Jack Mcdevitt - Engines of god

by David Geary

  "In 9000 b.c., and again around 1000 b.c." Richard's brow crinkled. "This is certainly," he said with relish, "very puzzling."

  "There's more," said Carson, "although it would have to be coincidence." "What's that?"

  "The dates coincide with widespread disruptions on Qura-qua. Peoples vanishing from history, states collapsing, that sort of thing."

  "That's right," said Richard, remembering the discontinu­ities. He lapsed into silence.

  The somber gray cityscape moved beneath them. Ahead, Carson's navigation lights blinked red and white. Cheerful and brave against the eeriness. Hutch brought Carson up again on the display. "How long have you been out here, Frank?"

  "Six years," he said. "Long time."

  "I guess." His features betrayed no emotion. They were shadowed and highlighted by the illumination from his con­trol panel. "Where's home?"

  "Toronto. I was born in Edinburgh, but I don't remember any of it."

  "Have you been back at all? For a vacation?" "No. I've been busy." Hutch knew that was unusual. Academy personnel were

  granted six weeks annual leave plus travel time. Carson was a workaholic.

  Richard had been watching the patterns of blocks. "I won­der," he said, "why they're all cut to the same dimensions? Might they have had some sort of inflexible rock scoop? Only cuts one size? Then welds them together?"

  Hutch put one of the blocks on the display.

  "No," said Carson. "That's not it. The larger blocks aren't made of smaller pieces. They're just cut to be three, or eight, times as big. Whatever. Anyway, we're here. Look over to your left."

  A tower rose from the general pattern of low-level obloids. But it was a tower with a difference: the thing was round. It was short, squat, about four stories high. It stood alone in a square.

  Its roundness was remarkable. In that numbing display of parallel lines and right angles' and precise intersections, its simple circularity was a marvel, a masterpiece of invention.

  They landed. Richard could barely contain himself during the cycling process, waiting for pressure to drop and hatches to open. Hutch, secure within her energy field, placed a restraining hand on his shoulder to remind him of the need for caution.

  The tower was charred on the north side.

  Carson opened his cargo door, and emerged with a small stepladder. Richard reassured his pilot, climbed out, and descended the handholds. A layer of dust covered the square.

  At ground level, and out of the shuttle, Hutch felt the weight of the ages, empty streets and mock houses, mad geometry and •ong shadows that had waited through the whole of human history.

  Carson knew precisely what he was looking for. He walked to the tower, placed the ladder against it, adjusted it, tried it himself, and then stood aside and invited Richard to mount. "Careful," he said.

  About five meters up, four lines of symbols protruded from 1 the marble. Richard climbed until he was at eye level with - diem, and used his lamp.

  They possessed no resemblance to the exquisite symbols

  Son lapetus. These were heavy, solid, blunt. Direct, rather than suggestive. Masculine. While he appraised them, Carson

  dropped a bombshell: "It's a Quraquat language."

  Richard swayed on the ladder. "Say again? My under­standing was that no one on Quraqua ever developed space travel."

  "That's correct, Dr. Wald. We don't know much about these people, but we're sure they never had that kind of technology."

  Hutch stood back to get a better look. "Maybe another kind of technology, then. Something we're not familiar with."

  "Like what?"

  "I don't know. If I could tell you, I'd be familiar with it."

  "Well, it doesn't matter." Carson cut her off impatiently. "We know they had a horse-drawn civilization when people were speaking this language."

  Richard was inspecting the symbols through a magnifier. "When would that have been?"

  "Ninth millenium, B.C."

  Same era. Hutch looked around at the blind oblongs and the long quiet streets. A chill worked its way up her spine.

  "Would the speakers of this language," Richard asked, "be the same people who engraved the image of the Monument-Maker in the Temple?"

  "Yes," said Carson. "The language is Casumel Linear C. It was spoken only over a range of about four hundred years."

  Richard, still perched on the ladder, leaned back and peered up at the top of the tower. "Is this why Henry has pushed so hard at the Temple?"

