Omnilingual
seen any actual Martian skulls--these people seem to havebeen very tidy about disposing of their dead--but from statues and bustsand pictures I've seen. I'd say that their vocal organs were identicalwith our own."
"Well, grant that. And grant that it's going to be impressive to rattleoff the names of Martian notables whose statues we find, and that ifwe're ever able to attribute any placenames, they'll sound a lot betterthan this horse-doctors' Latin the old astronomers splashed all over themap of Mars," Lattimer said. "What I object to is her wasting time onthis stuff, of which nobody will ever be able to read a word if shefiddles around with those lists till there's another hundred feet ofloess on this city, when there's so much real work to be done and we'reas shorthanded as we are."
That was the first time that had come out in just so many words. She wasglad Lattimer had said it and not Selim von Ohlmhorst.
"What you mean," she retorted, "is that it doesn't have the publicityvalue that digging up statues has."
For an instant, she could see that the shot had scored. Then Lattimer,with a side glance at Chamberlain, answered:
"What I mean is that you're trying to find something that anyarchaeologist, yourself included, should know doesn't exist. I don'tobject to your gambling your professional reputation and making alaughing stock of yourself; what I object to is that the blunders of onearchaeologist discredit the whole subject in the eyes of the public."
That seemed to be what worried Lattimer most. She was framing a replywhen the communication-outlet whistled shrilly, and then squawked:"Cocktail time! One hour to dinner; cocktails in the library, Hut Four!"
* * * * *
The library, which was also lounge, recreation room, and generalgathering-place, was already crowded; most of the crowd was at the longtable topped with sheets of glasslike plastic that had been wall panelsout of one of the ruined buildings. She poured herself what passed,here, for a martini, and carried it over to where Selim von Ohlmhorstwas sitting alone.
For a while, they talked about the building they had just finishedexploring, then drifted into reminiscences of their work on Terra--vonOhlmhorst's in Asia Minor, with the Hittite Empire, and hers inPakistan, excavating the cities of the Harappa Civilization. Theyfinished their drinks--the ingredients were plentiful; alcohol andflavoring extracts synthesized from Martian vegetation--and vonOhlmhorst took the two glasses to the table for refills.
"You know, Martha," he said, when he returned, "Tony was right about onething. You are gambling your professional standing and reputation. It'sagainst all archaeological experience that a language so completely deadas this one could be deciphered. There was a continuity between all theother ancient languages--by knowing Greek, Champollion learned to readEgyptian; by knowing Egyptian, Hittite was learned. That's why you andyour colleagues have never been able to translate the Harappahieroglyphics; no such continuity exists there. If you insist that thisutterly dead language can be read, your reputation will suffer for it."
"I heard Colonel Penrose say, once, that an officer who's afraid to riskhis military reputation seldom makes much of a reputation. It's the samewith us. If we really want to find things out, we have to risk makingmistakes. And I'm a lot more interested in finding things out than I amin my reputation."
She glanced across the room, to where Tony Lattimer was sitting withGloria Standish, talking earnestly, while Gloria sipped one of thecounterfeit martinis and listened. Gloria was the leading contender forthe title of Miss Mars, 1996, if you liked big bosomy blondes, but Tonywould have been just as attentive to her if she'd looked like the WickedWitch in "The Wizard of Oz." because Gloria was the Pan-FederationTelecast System commentator with the expedition.
"I know you are," the old Turco-German was saying. "That's why, whenthey asked me to name another archaeologist for this expedition, I namedyou."
He hadn't named Tony Lattimer; Lattimer had been pushed onto theexpedition by his university. There'd been a lot of high-levelstring-pulling to that; she wished she knew the whole story. She'dmanaged to keep clear of universities and university politics; all herdigs had been sponsored by non-academic foundations or art museums.
"You have an excellent standing: much better than my own, at your age.That's why it disturbs me to see you jeopardizing it by this insistencethat the Martian language can be translated. I can't, really, see howyou can hope to succeed."
