The Dig

  He didn't think she'd go very far. The chamber was large but not excessively so, and he didn't see her wandering about on the surface by herself for very long without checking back with him. Meanwhile, aloneness and isolation would calm her down faster than he could. They'd just listen, and wouldn't shout back. When she got tired of railing at invisible demons, she'd come looking for him. She was a rational, reasonable individual and he doubted it would permanently strain their relationship.

  Did they have a relationship? Whatever it was, he would deal with it as circumstances required.

  Turning, he resumed his inspection of the grand chamber. Though still vast, it wasn't as enormous as it had appeared at first glance. Except for the area immediately around the edges of the initial collapse, the ceiling seemed structurally sound. He couldn't see any additional cracks or stress fractures. The rest of the roof wouldn't have been subjected to the same forces as the more sensitive portion near the opening.

  He decided to walk a complete circuit of the chamber, during which time he identified five high arches set into the meandering wall. They might have been works of art, or simple designs intended to break the monotony of the interior, but to his eye they more closely resembled doorways that had been tightly sealed. All five were uniform in appearance and construction.

  The small tunnel he found was not blocked, and this he was able to explore. Pulling the compact flashlight from his utility belt, he gave the interior a quick once-over before returning to the main chamber. The darkness of space didn't bother him, but tunnels and unexplored caves did.

  On his way back out he stumbled. Catching himself, he looked down to see that he'd lost his balance because of a depression in the floor. Did it indicate the presence of another shaft going deeper still? A metal plate lay nearby, apparently designed to fit the depression. It's discovery ought to have excited him. Instead, he felt only a mild elation. It was frustrating to know that you had tools in your hand in the form of the plates but not know how to use them.

  Nevertheless, he carefully picked it up and snugged it under an arm. Four similar plates had activated the asteroid-ship. Whether four more would reactivate it and send it speeding back to Earth he had no way of knowing. But first he needed to find three more. At least now he had a goal, and it gave him something to do besides stumble about blindly in the hope that Providence would intervene on his behalf. If nothing else, the plate was heavy, solid and comfortingly real.

  He intended to leave it near the base of the rubble pile, that being as convenient a rendezvous as any, but as he was starting back, he noticed a depression in one of the many consolelike bulges in the wall. Like the others he'd seen, it was also studded with slots and strange gouges. Its proximity to the plate, which had been lying loose on the tunnel floor, was too much of a coincidence to ignore.

  "Truly problem solving they are," avowed the first presence.

  "I was certain the creature was going to continue past." Though many of the others remained dubious, sparks of reluctant optimism began to evince themselves.

  "Will it take the correct action?" wondered a dozen others. "Oftentimes the primitive will perform the unexpected."

  "But if it does the wrong thing..." The fifty who had spoken left the thought unfinished.

  "Manifest yourself," several urged the first. "Show the creature the way. Give it a sign."

  The first strained briefly before giving up. "I cannot. Not enough time has passed. The regeneration of personal energy takes time."

  Every presence paused to observe the biped's actions. "If it acts wrongly, it will die like its companion. As have so many who have come before."

  The first presence might not have had enough strength left to manifest, but it was quite capable of continued argument. "Do not blame the creatures for the one death they have suffered thus far. There was no correct way to enter the chamber. Time has finally begun to destroy what we left behind. The opening would have crumbled no matter what approach the bipeds had taken. They could not have known that. If blame for their failure needs to be apportioned, then part of it lies with us as the builders."

  "If only it were possible to manifest more strongly," several lamented. "We could save these creatures, and they in turn could help us."

  "If we could do that," reminded a thousand others, "we would not need the assistance of stranded primitives. We could save ourselves. Alas, for all that we have accomplished, for all that we have learned, we cannot."

  All they could do, in fact, in their tens of thousands, was watch ... and hope.

  Loath to give up the plate, Low hesitated before the depression. What if it sank out of sight, absorbed by the substance that composed the wall? That's what had happened to the plates onboard the asteroid-ship. He held his prize up to the depression. It would fit perfectly.

  He would have consulted Maggie, but she had taken herself elsewhere, and Brink was no longer around to offer counsel. Reaching a decision, he slipped the plate into the concave receptacle. It fit flush with the wall.

  A soft humming became audible, only occasionally interrupted by the grind of centuries passing. Or perhaps it was merely dust being blown in through the opening in the roof. Wary, he retreated a few steps.

  His heart sank along with the plate as it melted into the material of the wall. From previous experience he knew it was now unrecoverable. Well, it had been worth the experiment, he decided, refusing to be discouraged. Any additional plates he found would go straight to the base of the rubble heap, to wait there until they could be carried back to the asteroid-ship.

  The consolelike bulge into which the plate had vanished began to pulse with a glow unlike the light that emanated from the walls and floor. The grinding sound came not from the sinking of the plate into the depression nor from the presence of blowing sand but from a nearby section of floor. Low kept his distance until the passageway was completely revealed.

