Diuturnity's Dawn

by Alan Dean Foster

  Father Jenakis looked as if he were about to rise from his seat. “We want you to shut down that infernal display of yours and stop trying to convert people! Especially young people.”

  “But we have told you.” Twikanrozex responded with a four-handed gesture of some directness. “We are not trying to convert anyone—much less anyone of a particular age. I must add that in this respect I have already encountered such a request. The fanciful situation to which you allude arouses even greater passions among my people, since our children are incapable of moving about on their own. There is much unreasoning talk of what you call, I believe, ‘captive audiences.’ “

  “Our display stays.” Though still conventionally courteous, Briann’s tone hardened slightly. “We have the permit, and as much right to exhibit as any other authorized vendor at this fair.”

  “Vendor!” Father Jenakis shook his head slowly. “If you are willing to denigrate your own beliefs so freely, how can you expect others to take them seriously?”

  “We don’t,” Briann informed him. “That is, we don’t expect others to do anything, except read what is on offer. And since we don’t expect others to take us seriously, why should you? If we’re going to, as you put it, denigrate our own beliefs, why should you take the trouble to do so when we’re doing it for you?”

  “We told you,” Joseph declared softly. “Because it’s that very irreverence that appeals to intelligent youngsters. It intrigues them.”

  “It also makes them laugh,” Briann could not keep from pointing out. “Nothing like a lack of seriousness, of preaching, and of regulations to puzzle a clever kid. Where is it writ that a religious organization can’t consecrate fun?” He shook his head. “I won’t tell you from what particular theology I came to the United Church, but suffice to say I never could understand how making you continually feel bad was supposed to ultimately make you feel good.” He folded his arms and radiated quiet contentment. “We have the same eventual end in mind as do you. We’ve simply chosen to follow a path that cuts out all that conflicting, confusing first step. We proceed directly to making people feel good.”

  “You will be stopped.” Father Jenakis was quite convinced. “Laws will be passed to prevent you from doing any more harm. Furthermore, people will soon begin to see through the insubstantialities of your clever but childish polemics. You are a fad, gentlemen. Nothing more. I feel sorry for you, and will pray for your souls.”

  Briann maintained his maddening air of self-assurance. “As to the possibility of restrictive laws being used against us, Father, only time will tell. I can tell you that we have very good lawyers. As to people seeing through what the Church propounds, we intend that they do so. That’s why we abjure complex dogma, and try to keep things simple. When they see through our maxims, we hope that on the other side they will find truth. That is all that we seek: truth and happiness. The former to gratify the mind, the latter to satisfy the soul. And we thank you for your offer to pray for us. We of the Church would never turn down such a benevolent offer. ‘In a Universe vast with uncertainties, never turn down an offer of expiation, no matter what the source.’ Maxim number sixty-eight, part four.”

  The older man rose precipitously. “You people are impudent and shameless!”

  “I know,” Briann admitted, “but it keeps us smiling.”

  Jenakis looked like a man ready to begin a sermon. Thinking better of it, he reached down and put a hand on his younger associate’s shoulder. “Come, Father Joseph. We can do nothing more here. One cannot reason with harlequins.”

  His expression rueful, the younger man rose. “I’m sorry. We can’t help you if you won’t let us. I will pray for you, too.”

  “That’s very kind of you.” Leaning forward, Briann whispered conspiratorially, “Remember—all our literature is easily mollyed right from our display tower!” As the younger man turned to depart in the wake of his senior, Briann placed a thumb in each ear, raised his hands, and wagged his fingers at the retreating figures while simultaneously sticking out his tongue.

  Twikanrozex eyed him with interest. “That is a gesture I do not recognize from the Church canons.”

  Looking content, Briann dropped his hands. “It’s decidedly nontheological in origin. Among my people, an ancient and traditional folkloric form of farewell.”

  “Very kinetic. Can you teach it to me?”

