H.M. Hoover - Lost Star (13 page)

"Gray people's solar cell," a tolat had said in answer to her question. "Computer may work everything if we give it light again. Perhaps ship's whole skin absorbs energy." From the amount of equipment they were using, Lian suspected the tolats were going to try to unearth most of the ship.

The rest of the time she had spent with Scotty, listening to the recording of the lumpie computer sound track. She had understood none of it and finally gave up to go outside and sit beneath a big tree on the bluff that overlooked the river. The water below was very

blue in this light. Hills stretched to the horizon and beyond. Somewhere in the trees a bird was singing. The sound seemed to accent the peacefulness.

"Tsri Lian?" Startled, she glanced up to find herself face to face with a tolat, close enough to see its mouth filaments. As she stared into the cavity, the tolat stared back, eyes up. "Too close," it decided, toe-danced sideways, and lowered its eyes into their slots with a neat little click.

"Three gray people," said the tolat, getting right to the point, "came to us this afternoon. They verbalized for one hundred sixty-three minutes, thirty-one seconds. At our feeding time we stopped to collect equipment. We put recorders down. They took one recorder and ran away with it."

"That's wonderful!"

"No. Our computer cannot analyze language if language is in recorder and recorder is with—"

"I understand that," said Lian, "but they will bring it back, I'm sure."

"Why?"

"Because they understand we need to translate."

"Yes?"

"Yes."

The tolat did not reply, but neither did it go away. She studied the pattern of pink and blue freckles around its eyes and bottom shell so she could recognize it again. She had to assume it was thinking; there was no facial expression to be read. It was. "You believe gray people are still intelligent?"

"Yes."

"They can understand their computer?"

"Yes."

"They will give us adequate samples?"

"I think they will try to."

"Good."

The tolat, having said all it had come to say, walked off. If it had been a human, she would have found its action very rude. As it was, she merely smiled. At least

the tolats were Interested in the lumpies* intelligence, whatever the motive.

She leaned back against the tree trunk, head cushioned on her hands, and looked up through the leaves to where the nova was the evening star, its blue-and-white dazzle highly visible before the sunset. Her only thought at seeing it was that it was quite beautiful. For the first time since leaving Earth, she was aware of being happy.

Later, when she was dressing after her shower, she heard people talking outside. The guest dome was at the end of the street near the bluff. People often stood there looking at the view. She ignored the voices until a particular remark caught her attention and she became fully alert.

"It's simple," a man was saying. "It's not a cultural antiquity. It's a wreck. Therefore we're not restricted by I.P.L.'s legal codes. There is no law against salvaging a wreck on Balthor. We don't even need permits."

"There are exquisite artifacts buried in the mud in some of those rooms," said a woman. "Museums or private collectors would pay a fortune for them."

"When that computer charges and we can open the sealed hatches, who knows what we'll find inside?" a second man said.

"We'd have to get the lumpies to open the doors. I don't want to be fried like those tolats."

"What if the lumpies won't cooperate?" said the woman.

"They will," said the first man. "They scare easy if you get 'em alone."

"There might be more money in intangibles, like data in the storage banks of the computer."

"It's yours. I'm not greedy. I'll stick to what I can carry. They were fleeing a dying world, and they had a long time to pack. You can bet they brought along the best stuff they owned."

Lian moved to where she could see out the window without being seen. There were four people outside, all

pretending great interest in the view of the sunset. The one who had said he wasn't greedy was the photographer, Vincent. She knew the others only by sight.

"Farr won't like it," said the woman. "Neither will the octopus."

"Old Klat? Who knows what bullheads thinks? Who cares?"

"I do if he has me arrested."

"People have stolen things from every archaeological find since time began."

"Yes," agreed the other man, "but they didn't have to smuggle it light years home. They were already on Earth."

"Is it worth our reputations?" said the woman. "If we're caught—"

"It's not theft if it's a salvage job," Vincent insisted. "Besides, we won't be caught if we're smart. Nobody knows what's there, so how can they tell if anything's missing? All we have to do is high-grade the artifacts before I photo-record. What do you say?"

"Sounds good."

"But suppose the lumpies object? Try to stop us?"

"Those dummies? Forget it."

"But suppose they do? They may want what's in there."

"What could they do—cry? Besides, they haven't found any use for the stuff. It's just wasted on them."

The smallest man laughed. "That's funny," he said. "That's what the invading Europeans said about the American Indians, what Pizarro said about the Incas— why waste all that good stuff on savages?"

Vincent didn't laugh. "You're overeducated, Professor. I don't know who you're talking about, but whoever they were, they were right. Why should we let good stuff go to waste if we can get rich from it? You're older than Farr, you have more degrees than Klat, yet you're taking orders from both of them."

"I came for the experience. The honor—"

"You're a loser."

The woman Intervened. "Come on, don't name-call," she pleaded. "We're all hungry, and our nerves are on edge. Let's go eat. Let's be civilized."

"Oh, we are," said the little professor with a bitter laugh. "We are."

"Suppose the lumpies tell that girl?"

"Tell her how? They can't talk." That was the last thing Lian heard as they moved off down the path.

Her first reaction was indignation and anger. How 'dare they! And what had that photographer done to her lumpies to make them cry? He must have done something; otherwise he wouldn't know they cried. She would tell Dr. Farr as soon as she got dressed and . ..

"Be realistic, Lian," her common sense told her. "If anyone wants to steal, they're going to. Dr. Farr can't watch them all. And this will just make him suspect everyone. There has to be a better way. The lumpies must learn to take care of themselves, like it or not."