  Approaching cautiously, he peered over and down. The same soft, pleasing refulgence that illuminated the big chamber also allowed him to see into the room below. Instead of arcane bulges and mysterious swellings, it was filled with an assortment of devices and artifacts, all in varying states of preservation or decrepitude.

  Lifting his head, he turned and shouted. "Maggie! Hey, Robbins, get yourself over here! I've found something." There was no reply. Where had she gone?

  Well, he couldn't wait on her, he decided anxiously.

  There was a ladder, of sorts. A bizarre arrangement of bars and steps that resembled something lifted from a bombed-out school playground. Clambering down as best he could, he found himself standing in what reminded him more than anything else of an old janitorial storeroom. Nothing was stored carefully. The jumble of devices had the appearance of an afterthought, as though they had been dumped here at the last minute.

  The last minute before what, he found himself wondering?

  Careful to disturb nothing, he moved from one artifact to the next, inspecting but not touching. Was any of this alien junk still functional? And if so, how could he divine individual functions?

  He halted before one that caught his attention. Not because it was unique of design or remarkable of appearance but because it seemed better preserved than anything else in the room. Dust and grime did not coat its every exposed surface, and there were faint suggestions of recent automatic lubrication. Had it been somehow employed by the vanished occupants of the other vessel they had found here? Or was it some kind of maintenance device, forgotten by its makers, left to perform whatever task it had been designed for until it collapsed or its power source finally ran down.

  He let his fingers trail along the smooth, machined flanks. No circular metal plate bulged from the artifact's middle or protruded from within. Therefore he was more than a little startled when a soft click sounded. He retreated hurriedly, ready to scramble up the alien ladder should the device exhibit hostile tendencies.

  It did nothing of the sort. Instead, it continued to squat in the shadows and hum
softly to itself.

  "If you're waiting for instructions," the Commander announced, "you've got the wrong programmer."

  Or maybe not. In response to his words the device pivoted to face him, attentive and waiting. When Low took a step forward, the machine matched the movement.

  He studied it closely. The front was studded with multiple projections that might have been tools. But tools for what? The squat device might be anything from floor cleaner to portable dentist. One thing was fairly evident: it had reacted to his presence and was continuing to do so.

  It had been stored here, in this room below the grand chamber. That suggested its functions were tied to the chamber itself. Low had no special desire to see the floor polished, or have his teeth worked on, but might not the gizmo be able to serve more prosaic functions?

  For example, could it open a sealed door?

  Tilting back his head, he studied the ladder that led upward. "How am I going to get you up there?" he muttered aloud. The machine did not reply, merely continued to stand on its feet and wait patiently.

  "The machine lives."

  A mental sigh passed through a hundred thousand watching Cocytans.

  "See what one of them has accomplished already." Supporters of the first were much encouraged.

  But hardly convincing. "It means nothing," declared a sizable concatenation of skeptics. "It stumbles about blindly. Luck favors the ignorant."

  It was left to a supporter of the first to respond. "Luck is nothing more than a skillful realignment of pertinent values the final positioning of which is never left to chance. The biped made this happen."

  "Made what happen?" responded the others. "See what it does now? Nothing! Its primitive thought processes are at an impasse and it waits for fate to intervene. That is hardly proof of appropriate motivation." Many could not be convinced to allow themselves a glimmer of optimism. Down through the centuries too many hopes had been dashed.

  "Patience. It is true that the creature's reaction times are slow, but they are in keeping with its progress thus far. See, it is thinking. Considering alternatives. Criticize not its sluggishness but the results."

  "What results?" sniffed the naysayers through the ether. But despite all their bemoaning, they, too, continued to watch.

  Low walked carefully around the device, never taking his eyes from it. As he circled, the machine pivoted patiently to face him. Defensive posture, he wondered? Or simply a standard programmed reaction to movement? He could always give it a swift kick and observe the reaction. Of course, if it was equipped to defend itself, that wouldn't be a very bright idea. Besides, he doubted it was the accepted way to activate any useful functions.

  The multiplicity of devices bristling on its front side continued to intrigue him. Would any operate the console-mound in the asteroid? He discarded that thought quickly. Despite its armory of instruments, the machine boasted nothing resembling the large metal plates that had set the asteroid-ship in motion. Furthermore it was unreasonable to assume that something locked away beneath the floor of the big chamber was incidentally designed to operate interstellar transport. No, he decided: the little machine might be capable of many things, but flying them back to Earth probably wasn't one of them.

  It was self-evidently too heavy to carry, even assuming it would allow the attempt. Could it climb? It certainly had limbs enough. There was one way to find out.

  Turning toward the ladder, he looked back and beckoned. "Come on, then." The words sounded foolish and misplaced in his own ear, even though there was no one around to hear him. "Let's see if you can make it to the top."

  He started up the ladder. After a moment's hesitation, the machine followed. Despite the absence of anything that could reasonably be called an arm, or a hand, it displayed surprising agility while following in his wake. It slipped once but did not fall.

  There was nothing endearing about it; no eyes, or other recognizable facial features, but Low found himself admiring the device's persistence. Despite a hiatus of indeterminate length, it had responded to his presence and now seemed content to follow him about like a dog. He would have preferred the companionship of Robbins, but in her absence it was somehow reassuring to once more have something ambulatory for company.

