by Emily
At dawn, they cruised over a shoreline dominated by enormous peaks. "This is the northern coast," Wetheral explained. Several strips of beach presented themselves. In all, it was a magnificent seascape.
They continued their exploration while the sun rose higher, until finally MacAllister informed Wetheral they'd seen enough. "Let's go talk to the people at the tower," he said.
The pilot brought them back toward the south, and thirty minutes later they descended toward Burbage Point. A few trees rose out of the snow.
"Dismal place," she said.
But MacAllister liked it. There was something majestic in the desolation.
Despite the short night, they were up early and back in the tower immediately after sunrise. Hutch, Nightingale, and Kellie returned to the tunnel to recommence digging, while Chiang took over guard duty at the entrance and Toni went up to the roof.
This second sunrise on the new world was bright and enticing. The snow glittered in the hard cold light. The trees from which the cat had appeared glowed green and purple, and a sprinkling of white clouds drifted through the sky.
They'd been working only ten minutes when Kellie found a few half-legible symbols on one of the walls.
She recorded them with the microscan, and they decided to try to salvage the images themselves. But when they used the lasers to remove the segment of wall, it crumbled. "There's a technique for this," Hutch grumbled, "but I don't know what it is."
Marcel broke in on the private channel. "Hutch?"
"I'm here. What've you got?"
"We think it's a skyhook."
"You're kidding."
"You think I could make this up?"
"Hold on. I'm going to put you on the allcom, and I want you to tell everybody." She switched him over.
He repeated the news, and Nightingale announced himself stunned.
"What does Gunther think?" asked Kellie.
"It's Gunther's conclusion. Hell, what do I know about this stuff? But I'll give him this: I can't imagine what else it could be."
"That means," said Hutch, "this place isn't representative at all. We've wandered into a remote site that didn't keep up with the rest of the world."
"Looks like it. But there's no evidence of technological civilization anywhere on the surface."
"They had an ice age," said Hutch. "It got covered."
"We don't think even an ice age would completely erase all signs of an advanced culture. There'd be towers. Real towers, not that debacle you have. Maybe they'd get knocked over, but we'd still be able to see they'd been there. There'd be dams, harbor construction, all sorts of things. Concrete doesn't go away."
"What's going to happen to it?" asked Kellie. "The skyhook?"
"In about a week it'll go down with Deepsix."
"So where does that leave us?" asked Hutch. "Are we wasting our time here?"
She heard Marcel sigh. "I don't know anything about archeology," he said. "We've forwarded everything we have to the Academy, and to the archeologists at Nok. They're considerably closer, and maybe we'll get some suggestions back from them."
"There's something else here," said Kellie. She'd uncovered a metal bar.
"Hold on, Marcel." Hutch moved into position to give Wendy a good look.
Kellie tried to brush the dirt away. "Careful," Hutch said. "It looks sharp."
Nightingale dug a dart out of the frozen clay. Feather stalks remained at its base.
The bar was attached to a crosspiece. And the crosspiece became a rack. The rack was stocked with tubes.
They were narrow and about two-thirds of a meter long. Hutch picked one up and examined it by torchlight. It was hollow, made of light wood. Brittle now, of course. One end was narrowed and had a fitting that might have been a mouthpiece.
"You thinking what I am?" asked Kellie.
"Yep. It's a blowgun."
They found a second dart.
And a couple of javelins.
"Stone heads," Hutch said.
And small. A half meter long.
They also found some shields. These were made of iron and had been covered with animal skins, which fell apart when they touched them.
"Blowguns and skyhooks," said Marcel. "An interesting world."
"About the skyhook—" said Nightingale.
"Yes?"
"If they actually had one at one time, part of it would still be here somewhere, right? I mean, that would have to be a big structure. And it has to be on the equator, so it's not under the ice somewhere."
"We're way ahead of you, Randy. We think the base might have been in a mountain chain along the coast a few hundred kilometers southwest of where you are. We're waiting for satellites to get into position to do a scan."
"The west coast," she said.
"Right. Some of the peaks in that area seem to have permanent clouds over them. If we find something, you'll want to take a run over there yourself. We might be looking at the ultimate dig site."
They carried the blowguns, the javelins, and several darts up to ground level. Outside, the wind had blown up again, and snow had begun to fall. They had no bags of sufficient size for the rack, so they cut the plastic in strips and wrapped it as best they could. But when they tried to move it to the lander, the wind caught the plastic and almost ripped it out of their hands. "Bendo and Klopp," said Nightingale, referring to a currently popular comedy team that specialized in pratfalls.
Hutch nodded. "I guess. Let's leave it here until things calm down."
They took a break. Kellie and Nightingale went back to the lander for a few minutes, and Hutch hoisted herself onto the table to rest. Spending all day bent over in tunnels, endlessly scraping, sweeping, and digging, was not her game.
Toni broke in on the allcom: "Hutch, we've got company."
"Company?" She signaled to Chiang, who was standing in the doorway, and drew her cutter. It was, she assumed, the cat.
"Lander coming in," said Toni.
Hutch opened her channel to Marcel. "Who else is out here?"