She was late for dinner, and the dining room was crowded. As she stood in line at the autoserver, she could hear a dozen conversations, all discussing the starship. "Every dig I've been on," a man said, "the people who created the culture were dead. It's too bad this place isn't like that—it would make things a lot simpler."

"Maybe it could still be arranged?" quipped another, and there was easy laughter that gave Lian a sick feeling as she glanced at the faces around her. Someone rapped for attention, and Dr. Farr rose to speak. Lian took her food tray and sat down at the nearest table.

"I have several announcements to make," Dr. Farr began. "First, you will be happy to hear our two injured colleagues are now recovering. Tsri Zahr will return to camp in the morning.

"Now, I know you're all concerned about the current status of the expedition. Instead of a typical rain, we have a starship that may be a colonial habitation still in use by descendants of the colonists. The ethical question arises—what right have we to trespass?

"Klat, Tsri Zahr, and I discussed the situation with the Governor General of Balthor this afternoon. We requested that this area be designated a colonial protectorate and the inhabitants be designated colonials. Our request was granted. Until we know more about the true nature of the lumpies, there will be no official announcement. We don't want visitors. Our status remains unchanged. We will proceed as normal. Except, of course, that until it is determined otherwise, all artifacts are the property of the colonials. Objects will be removed from the site only for the purpose of cleaning and identifying." He paused and scanned the room.
^st
Are there any questions?"

"Yes." The little professor stood up, red-faced to the top of his bald head. "How dare you make such a decision without consulting the rest of us? Don't our reputations and opinions count?" Several people applauded. The man was shaking; Lian couldn't tell if it was from true anger or the need to show Vincent that he wasn't a loser.

"No," Dr. Farr said bluntly. "This is an expedition, not a democracy. Our triumvirate is responsible for the expedition's actions as a unit. Should you as individuals disagree, I refer you to the contract you signed on joining the project."

The photographer called out, "I'm here to photo-record what the rest of you dig up. But what does this ruling make you and your staff—a bunch of glorified cleaning people?"

There was an angry murmur. The man had either touched a sore point or insulted many of those present.

Farr used his cup as a gavel. "In a sense archaeologists have always been that. We can give a fair picture of a civilization by analyzing its garbage dumps. We can reconstruct a man if we find a few of his bones. Potsherds reveal magnetic polarity as well as art form. Jewelry tells us of metalworking ability, of trade and wealth and travel.

"Admittedly, this dig is different—and far more ex

citing. Instead of total ruin we have found, in nucleus,
a
new life form, a working computer to tell us the history of this species, a civilization, a world, and a star system we never knew existed. Cleaning, as you put it, is a small price to pay for such a wealth of knowledge."

"And that's all we'll take back—knowledge?"

"I hope not, but if that is all we have the right to take, it should be more than enough."

Vincent smiled a too sincere smile. "Your altruism is hard to believe," he said.

"Perhaps our ideas of what constitutes wealth differ," said Dr. Farr.

"Your documentary should sell," the little professor said quickly, as if to cover the sarcasm in the photographer's remarks and mollify Dr. Farr. "There's enough material here for volumes."

At that, conversation broke out on planned books and papers. Egos and ambitions began to surface. No real mention was made of the lumpies other than as an. Inconvenience or perhaps a means to an end. As she listened, Lian realized these people were, in their own way, as self-centered as her parents. They differed only in that they lacked her parents' authority, ability, and character. The exceptions were Klat and Dr. Farr and Scotty, who seemed to be genuine scholars—and the tolats.

"Details, details. Who cares?" Lian's translator picked up the voice of a tolat hissing to a companion. She grinned to herself, half agreeing. The tolats were a pragmatic crew with no thought of self-aggrandizement. She imagined their minds as neat files of schematics, thought disciplined to linear simplicity, minds that did not dance but enjoyed a game called "Jump!" Why was it that she was beginning to like them?

As soon as she was through eating, she slipped her tray and utensils into the autocleaner and went out. The streetlights turned the camp into an island of light In endless miles of wilderness. Wherever she looked around the camp's perimeter, she could see eyes gleam-

ing back at her. They belonged to forest creatures, attracted to this artificial glow, curious and half afraid.

"Be careful," she called out to them. "Here's where the wild things are."

In the stillness of the dome, four side panels
opened, their runners gritting over dusty tracks. From two of these spaces emerged blue egg-shaped auto-cleaners. Around and around the dome they circled, leaving in their wake a width of polished floor. Vent fans kicked on, then off, while other automatic units cleaned the filters, then on again. By nightfall the dome had been made spotless, the air cool and dry.

When the Counter ceased cleaning operations in order to conserve energy, it had sanitized the dome and teaching theater. It then took visual inventory of all compartments where equipment still functioned. It saw that damage and deterioration were as bad as it had projected. Worse, the Counter was not equipped to dispose of the tons of foreign debris encrusting the main halls and hatchways.

The Counter viewed the section where the people had once lived. It had not looked in there for two generations past when the hatches sealed. The walls still glowed, but no light danced. The rooms were

empty, the fountains dry, the gardens dead. The people now slept, not in their homes, but in a meditation room on the floor. Not each free and alone, but all together, these few, clustered for warmth on the cushioned pad. For lack of energy, most of what had been beautiful was gone or ruined.

The Guardian must see this. The Guardian's mind fought back; it did not sigh and resign itself to destruction. It would teach the people what the Counter could not, or so the Counter hoped.