  Carson nodded. "Can you imagine what it will be like having an inscription from this place, and not be able to read it?" He shook his head in disgust. "The people who spoke the language inhabited the country around the Temple of the Winds. And they controlled the Temple itself at one point. We've been hoping to find a Rosetta stone. Or, failing that, to get enough samples of the writing to allow us to decipher it."

  Hutch broke in. "I don't understand this at all. If the Quraquat never came here, how could they possibly have left a sample of their writing? Are you sure this is what you think it is?"

  "No question," said Carson. "It's a perfect match."

  "Then what are we saying—?"

  "I would think," Richard said, "that the builders of this—

  monstrosity—left a message for the inhabitants of Quraqua. To be read when they got here."

  "About whatl" Hutch could scarcely contain her impa­tience.

  "An invitation to join the galactic club," suggested Carson. "Or an explanation for Oz." Richard started down. "Who knows?"

  Hutch looked at Carson. "Frank, how many of these ancient languages can we read?" "A few. Not many. Almost none, actually." "None." She tried to shake the fog from her brain. "What don't I understand? If we can't read any of these languages, what difference does it make whether we find a Rosetta stone? I mean, we're not going to be able to read the Rosetta, either. Right?"

  "It won't matter. If we get the same text in three or more languages, we can decipher all the languages involved. Pro-vided we get a sample of reasonable size." Richard was back on the ground now. "If you've seen enough," Carson said, "there's something else you'll want to look at." "Okay."

  "We need to go to the top of the tower." They walked back toward the shuttles. "We can use mine."

  They climbed in. Carson left the hatch open. He adjusted his cap, and activated the magnets. The vehicle floated up the face of the tower.

  "Is there," asked Richard, "another of these things on the other side of Oz?"

  "Another round tower? Yes, there is."

  "Another inscription?"

  "No. Not another inscription."

  "Interesting." Richard looked down. "Hey," he said, "the

  roof isn't level." He leaned out to get a better view. "It's the first slope of any kind we've seen here." "There's another," said Carson. "The other tower."

  "Yes." They hovered just over the roof. "Frank." Richard Wald's silver eyebrows drew together. Is the location of the other tower a reverse image of this one?" "No." Richard looked delighted.

  Hutch saw the point. "It breaks the pattern," she said. "A straight line drawn between the round towers does not pass through the central tower."

  "A unique condition in Oz. Frank, does it happen any­where else?"

  "Nowhere that I know of."

  "Good. Then we have only these towers to concentrate on." He swung around, trying to get his bearings. "The center of the city is where?"

  Carson showed him.

  "And the other tower?"

  "Toward the north." He pointed. "Why?"

  "Don't know yet. Frank, have you measured the angle of the roof?"

  "No. I don't think anyone measured it. Why would we?"

  "I don't really know. But look at it. The lowest part of it lies on the side closest to the center of the city. As you look out toward the wall, the slope rises."

  "I don't follow."

  "All guesswork so far. Is the same thing true of the other round tower?"

  "
I'm not sure I understand the question."

  "You said the roof there is also angled. Is the roof on the other tower lowest where it's closest to the middle of Oz?"

  "I don't remember." Why would anyone, his tone sug­gested, bother with such a thing? "Do you want to set down and look around on the roof a bit?"

  "No, I've seen quite enough, thanks. We have one more job to do, and then I'd like to go with you back to the Temple."

  "Richard." Hutch, who had guessed this was coming, tried to use her most serious, don't screw-around-with-me voice. "Don't forget we're supposed to be here to take these people off. Not augment them."

  "I know. Hutch. And I won't forget." He took her hand, squeezed it. Their Flickinger fields flashed. "Be careful," she said. "What's the other job?" asked Carson. "We need as precise a measurement of the inclination as we can get. On both round towers. And we need to ensure that the lowest point on each roof really does match up

  with the central square." He winked at Hutch. "Maybe"-he beamed—"we have something."

  June 6, 2202 Dear Dick,

  .. . Thank God for the round towers and the slanted roofs. It is all that adds any touch of reason to the entire business.

