instinctive prelude to the unsheathing of claws. He recognized what was happening here, saw that Babnol had moved from him questioning her to her questioning him. It was the first step in the dance, the social custom of avoiding direct questions in uncomfortable areas. At that moment, he knew that Babnol was involved, his worst fears confirmed.

  “Yes,” said Toroca, willing to play on a step or two further. “I say that object is missing.”

  “You must have been surprised,” said Babnol.

  “Yes.”

  “Have you asked Keenir if he knows—?”

  “Babnol.” Toroca spoke the name sharply. “I will ask the questions, please.”

  To force direct responses was the height of bad manners. “Why would you want to question me?” she said.

  Toroca ignored that. “I,” he said again, with heavy emphasis, “will ask the questions.”

  “I really must get back to my work,” said Babnol, grabbing the climbing ropes, yanking them, looking for another loose knot.

  “Did you take the object?” asked Toroca firmly.

  There was a moment, a pause, a break in the dance. A Quintaglio could not get away with a lie in the light of day. And yet, although direct confrontations such as this rarely occurred, for one did not want to force another to feel he or she had no territory left to retreat into, there was often a final step to the dance, one last, brief movement in which the party wishing to avoid answering would spout a lie in the forlorn hope that his or her muzzle miraculously would not change color.

  Toroca waited patiently, and, at las
t, Babnol dipped her head. “Yes,” she said. “I took the object.”

  Toroca turned and looked out over the gray waves. “Thank you,” he said at last, “for not lying to me.” His heart was aching. He cared so much for Babnol, and yet this breach, this violation, cut him to the bone. Toroca had no interest in territoriality but he valued his privacy, which was quite a different thing. “You could have asked me if you wanted to borrow the object,” he said, trying to put his words in a light tone. “I was given quite a start when I realized it was gone.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Babnol, and Toroca was relieved to see that her muzzle did not flush blue as she said it.

  “I’m certain you are,” he said. “Where is the object now?”

  “Toroca—”

  “Babnol, where is it? In your quarters?”

  “Not in my quarters.”

  “Then where?”

  “Toroca, I did it for you.”

  Toroca’s claws did slip out. “Where?”

  “It’s gone, Toroca. For good. Overboard.”

  Toroca closed his eyes and exhaled noisily. “Oh, Babnol.” He shook his head. “How could you be so careless?”

  “I was not careless,” she said. “I threw it overboard on purpose, out the porthole in your cabin.”

  Toroca staggered back on his tail. Had she struck him, he’d have felt no less shocked. “Threw it overboard? But, Babnol, why? Why?”

  “It was not a proper thing. It—lacked goodness.” She turned her muzzle directly toward him. There could be no doubt that her obsidian eyes were meeting his. “God must have intended it to remain buried.” Her voice was defiant. “That’s why She had sealed it in rock.”

  “Oh, Babnol.” Toroca’s voice was heavy. “Babnol, you…” He hesitated, as if unsure whether to complete the sentence, but at last, with a simple shrug, he did, “you fool.” For the first time in his memory, he found himself stepping back from her, instead of toward her. “You promised me when you came to me, looking to join the Geological Survey, that I wouldn’t be sorry if I let you do so. Well, I’m sorry now.” He shook his head. “Do you know what that object was, Babnol? It was our salvation. It was a gift from God. She put it exactly where I would find it; you credit me far too much if you think my random opening of rocks could find something She wanted hidden. Babnol, that object was a clue, a hint, a suggestion—a whole new way of building machines. Solid blocks that somehow performed work! Flexible clear strands, unlike anything we’ve ever imagined! That object could have been the key to getting us off this doomed moon in time. You didn’t just throw it overboard, you threw our best chance of survival overboard, too.”