  He bellowed her name again as soon as he emerged back onto the main floor, and once again received no response. A search was no doubt in order, he knew, but if he found her, she'd probably resent the intrusion, regarding it as an affront to her self-reliance. He'd give her more time, he decided. The alien fauna they'd encountered thus far had been decidedly nonthreatening, and she was doubtless doing just fine on her own. When she was ready, she could just as easily find him.

  Turning to the device, he said without much hope, "All right, let's see what you can do."

  Approaching the nearest arch, he scrutinized the inscriptions and indentations etched into one side. They might be control surfaces, loud warnings, elegant hieroglyphics, or nothing more than some kind of elaborate alien graffiti. Nothing to lose by trying, he told himself.

  Running his fingers over and through the sinuous engraving provoked no response. Perhaps a more specific touch was required. Turning, he gestured broadly at the machine.

  "Can you do anything with this? Is there anything that can be done with this, other than to admire the workmanship?"

  The device squatted on its legs, indifferent to his entreaty. It was attendant upon him, but otherwise nonreactive.

  Stymied, he walked slowly around the machine, watching as it once again turned to face him. At the completion of the circuit he found an idea waiting for him. Another half circle placed the device between him and the arch. Now he started deliberately forward. Responding, the little machine retreated proportionately. What would it do when it ran out of room? Skitter off to one side, or jump him, alien instruments whirring and clanking?

  He was taking a chance, he knew, but it was time for that. Besides, this was a machine he was dealing with, not an animal. He knew how an animal would have reacted. Would the device also see him as a threat?

  With the wall at its back the machine pivoted abruptly and rammed itself into the unyielding obstacle. For a crazy moment Low found himself wondering if it intended to commit some kind of outlandish mechanical hara-kiri. Edging forward, he saw that several of the instruments located on the machine's front end were moving; sliding into slots, filling holes, and caressing grooves. Though he watched carefully, he knew it was a pattern he could not duplicate. For one thing, he did not possess the requisite number of limbs.

  A deep hum sprang from within the arch, and Low tensed. Something whirred like a giant gyroscope. The machine withdrew its tools and trundled backward.

  Together, they watched as the barrier seemed to melt in on itself, to reveal a high, imposing portal beneath the arch. Low marked the phenomenon with something approaching awe, while the device gazed upon its handiwork with the same unvarying, phlegmatic mechanical stare.

  He searched in vain for signs of the missing barrier, finally gave up and attributed its remarkable disappearance to an alien engineering he could not understand. Of much more interest was what lay beyond the now-vanished doorway.

  A large tunnel stretched off into the distance. No circle of light gleamed at its end, no comforting gleam of sunshine. To his right stood a raised platform. Alongside it was a transparent sphere that might have been fashioned from pure quartz, flawless glass or more likely some completely unknown material. For all Low knew, it was an artificial diamond, though it more closely resembled a hollow pearl.

  He started forward. Aware that the little robot wasn't following, he turned and beckoned as he'd done down in the storage room. It didn't budge. Not all his shouts or urgings could induce it to advance. When he tried the trick of circling around behind and backing it toward the tunnel, it simply darted out of his path. No matter how strenuous an effort he mounted, he could not get it to step through the archway.

  "Fine," he finally snapped, exasperated. "S
tay here. I'll open the next door myself." He had to smile. "Stay, boy, stay!"

  The machine did not reply, nor did he expect it to. It simply remained in place, motionless, and would presumably be there when he returned. Yet had it sat back on its distorted mechanical legs and put its fore instruments into the air, he would not have been surprised. He had long since lost his capacity for astonishment.

  Or so he thought.

  Entering the tunnel, he ascended the platform and cautiously rested one hand against the beautiful clear material. Inside he saw a peculiar bench, or bed, or storage rack. Having no knowledge of Cocytan anatomy, he had no way of identifying its proper function. The interior was large enough to hold several people. Or one alien, he wondered?

  For an instant he thought he saw a flicker of orange light behind him, not unlike the one that had manifested itself during their march up the canyon. It wasn't repeated, leaving him to contemplate its source and meaning. It might, he realized, have been nothing more than a reflection induced by his movements.

  The entrance to the sphere was round and doorless. Once inside, he searched in vain for anything resembling a switch, button or lever. There was nothing. No console, no floor controls, not even a light panel. Only the peculiar flowing bench and the dark tunnel ahead.

  Leaning forward, he saw that the floor of the tunnel was deeply grooved right up to the base of the sphere. The inference was obvious, but not the mechanism. The presence of a track indicated that the sphere was intended to travel along it, though by what means of propulsion he couldn't imagine. There was no sign of an engine, exhaust, rocket ports, or wheels. It suggested that motive power was supplied not by the sphere but by the groove, or perhaps the tunnel itself.

  Of one thing he was certain. The sphere was intended for local transport only. It would not get them a thousandth of a light-year closer to Earth.