  Briann considered. “You have no ears to stick thumbs into, but your ability to make use of an extra pair of hands more than compensates. I think you’ll do well with it—but you have to pick the operative situations carefully.”

  “I know that you will instruct me properly.” Twikanrozex shifted his lower abdomen on the padded straddle bench, eager to learn.

  Padre Briann proceeded to enlighten him.

  12

  A breathless Therese Holoness led Cullen Karasi and Pilwondepat out of camp and down the walking track that led to the primary excavation. Along the way they passed the location of several other smaller digs begun in the hopes of finding something interred in the hard-packed earth of the escarpment. Every one of these was deserted; tools powered down, water bottles set aside, laser grids shining unimpeded in the morning sun. When Pilwondepat remarked on the absence of workers, Holoness pointed ahead.

  “They’re all down at the main site. Everyone’s gathering there.” She hopped over a narrow ravine. Cullen followed easily, while Pilwondepat had to pick his way. He did not fall behind, but neither did he hop. Thranx were not very good jumpers.

  The truth of her words became clear as they neared the site. A large crowd had assembled. As they drew nearer, Cullen saw that not only the exoarcheological crew but a goodly portion of the camp’s nonscientific staff was also congregating around the open pit. As he approached, he was recognized, and murmuring onlookers moved aside to make room for him and Holoness. A few less-than-friendly looks greeted the presence of the thranx in their midst, but he was granted passage, as well, and no one said anything. At least, nothing that could be overheard.

  A number of Cullen’s people were clustered around something at the bottom of the excavation, blocking it with their assembled bodies. Pilwondepat was inordinately displeased to see Riimadu among them. The AAnn was standing slightly to one side, tail switching back and forth in as transparent an indication of excitement as if he had been hissing wildly and throwing his arms in the air. Holoness led the way to the earthen staircase and then downward into the depths. Around the rim of the hole in the ground, the crowd continued to enlarge until it seemed to Pilwondepat that every worker on the site was present.

  Descending the steps cut into the hard-packed earth more slowly than his human companions, he waited for the cluster of diggers to part. He thought Riimadu might have glared once in his direction, but he could not be sure. In any event, it didn’t matter, since he was soon as dumbstruck as everyone else by what the excavators had uncovered.

  It was a vitreous dark brown surface with a meter-wide dimple in the center. That in itself was not especially striking, nor was the fact that they had certainly uncovered an artifact. What was of far greater import was the realization that the object was not made of stone, like the grand statues that dominated the far side of the valley opposite the escarpment.

  “It’s not metal.” Holoness started talking before anyone asked. “Or plastic. As best we’ve been able to determine without knocking off a chunk for analysis, it’s some kind of bonded ceramic.” Crouching over the depression, she used one palm to brush at the sensuous alien curve. “See how it shines?”

  Stepping forward, both Pilwondepat and Cullen made their own cursory examination of the phenomenon. The thranx did not have to bend to do so. The unusual material was slick to the touch and unexpectedly warm. He would have expected something that had been buried at the top of the escarpment for untold eons to be much colder, the temperature of the ground notwithstanding.

  “Any ideas as to its function?” Straightening, Cullen kept his eyes on the article of
all their fascination.

  Holoness shook her head. “It’s plenty solid, sir. Chenowitz took the liberty of tapping gently on it with a rock, then harder. It’s not hollow.”

  “Well, whatever it is, it’s different from anything anybody’s found on Comagrave to date. We’ll be able to get a better idea of its intended purpose when we’ve dug it out.”

  That was the signal for the diggers to go back to work. Pilwondepat waited and watched their laboring until the afternoon light began to wane. While the falling temperature had no effect on the much more heat-tolerant humans and the single AAnn in their midst, it soon drove him back to his quarters. There he performed his regular evening ablutions while waiting for the excited call that never came. Surely Cullen would not be so indifferent as to forget to notify him when they finally freed the object from its stony matrix.