She shrugged and drank some more of her cocktail, then lit anothercigarette. It was getting tiresome to try to verbalize something sheonly felt.
"Neither do I, now, but I will. Maybe I'll find something like thepicture-books Sachiko was talking about. A child's primer, maybe; surelythey had things like that. And if I don't. I'll find something else.We've only been here six months. I can wait the rest of my life, if Ihave to, but I'll do it sometime."
"I can't wait so long," von Ohlmhorst said. "The rest of my life willonly be a few years, and when the _Schiaparelli_ orbits in, I'll begoing back to Terra on the _Cyrano_."
"I wish you wouldn't. This is a whole new world of archaeology.Literally."
"Yes." He finished the cocktail and looked at his pipe as thoughwondering whether to re-light it so soon before dinner, then put it inhis pocket. "A whole new world--but I've grown old, and it isn't for me.I've spent my life studying the Hittites. I can speak the Hittitelanguage, though maybe King Muwatallis wouldn't be able to understand mymodern Turkish accent. But the things I'd have to learn here--chemistry,physics, engineering, how to run analytic tests on steel girders andberyllo-silver alloys and plastics and silicones. I'm more at home witha civilization that rode in chariots and fought with swords and was justlearning how to work iron. Mars is for young people. This expedition isa cadre of leadership--not only the Space Force people, who'll be thecommanders of the main expedition, but us scientists, too. And I'm justan old cavalry general who can't learn to command tanks and aircraft.You'll have time to learn about Mars. I won't."
His reputation as the dean of Hittitologists was solid and secure, too,she added mentally. Then she felt ashamed of the thought. He wasn't tobe classed with Tony Lattimer.
"All I came for was to get the work started," he was continuing. "TheFederation Government felt that an old hand should do that. Well, it'sstarted, now; you and Tony and whoever come out on the _Schiaparelli_must carry it on. You said it, yourself; you have a whole new world.This is only one city, of the last Martian civilization. Behind this,you have the Late Upland Culture, and the Canal Builders, and all thecivilizations and races and empires before them, clear back to theMartian Stone Age." He hesitated for a moment. "You have no idea whatall you have to learn, Martha. This isn't the time to start specializingtoo narrowly."
* * * * *
They all got out of the truck and stretched their legs and looked up theroad to the tall building with the queer conical cap askew on its top.The four little figures that had been busy against its wall climbed intothe jeep and started back slowly, the smallest of them, SachikoKoremitsu, paying out an electric cable behind. When it pulled up besidethe truck, they climbed out; Sachiko attached the free end of the cableto a nuclear-electric battery. At once, dirty gray smoke and orange dustpuffed out from the wall of the building, and, a second later, themultiple explosion banged.
She and Tony Lattimer and Major Lindemann climbed onto the truck,leaving the jeep stand by the road. When they reached the building, asatisfyingly wide breach had been blown in the wall. Lattimer had placedhis shots between two of the windows; they were both blown out alongwith the wall between, and lay unbroken on the ground. Martha rememberedthe first building they had entered. A Space Force officer had picked upa stone and thrown it at one of the windows, thinking that would be allthey'd need to do. It had bounced back. He had drawn his pistol--they'dall carried guns, then, on the principle that what they didn't knowabout Mars might easily hurt them--and fired four shots. The bullets hadricocheted, screaming thinly; there were four coppery smears ofjacket-metal on the wi
ndow, and a little surface spalling. Somebodytried a rifle; the 4000-f.s. bullet had cracked the glasslike panewithout penetrating. An oxyacetylene torch had taken an hour to cut thewindow out; the lab crew, aboard the ship, were still trying to find outjust what the stuff was.
Tony Lattimer had gone forward and was sweeping his flashlight back andforth, swearing petulantly, his voice harshened and amplified by hishelmet-speaker.
"I thought I was blasting into a hallway; this lets us into a room.Careful; there's about a two-foot drop to the floor, and a lot of rubblefrom the blast just inside."
He