He let his head drop back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. "You know, Emma," he said, "sometimes I really hate this job."

IX

Archeology is a career for the terminally weak-minded. An archeologst is a trash collector with a degree.

— Gregory MacAllister, "Career Night," Ports of Call

Wendy proceeded in a leisurely manner along the entire length of the assembly. They took pictures, although every section looked like every other section, counted the bands (thirty-nine altogether) that secured the shafts to each other, and arrived at last at the asteroid.

A rock rather than a chunk of iron, it was almost a perfect sphere. A metallic net was wrapped around it securing it to the assembly by means of a rectangular plate. The plate, several meters thick, had rounded edges and corners.

The extreme length of the assembly tended to diminish the apparent size of the asteroid, until one drew near. It was in fact more than a kilometer in diameter.

Marcel and Beekman watched from project control as they approached. Beekman looked disappointed, and Marcel, wondering how he could possibly be out of sorts at such a supreme moment, asked what was wrong.

"I'd hoped," he replied, "to find something that would give us an idea who put it here. What its purpose was. I thought maybe there'd be a control station at one end or the other. Something."

Marcel put a hand on his shoulder. "People leaving stuff like this around the neighborhood should include a manual."

"I'm serious."

"I know." Stupid remark.

They went outside again, just the two of them, and inspected the asteroid. They floated above the rockscape, using Marcel's go-pack to get around.

Much of the net was concealed by a layer of dust. The metal links appeared to be made of the same material as the shafts. They were only a couple of centimeters thick and were linked with crosspieces at lengths of about three-quarters of a meter.

They stopped to examine the connecting plate and were pleasantly surprised to discover a series of engraved symbols. All the characters were joined, in the manner of cursive writing. "Eventually," Beekman said, "I'd like to take this inside. Take it home with us."

It was big. Marcel measured it with his eye and concluded it wouldn't fit through the cargo airlock. "We might have to cut it in half," he said.

"Whatever's necessary-" They drifted above it and looked back the way they'd come, down the long straight line of the assembly toward the heart of Deepsix.

They took samples of everything, of the rock and the dust, of the net, of the plate. When they were finished they went back inside and had some coffee. It was after 2:00 A.M. ship time, November 27.

Beekman suggested the unknown architects had developed quantum technology, and the skyhook had simply become obsolete. Marcel was too tired to care. But just as he was getting ready to head for his quarters, Bill broke in: "Captain, we now have the satellite scans you requested of the coastal mountain range."

"Okay, Bill." Ordinarily he'd have asked to look. But not at this hour. "Anything interesting?"

"There is a structure of substantial dimensions on one of the peaks."

The door opened almost at the first touch of the laser. Beyond lay shelved walls and a vaulted ceiling. Hutch played her light over a bare wooden table. Shadowy figures looked back out of alcoves.

"Bingo,"said Toni.

Statues. There were six alcoves, and at one time there had been six figures. Five lay broken and scattered in the dust that covered the floor. One remained.

The survivor resembled a falcon. But it stood upright, in a vest and trousers that suggested pantaloons. A medallion of illegible design hung about its neck. It reminded Hutch of Horus. "You think that's what they looked like?" she asked.

"Maybe," said Nightingale. "It would fit. Little creatures, descended from birds."

Whatever might once have filled the shelves was gone.

She flashed pictures to Wendy. Hutch half expected to hear from Marcel, but it was early morning on the ship. In the interests of diplomacy, she also sent a picture to MacAllister, who was having brunch in the Star lander.

He took it rather calmly, she thought, but made it a point to thank her and ask that he be kept informed. The manner of it implied that he thought it trivial.

The room, she suspected, had been a study. Or perhaps a library.

Nightingale agreed. "I wish we could read their scrolls."

Indeed. What would a history not be worth?

The other figures had apparently all been representations of the falcon, in various poses. They gathered up the pieces, packed each of the six separately to the extent they were able, took them out to the lander, and stowed them in the cargo hold.

The snow had stopped and by late morning the last clouds cleared away. The environment was now suitable, MacAllister judged, for the interview.

Wetheral had loaded several pieces of the doll-like furniture, a couple of cabinets, a chair, and a table into the cargo section. Everything was badly decomposed, but that didn't really matter. TransGalactic could process the stuff easily enough and make them look as if they were antiques in exquisitely restored condition. The details wouldn't matter as long as some part of the original remained.

Wetheral had even made off with a javelin. It had an iron tip, and MacAllister wondered whether it had ever actually been used in combat. He tried to visualize hawks in trousers flying about trying to stab each other with these pea-stickers. The only thing more absurd than someone else's civilization, he thought, is someone else's religious views.

Casey had brought a couple of folding chairs along and had planned to sit out in the open with him while they talked, with the tower as a backdrop. Or possibly even sit inside the tower.

"The atmosphere's all wrong for any of that," he told her. "We don't want to be outside. Either in the building or in the snow."

"Why not?"

"It looks cold, Casey."

"What does the audience care?"

"If we look cold, your audience will not get caught up in the conversation."

"You're kidding."

"I'm quite serious."

"But they'll know we're inside e-suits."

"What do they know about e-suits? Only what they see in the sims. They'll see the snow; they'll see you and me sitting there in shirtsleeves. They won't see the e-suit. It doesn't look cozy."

"I want cozy?"

"Absolutely."

She sighed. "All right. So what do we do? Sit in the lander?"

"Correct. Roughing it, but not too rough."

She gave him a tolerant smile, and he knew what she was thinking. They were too far from the tower. In fact, the tower was partially hidden behind the other spacecraft. "I'll get Wetheral to move us closer."

"I've a better idea," said MacAllister. Two of the women, Hutchins and Toni What's-Her-Name, were carrying a table out to their spacecraft. He studied Hutchins and realized that her problem was that she had no sense of humor. She was certainly not the sort of woman one would want to have around on a long-term basis. Took herself far too seriously, and seemed utterly unaware that she was a lightweight.

The table was big, and they were struggling. He excused himself, got down out of the vehicle, walked over and magnanimously asked if he could help. Hutchins glanced suspiciously at him. "Yes," she said finally. "If you'd like."

It was a rectangular table, so old it was impossible to be sure what the original composition material might have been. It was large, considering the scale of the other furniture, and probably would have seated twelve of the natives. A decorative geometry that might have represented leaves and flowers was carved into its sides.

Casey joined the party and lent a hand.