"A cruise ship," he said. "Just arrived this morning."
"Well, it looks as if they're sending down tourists."
"What?"
"You got it. They must be crazy."
"Don't know anything about it. I'll contact their captain."
She was getting another signal. "I'll get back to you, Marcel." She punched in the new caller. "Go ahead."
"Ground party, this is the pilot of the Evening Star lander. We would like to set down in the area."
"Not a good idea," said Hutch. "It's dangerous here. There are wild animals."
There was no response for almost half a minute. Then: "We accept responsibility for everyone who is on board."
"What's going on?" she asked. "Why are you here?"
"I'm carrying two journalists who would like to visit the tower."
"I don't believe this," she said. "The tower is dangerous, too. It could fall down at any time."
There was a new voice, a baritone with perfect diction: "We've been warned. It's on record. So you need not concern yourself further."
"May I ask who's speaking?"
"Gregory MacAllister," he said. "I'm a passenger on the Evening Star." He implied a merely at the beginning of the sentence, which in turn suggested modesty by someone who was in fact a great deal more than merely a passenger.
Hutch wondered if this would turn out to be the Gregory MacAllister. "I don't think you understand," she said. "We are formally designated an archeological site. You're in violation of the law if you land."
"What section of the code would that be, ma'am?"
Damned if she knew. There was such a law. But she had no idea where to find it.
"Then I think we'll have to continue as is."
She switched to another channel. "Bill, tie me in to the Evening Star. Get me a command channel if you have one."
Bill replied with an electronic murmur and then told her none was available. "There's only one main link,"he said.
"Put me through."
She listened to a series of clicks and a chime. Then: "The Evening Star welcomes you to first-class accommodations on voyages throughout the known universe." The voice was female. "We feature luxurious cabins, a wide range of international cuisines, leading entertainers, three casinos, and special accommodations for parties. How may we serve you?"
"My name's Hutchins," she said. "I'm with the landing party at the dig. I'd like to speak with someone in command, please."
"I'm fully authorized to respond to all requests and complaints. Ms. Hutchins. I'd be pleased to help you."
"I want to talk to the captain."
"Perhaps if you explained your purpose in making this request—"
"Your captain has put some of his passengers in danger. Would you please put me through to him?"
There was a pause, then barely audible voices. Finally: "This is the duty officer. Who are you again?" A human being this time. A male.
"I'm Priscilla Hutchins. The archeological project director on Deepsix. We have a team on the ground. You people have sent down some tourists. And I wanted you to know that there are hazards."
"We have tourists on the surface?"
"Yes, you do."
"I see." A pause. "What kind of hazards?"
"They could be eaten."
Still another delay. Then: "Do you have some sort of authority I should be aware of?"
"Look. Your passengers are approaching a protected archeological site. Moreover, it's an earthquake zone, and somebody could get killed. Please recall them. Or send them somewhere else."
"Just a minute, please."
He clicked off the circuit.
The lander pilot came back: "Ms. Hutchins, we are going to set down near the tower. Since it seems to be snowing, and I assume visibility isn't any better on the ground, please clear your people away for the moment."
"They're directly overhead," said Kellie.
Hutch called everyone into the tower. "Stay inside until they're on the ground," she said. Then she switched back to the lander. "Are you still there, pilot?"
"I'm still here."
"Our people are out of the way. You're clear to come in. If you must."
"Thank you."
Marcel came back on: "Hutch."
"Yeah, what'd they tell you?"
"You know who's on board?"
"Gregory MacAllister."
"Do you know who he is?"
Now she did. This was Gregory the Great. Self-appointed champion of common sense who'd made a fortune attacking the pompous and the arrogant, or, depending on whom you listened to, simply those less gifted than he. Years before she'd been in a graduate seminar with a historian whose chief claim to fame was that he'd once been publicly chastised by MacAllister. He'd even put an account of the assault up on the screen and stood beside it grinning as if he'd touched greatness. "Yes," she said. "The only person on the planet who could bring church and science together. They both hope he dies."
"That's him. And I hope he's not listening."
"What am I supposed to do with him?"
"Hutch, management would not want you to offend him. My guess is that it'll be your job if you do."
"How about if I just feed him to the big cat?"
"Pardon?"
"Let it go."
"I think it would be a good idea to treat him well. Let him look at whatever he wants to. It won't hurt anything. And don't let him fall on his head."
The snow had grown heavier and become so thick MacAllister didn't see anything until moments before they touched down. He got a glimpse of the other lander, and of the tower beyond, and then they were on the ground, so softly he barely felt the impact. Wetheral had the personality of a pinecone, but there was no question he was a competent pilot.
The man himself turned around in his seat and studied them momentarily with those sad eyes. "How long," he asked, "did you folks plan on being here?"
"Not long," said MacAllister. "An hour or so."
The snow was already piling up on the windscreen.
"Okay. I have a few things to take care of. Make sure you activate your e-suit before you go out, and we want you to keep it on the entire time you're here. You can breathe the local air if necessary, but the mix isn't quite right.