  He was right. It was still there when he emerged the following morning, after the sun was well up in the sky and the surrounding high desert had heated up enough to accommodate him without danger of hypothermic paralysis.

  His fixed compound eyes could not widen, the multiple lenses could not expand, but his antennae stood straight up and his abdominal gaster contracted, letting out an involuntary stridulation of surprise, when next he cast his gaze down into the pit.

  It had grown. Apparently, the humans had been sufficiently intrigued—or perhaps astounded was the better description—to work on the site all through the night. Holoness confirmed his supposition when he confronted her on the now rapidly expanding rim.

  “We thought we’d have it out, even if it was pretty big, by dinnertime last night.” She was perfectly polite, but he noticed she consciously avoided contact with him. As always, he let the implied slight pass without comment. “But the more dirt and rock we cut away, the bigger it got.” She gestured into the hole. “As far as anyone can tell, we’re still nowhere near reaching its limits.”

  The excavation was now some twenty meters on a side and still expanding. Every piece of heavy exhuming equipment in the camp had been brought into play within the depths of the widening cavity. As laser drills sliced rock into manageable chunks and sonic blasters shattered the larger boulders into powder that could be easily vacuumed, the exoarcheological staff employed finer tools around the edge of the artifact. Additional dimples had been revealed in the lustrous, gently undulating surface. More significantly still, the succession of concavities had given way on the eastern flank of the relic to a perfectly flat surface devoid of indentations or any other blemish. A team of workers was laboring relentlessly to extend this platform, or landing, or whatever it was, in Pilwondepat and Holoness’s direction.

  “If they don’t come to the end of it soon,” the female told him, “we’re going to have to start thinking about moving camp.”

  He gestured understanding, then remembered to add the easily mimicked human head nod. “Has any further progress been made, sir!ilp, in identifying the material of which it is made?”

  “Actually, yes. Mr. Karasi gave permission last night for a sample to be taken for analysis. It resisted like mad, until we finally got a laser tuned enough to cut away a tiny piece. It’s a bonded ceramic, all right. Incredibly tough stuff. The internal crystal lattice is unique, and the molecular structure designed, if that’s the right word, to last pretty close to forever. It has a beryllium base, and then it starts to get crazy with introduced metallic salts. Or so the chemistry people tell me. You can’t get them to stop talking about it.”

  Pilwondepat did not inquire about the artifact’s purpose. That was unlikely to be ascertained until they had all of it exposed. “One presumes it’s of Sauun manufacture, but without proof . . .”

  “Mr. Karasi thinks he has that.” The admiration in her voice for the abilities of the project’s leader bordered, Pilwondepat thought, on reverence. “There’s a temple on the Coruumat Plain that has a couple of interior walls bearing the same alternating dome-and-depression pattern. The concavities are even the same size. But those on the plain are of stone.” She gestured down into the excavation. “No one working on Comagrave has encountered anything like this material before now.”

  Pilwondepat watched the humans at work: energetic, capable, able to labor efficiently in a climate so dry the thranx’s lungs would have shriveled to half their size after less than a couple of days of exposure to such a desiccating atmosphere. But they were not as precise in their movements as his kind. Still, they were not excavating a pin-sized structure. There was margin for error with hand pick or drill.

  “What,” he wondered aloud, “if there is no end to this expanding flat surface?”

  “I don’t follow you.” She looked over at him curiously. “There has to be an end.”

  “Does there?” Seeking signs of an edge, a rim, to the steadily broadening artifact, he saw none. “What if this object, whatever it is, has been built on an order of magnitude comparable to the icons across the valley? What if it is even larger?”

  It took her only a moment to formulate a reply. “Why then, it will take a long time to get there, but it will still have an end.”

  “I wonder. Perhaps instead of trying to expose it all, we should be trying to penetrate it.”

  Now she laughed. “A lot of good that will do, if it’s as solid as a statue.”

  “I am not saying that it is. Only that in light of its size, seeking an interior or an underside is another option that should at least be considered.”