  You would have been amused at how we behaved. Very quiet. We kept our voices down, as if we were all afraid someone might be listening. Even Frank Carson. You haven't met him. He's not the sort of man to give way to anyone. But even he kept looking over his shoul­der.

  Truth is, there is a presence in those streets. You can't help but feel it.

  Poor Hutch. She sees no rationale whatever, and con­sequently she was damned near unhinged at the end of our tour. Even with the small insight I have (and I know you have guessed what it is), I too feel unsettled. Oz is not a place for anyone with a halfway active imagination. . . .

  Richard

  —Richard Wald to his cousin Dick Received in Portland, Oregon, June 24

  PART TWO

  TEMPLE OF THE WINDS

  6.

  On board Alpha. Sunday, June 6; 1830 hours.

  Hutch was glad to get back to the Winckelmann. It was an ungainly, modular vehicle, little more than a set of rings (three on this voyage) connected to a central spine. She activated its lights as she approached. They illuminated the shuttle bay and silhouetted arrays of sensors and maintenance pods and antennas. The ship was warm and familiar, a utilitarian and undeniably human design floating against a starry backdrop rendered suddenly unsettling.

  The moods of deep space didn't usually affect her as they did many others who traveled between the worlds. But tonight, ah tonight: the ship looked good. She'd have liked company, somebody to talk to, someone to fill up the spaces in the vessel. But she was nevertheless relieved to be home, where she could lock doors and do a simmy.

  The Academy seal, a scroll and lamp framing the blue earth of the United World, was emblazoned prominently on the A ring, near the bridge.

  The moon and the planet floated in a black, starless sky. Quraqua lay on the edge of the Void, the great rift that yawned between the Orion and Sagittarius Arms. The oppo­site shore was six thousand light-years away, visible only as a dim glow. Hutch wondered about the effect on a developing species of a sky half-crowded with stars and half-empty.

  Alpha entered B ring, and settled into its cradle. The big doors swung satisfactorily shut on the night. She pulled off her Flickinger harness and stowed it in the compartment behind her seat. Five minutes later, she was on the bridge.

  The message board blinked. There was a transmission in the holding tray from the Temple site, routine precedence. Too soon for Richard to have arrived. Time enough to look

  at it later. She went to her quarters, removed her work clothes, and stepped into the shower. The spray felt good.

  Afterward, still dripping, she ordered steak. Her cabin was decorated with pictures of old friends, of herself and Richard on Pinnacle, of Alpha floating nose to nose with the Great Hexagon Monument near Arcturus, of a group of planetologists whom she'd joined for a beach party at Bethesda (and who had hoisted her on their shoulders for the photo). The air was sweet with the breath of green plants, lemon thyme and bayberry and honeysuckle.

  The demon moon rolled across her view. Oz, on the far side, was not visible. Annoyed at her own disquiet, she closed the panel.

  Richard had given her a medallion years earlier, a lovely piece of platinum, a copy of a talisman he'd brought back from Quraqua. This was in the days before Oz had been found. A winged beast and a six-pointed star were engraved on one side, and a gracefully curved arch on the other. Arcane symbols lined the rim. The beast and the star designate love, Richard had told her, and the arch is prosperity. Both will be yours as long as you wear the medallion.

  Tonight, it was soothing. She looped it over her shoulders. Local magic.

  She dressed and, when the dinner bell rang, strolled by the galley to pick up her steak. She added a bottle of wine, and took everything to the bridge.

  The message board was still blinking.

  She sliced off a piece of meat, tasted it, and opened the bottle. It was a Chablis. Then she keyed the message, and got a trim, blond female with spectacular good looks. "Winckelmann" she said, "my name is Allegri. I'll be coordinating the evacu­ation. We have fourteen people to take off. Plus Dr. Wald, who is enroute here now. We want to begin departures in forty-eight hours.

  "I know that's later than the original plan, but we've still got work to do. For your information, Kosmik will begin operations at ten a.m. our time Friday. Temple time. This transmission contains time equivalents. We want to be out with twenty-four hours to spare. We also have artifacts to move, and we should start with those as soon as possible. Please contact me when you can."