"The captain also directed me to ask you both to be careful. There've been wild animal sightings."
"We know that," said MacAllister.
"Good. There's a great deal of paperwork involved if we lose either of you." He said it without a trace of irony.
"Thank you," said Casey.
They went through the airlock and climbed down out of the spacecraft into the storm. "To do the interview correctly," MacAllister said, "we're going to want to wait until it subsides." Ordinarily, heavy weather provided great atmosphere for interviews. But in this case the tower was the star of the show, and people needed to be able to see it. "Wetheral, how long before this blizzard lets up?"
The pilot appeared in the hatch. "I don't know, sir. We don't have a weather report."
"Seems as if it might be a good idea to get one."
"Won't be one for this area," he said seriously.'He looked around, shook his head, and came down the ladder.
The archeologists' lander was dead ahead. It was smaller than the Star's vehicle, and sleeker. More businesslike.
A woman materialized out of the driving snow. She wore a blue-and-white jumpsuit and he knew from the way she walked it was Hutchins. She was trim, built like a boy, and came up almost to his shoulders. Her black hair was cut short, and she looked unfriendly. But he shrugged it away in his usual forgiving manner, recognizing anger as a natural trait exhibited by females who didn't get their way.
"You're the mission commander, I take it?" he asked, extending his hand.
She shook it perfunctorily. "I'm Hutchins," she said.
He introduced Casey and Wetheral.
"Why don't we talk inside?" Hutchins turned on her heel and marched off.
Delightful.
They clumped through the snow. MacAllister studied the tower while he tried to get used to the e-suit. He should have been cold, but wasn't. His feet, clad in leisure shoes, sank into the drifts. But they stayed warm.
The tower loomed up through the storm. At home, it would have been no more than a pile of rock. Here, amidst all this desolation, it was magnificent. But the Philistines had punched a hole in the wall. "Pity you chose to do that," he told Hutchins.
"It made egress considerably easier."
"I quite understand." He did, of course. And yet this tower had obviously stood a long time. It should have been possible to show it a bit more respect. "I don't suppose we have any idea how old it is?"
"Not yet," she said. "We don't have an onboard facility for dating. It'll take a while."
The storm caused him to speak more loudly than necessary. He was having a hard time getting used to the radio. Hutchins asked him to lower his voice. He did and focused on trying to keep it down. "And there's nothing else?" he asked. "No other ruins?"
"There are some scattered around the planet. And there's a city buried down there." She pointed at the ground.
"Really?" He tried to imagine it, a town with houses and parks and probably a jail under the ice. "Incredible," he said.
"Watch your head." She led him through the entrance they had made. He ducked and followed her into a low-roofed chamber with a table on which were piled some cups and darts. He had to stay bent over.
"Tight fit," he said. The small-gauge stairways caught his eye. "The inhabitants were, what, —elves?"
"Apparently about that size."
"What have you learned about them so far?" He wandered over to the table and reached for one of the cups, but she asked him, if he would, to avoid handling them. "Forgive me," he said. "So what can you tell me about them?"
"We know they favored blowguns."
He smiled back at her. "Primitives."
Hutchins's people drif
ted in to meet him. They struck him as by and large a forgettable lot. The other two women were reasonably attractive. There was one young male with a trace of Asian ancestry. And he recognized the second male but couldn't immediately place him. He was an elderly, bookish-looking individual, with a weak chin and a fussy mustache. And he was in fact staring at MacAllister with some irritation.
Hutchins did the introductions. And the mystery went away. "Randall Nightingale," she said.
Ah. Nightingale. The man who fainted. The man carried relatively uninjured out of battle by a woman. MacAllister frowned and pretended to study his features. "Do I know you from somewhere?" he asked with benign dignity.
"Yes," said Nightingale. "Indeed you do."
"You're ..."
"I was the director of the original project, Mr. MacAllister. Twenty years or so ago."
"So you were." MacAllister was not without compassion, and he let Nightingale see that he felt a degree of sympathy. "I am sorry how that turned out. It must have been hard on you."
Hutchins must have sensed the gathering storm. She moved in close.
MacAllister turned to his companion. "Casey, you know Randall Nightingale. A legendary figure."
Nightingale took an aggressive step forward, but Hutchins put an arm around his shoulder. Little woman, he thought. And a little man. But Nightingale wisely allowed himself to be restrained. "I haven't forgotten you, MacAllister," he said.
MacAllister smiled politely. "There, sir, as you can see, you had the advantage of me."
Hutchins drew him away and turned him over to the Asian. Something passed between them, and he coaxed Nightingale out of the chamber and down the child's staircase.
"What was that about?" asked Casey.
"Man didn't like to read about himself." MacAllister turned back to Hutchins. "I'm sorry about that," he said. "I didn't expect to find him here."
"It's okay. Let's just try to keep it peaceful."
"Madam," he said, "you need to tell that to your own people. But I'll certainly try to stay out of everyone's way. Now, can I persuade you to show us around the site a bit?"
"All right," she said. "I guess it can't do any harm. But there's really not much to see."
"How long have you been on the ground, if you don't mind my asking?"