  She suppressed her amusement. “Talk to Supervisor Karasi. He would be the one to make that determination. If you’ll excuse me?” In the brusque manner of humans, she started down into the pit without waiting to learn if he would.

  Pilwondepat stood staring down into the rapidly expanding pit. Riimadu was there, as usual: chatting with individual humans, gesturing suggestions, frequently pausing to consult his communicator. Pilwondepat envied the AAnn researcher his easy camaraderie with the mammals. Not only was their stature similar; so were their movements. Upright bipeds, albeit one tailless, they shared physical commonalties he could not hope, despite his best efforts, to emulate. Certainly the reptiloids enjoyed advantages in establishing relations with the humans that immediately put any hopeful thranx at a disadvantage.

  It frightened him. It was bad enough that no human could follow the threatening sequence of calamity that was being subtly propagated by the AAnn. That they should become friends with the very people who sought their ultimate ouster from Comagrave was worse than sinister: It was downright infuriating. He wanted to grab Cullen or someone of equal authority with all four hands and shake them until they began to molt. He did not only because he knew that they would react defensively, and with even less interest in what he had to say than before.

  At least Cullen had promised to convey Pilwondepat’s findings to the central colonial administration. Another few days, and he could rest a little easier knowing that his findings had been passed on to, hopefully, more perceptive authorities. Until then, and until a reply was forthcoming, he could only continue with his own research, while incidentally keeping a close watch on Riimadu. That the AAnn appeared wholly engrossed in his fieldwork might deceive the humans. It would never be so with a thranx. The two species knew each other too well.

  Cullen gave up on the horizontal dig two days later. By that time, the excavation crew had exposed an area of glistening brown ceramic more than a hundred meters square, lying an average depth of twelve meters. Nowhere could the diggers discern an edge or a break in the material. Nor could they locate a single seam, joint, nail, bolt, clip, or path. The mysterious material appeared to have been poured whole and entire into a huge mold, like lava into a bowl. Of dimples and ripples, of small protuberances and extensive flat surfaces, there were plenty. Of indication as to dimensions, function, or age, there was none.

  Brard Johannsen, the expedition’s chief geologist, chipped in with a report stating that the location of the site, almost proximate to the rim of the escarpment, exposed
it to howling winds heavily laden with particulate matter. As a consequence, erosion was considerably more active near the campsite than it was farther inland. Preliminary dating of the rock and the packed earth layer overlying the artifact suggested that it had originally been buried far deeper beneath the surface, which had been worn down and carried away by untold millennia of strong winds.

  “There’s no question that it’s a significant relic, and not just because of its fascinating composition.” Cullen had invited Pilwondepat to join him for midday meal. They were seated away from the now quiescent excavation, on a little ridge that provided a fine view over the great valley beyond. The human gnawed on a stratified pulpy compaction called a sandwich, while Pilwondepat chewed jheru-flavored food pellets and sipped from his turbinate juice bottle.

  “That was suspected from the very beginning.” In the absence of teeth or horn-covered maxilla, Pilwondepat’s four opposing mandibles worked against one another to masticate his food. Since he breathed through the spicules on his thorax, he did not suffer from a fear of choking on his food, as humans were frequently wont to do. In a thranx, air and food took separate internal paths.

  Raising a hand, Cullen pointed across the valley. There was no wind today, and the air was absolutely still. The vast wild panorama possessed an absolute clarity that stunned the eyes.

  “It gains in significance every day. There’s nothing of importance behind the Mountain of the Mourners. Similarly, only very minor discoveries have been made to its north and south. Yet here, we find this boundless brown ceramic enigma—right where the Mourners are staring.”

  “As Riimadu originally pointed out.” Pilwondepat was surprised he could say it without stridulating. “But what can it be?”

  Cullen shook his head and took another bite of his sandwich. Pilwondepat would have had no trouble digesting the human food, but the smell was not to his liking. Anyway, the supervisor had not offered.