  The screen blanked.

  Hutch pushed back in her chair. People in these remote places usually took the time to say hello. She wondered whether Allegri had been underwater too long.

  She put Quraqua on the main display, went to mag 32.

  Sunlight flooded the cloud cover, illuminating a world of mud-colored prairies, vast green forests, sprawling deserts, and winding mountain chains. Neither of its oceans was vis­ible. There were two, both shallow, and not connected. It was generally a parched world, a condition that Kosmik hoped to cure during the first phase of its terraforming operation, which it had dubbed Project Hope.

  The southern ocean surrounded the icecap, creating a circu­lar body of water averaging about five hundred kilometers in width. Beyond, several finger-shaped seas pushed north. The longest of these was Yakata, a local term meaning Recrea­tional Center for the Gods. It penetrated about three thousand kilometers into the land mass. At its northernmost extremity, just offshore, lay the Temple of the Winds.

  She'd read somewhere that Quraqua was thought to be entering an ice age. Whether true or not, both caps were quite healthy. When they went, they would make a substantial splash. And, if the experts were right, Quraqua would get instant oceans.

  Ten o'clock Friday morning, Temple time. When was that? She called up the data Allegri had sent.

  Quraqua's day was twenty hours, thirty-two minutes and eighteen seconds long. Everyone understood the psychologi­cal importance of using the familiar twenty-four hour clock, but adjustments were necessary whenever humans set down for an extended stay on a new world. On Quraqua, timepieces were set to run until 10:16:09, A.M. and P.M. Then they leaped forward to noon and midnight. This method eliminated time from both sleeping and waking cycles.

  Coincidentally, it was now Sunday at the Temple of the Winds, just as it was on Wink. Terraforming would begin in something over ninety hours. Henry Jacobi wanted to com­plete the evacuation with a one-day safety margin. And they had two shuttles to work with. It would be easy.

  But she was uncomfortable. It did not look as though getting clear was at the top of Jacobi's agenda. She directed the navigational computer to lift Wink out of lunar orbit and make for Quraqua. She entered both deadlines into her personal chronometer, and se
t the ship's clocks to correspond to Temple time.

  The navigation display warned her that the ship would leave orbit in thirty-six minutes.

  Hutch finished her dinner, and swept the leavings into the vacuum tube. Then she switched on a comedy and pushed back to watch. But by the time the boosters fired, and the ship began to move, she was asleep.

  She woke to a chime. Incoming transmission.

  The lights were dim. She'd slept seven hours.

  Richard appeared on the monitor. "Hello," he said. "How are we doing?"

  "Okay."

  He looked troubled, in the way that he did when he was about to tell her something he knew she wouldn't like. "Lis­ten, Hutch, they're in a bad way here. There are several sites beneath the Temple. The one we're all interested in is down deep, and they're just now getting into it. We need to use all the time we have available. The shuttle that they've got here will accommodate three people plus the pilot. Figure out a schedule to get everyone out. But leave us the maximum working time."

  Hutch let her exasperation show. "Richard, that's crazy."

  "Probably. But they could be very close. They're almost into the Lower Temple. Hutch, it dates from 9000 B.C., the same era as the construction on the moon. We need to get a look at it. We can't just leave it here to be destroyed."

  Hutch disagreed. "I think our first priority is to get out before the water rises."

  "We will, Hutch. But meantime we have to make every day count."

  "God damn it."

  Richard smiled patiently. "Hutch, we won't take any chances. You have my word. But I need you to help me. Okay?"

  And she thought: / should be grateful he's not refusing to leave the surface, and daring Kosmik to drown him. His inherent belief in the decency of other people had led him astray before. "I'll see what I can do," she said. "Richard,

  who's running the Kosmik operation here? Do you know?" "The director's name is Melanie Truscott. I don't know

  anything about her. She's not very popular with Henry." "I don't suppose she would be. Where's her headquarters?" "Just a minute." He turned aside, spoke to someone.