“Show where we came from. Show we were once an organism.”

“But we’re Martians. It was never an organism here. Things as they are have been destroyed, remember? We were always a machine. You can’t show it here.”

“Show, then, that once all the Martians revolted together, and broke spontaneously toward Utopia. And show they almost succeeded, show they had a real, workable plan. Show how they were crushed, with the idea of indicating what they did wrong, so that implicit everywhere in the exposure is the idea of doing it right — of doing it again, with maps of things to be avoided. We are twenty million millennials on this planet, Shrike, condemned to live out every day of our lives. What mere form can hold us?”

“Pretty abstract.”

“Okay — I’ll be more concrete — why should we spend our lives making profits for Terrans? Why shouldn’t we — why can’t we — throw off Earth’s colonial rule?”

“Perhaps we c—”

“And so archaeology, you see Shrike? It’s the best way I can figure out to do it! I mean for me to do something to start it, or work in that direction, at least—”

“All right, Hjalmar. All right. Calm down. Ha! I knew you wouldn’t fall into a funk. You were just on the big slide. But listen here. You’re talking to a member of the Mars Development Committee, the newest and brightest. That means something. Things are changing. There’s more ways to work at this than your own, and more people than you working at it. Keep that in mind! You’re so wrought up these days, and I think it comes from this feeling that you’re doing it all yourself — that no one else on Mars thinks!” He threw cabbage in the heated oiled wok, and it sizzled madly.

“…That’s because it’s not working,” I admitted, and felt myself drain again. “I brought the past back, and it doesn’t matter. Your bosses are just slotting it into the machine. It isn’t going to make any difference.”

“You don’t know that yet. Listen to this, wild man — you’re going to be appointed head of the Planetary Survey.”

I thought I had heard him wrong in the crackle of vegetables. “What’s this?”

“Satarwal’s out. You’ll be given the authority to open up any site you want for a dig. And to convene an inquiry into the Aimes Report.”

I must have looked like a cretin, I was so shocked; Shrike looked up from stirring and laughed like a maniac. “Go get some clothes on for dinner. And dry off first.”

“But why?”

“So you won’t get your food wet!”

“No, damn it, why? Why the appointment?”

“Haven’t you been paying any attention to the effect your work has had?”

“Of course! It hasn’t had any effect at all! I’ve barely found anything.”

“Well. People say you are very conservative in interpreting your data. Which is all to the good as far as the rest of the Committee is concerned. You’ve got a reputation for responsible science. And though there hasn’t been a big public reaction to your findings, you can hardly expect it, since none of them have appeared in the news. But the scientific community has been impressed, I’m told. It stands to reason — after all, what other explanation of Icehenge even makes sense? I ask you!”

“Don’t ask me! I’ve often wondered that myself.”

“Well there you have it. We’ve been contacted by Nakayama and Anya Lebedyan and other advisors to the Survey, who have pointed out the implications of your work for — for Mars. Here, eat. And the Committee has decided to make the appointment, so you can do the job properly.”

“Ah,” I said. Now I began to understand. “You’re going to make me into a good party man, eh?”

Shrike grinned. “You were always a good party man, Hjalmar. You just didn’t know it.”

I dropped my fork in my plate, went to the bathroom, dried off and dressed. A great fear was filling me; I saw their plan, I saw what they were hoping to do with me. I returned to the living room.

“I’ll show there was a revolution! A civil war!”

Shrike nodded. “I believe you. And you will show that Icehenge was constructed by Martians.”

“By Martian rebels! Fighting the Committee!”

He nodded, smiling one of his private smiles, one that said, It won’t matter. All those years the Committee had lied, they had crushed not only the revolution but the memory of it, and now so much time had passed that they could smile and say yes, that’s what happened — it’s true — we killed a fifth of the population, almost a million people — and then we buried it all. Now they’ve dug it up in New Houston, but so what? We’re still here; everybody’s happy; no one remembers it; nobody cares.

They were counting on our amnesia. They could co-opt any act, no matter how brutal, into their history; as long as it was old enough, it wouldn’t affect them at all. It was as easy as co-opting a malcontent professor: give him an important-sounding job in the system, where he became part of the machine; let him taste a little power, let him censor himself to taste a little more-

“I’ll be different!” I shouted at Shrike. “I won’t fold up and do what you say to crawl higher! I’ll use what you’ve given me against you, I swear. You’ll regret giving me this chance.”

Shrike nodded, eyes downcast, the little smirk still in place. It said, That’s what they all say, at first.

“I have to get out of here,” I said, suddenly terrified.

“This city is bad for you.” He looked annoyed. “Why don’t you eat?”

I crossed the room in search of my coat. “Didn’t I bring a coat?”

“No! Damn it, Hjalmar, will you be reasonable? Sit down and eat this meal I’ve cooked for you!”

I was shivering. “I’m going to borrow one of your coats.” I took one from the closet. “I’ve got to get out of here.” I put on the coat and went to the door.

“Jesus Christ. Hjalmar! Wait a second — you’ll take the appointment?”

“Yes,” I said. “Yes, damn you.”

I hurried down the wide boulevards in a frenzy. The big public buildings loomed over me like colorful Committee flags. Of course they gave me the codes to find what they wanted me to find. Of course their censors let me publish the results. All this happened with their permission, supervision, planning. Their power over me was as tangible and massive as the great stone libraries that I scuttled between. Furiously I packed a single travel bag and left my apartment. Down the boulevards to the giant olivine train station. I had to escape before they destroyed me. Faces I passed were slack and incurious, almost dead. Bathhouse doors gaped like wet mouths, the colored stone towers pulsed and wavered in the glow of the streetlights, bending until they almost met in the sky over me. In the train station I found that a sleeper to Burroughs was about to depart; it would make a stop at Coprates, where I could rent a car and return to New Houston. I had to get to New Houston, I would be safe there. I got on the train and huddled in a corner window seat, hugging my bag, shivering violently until with a gentle bump the train slid out of the station and into the night. After a time my body calmed; but my mind spun, I could not sleep.

Nothing I could do would bring them down. Kolpos Crater — this small crater (Btt 8 km. diameter) in the western section of Hellas Planitia is the lowest point on the Martian surface, four kilometers below the datum. Back in New Houston I found no changes. A reconstruction: “Twenty-sixth century archaeological dig, Mars.” When they were done the place would be studded with plaques and roped off: the war trophy as historical landmark. McNeil showed me around the city. He was still going at it with a toothbrush, so it looked no different than it had a year before.

Petnni hurried up with a realistic smile of welcome. “Congratulations on your new appointment,” he said. “We just heard about it today. It’s quite an honor! I hope you’ll remember your old friends when you’re up there in Burroughs.”