many times the artifacts crumbled to nothing, despite the most careful handling, once they were moved.
She sighed; holos and castings meant she couldn't even come near the site, lest the vibrations she made walking interfere. 'All right,' she agreed. 'Can I go outside, though? As long as I stay close to the airlock?'
'Stay close to the lock and keep the emergency cart nearby, and I don't see any reason why you can't play outside,' Pota said after a moment. Then she smiled. 'And how is your dig coming?'
'You mean really, or for pretend?' she asked.
'Pretend, of course,' said Braddon. 'Pretend is always more fun than really. That's why we became archeologists in the first place, because we get to play pretend for months at a time until we have to be serious and write papers!'
He gave her a conspiratorial grin, and she giggled.
'We-ell,' she said, and drew her face down into a frown just like Doctor Heinz Marius-Llewellyn, when he was about to put everyone to sleep. 'I've found the village site of a race of flint-using primitives who were used as slave labor by the EsKays at your site.'
'Have you!' Pota fell right in with the pretense, as Braddon nodded seriously. 'Well that certainly explains why we haven't found any servos. They must have used slaves to do all their manual labor!'
'Yes. And the Flint People worshipped them as gods from the sky,' Tia continued. 'That was why they didn't revolt; all the slave labor was a form of worship. They'd go back to their village and then they'd try to make flint tools just like the things that the sky-gods used. They probably made pottery things, too, but I haven't found anything but shards.'
'Well, pottery doesn't hold up well in conditions like this,' Pota agreed. 'It goes brittle very quickly under the extremes of surface temperature. What have you got so far?'
'A flint disrupter-pistol, a flint wrist-com, a flint flashlight, and some more things,' she said solemnly. 'I haven't found any arrowheads or spear-points or things like that, but that's because there's nothing to hunt here. They were vegetarians, and they ate nothing but lichen.'
Braddon made a face. 'Awful. Worse than the food at the Institute cafeteria! No wonder they didn't survive. The food probably bored them to death!'
Pota rose and gathered up their plates and cups, stowing them neatly in the dishwasher. 'Well, enjoy your lessons, pumpkin. We'll see you at lunch.'
She smiled, hugged them both goodbye before they suited up, then went off to the schoolroom.
That afternoon, once lessons were done, she took down her own pressure-suit from the rack beside the airlock inner door. Her suit was designed a little differently from her parents', with accordion folds at wrists and elbows, ankles and knees, and at the waist, to allow for the growth spurts of a child. This was a brand new suit, for she had been about to outgrow the last one just before they went out on this dig. She liked it a lot better than the old one; the manufacturer of the last one had some kind of stupid idea that a child's suit should have cavorting flowers with smiling faces all over it. She had been ashamed to have anyone but her parents see her in the awful thing. She thought it made her look like a little clown.
It had come second-hand from a child on a Class Three dig, like most of the things that the Cades got. Evaluation digs simply didn't have that high a priority when it came to getting anything other than the bare essentials. But Tia'd had the bright idea when her birthday came around to ask her parents' superiors at the Institute for a new pressure-suit And when it came out that she was imitating her parents, by creating her own little dig-site, she had so tickled them that they actually sent her one. Brand new, good for three or four years at least, and the only difference between it and a grown-up suit was that hers had extra helmet lights and a com that couldn't be turned off, a locator beacon that was always on, and bright fluorescent stripes on the helmet and down the arms and legs. A small price to pay for dignity.
The flowered suit had gone back to the Institute, to be endured by some other unfortunate child.
And the price to be paid for her relative freedom to roam was waiting in the airlock. A wagon, child-sized and modified from the pull-wagon many children had as toys, but this one had powered crawler-tracks and was loaded with an auxiliary power unit and air-pack and full face-mask. If her suit failed, she had been drilled in what to do so many times she could easily have saved herself when asleep. One, take a deep breath and pop the helmet. Two, pull the mask on, making sure the seals around her face were secure. Three, turn on the air and Four, plug into the APU, which would keep the suit heat up with the helmet off. Then walk, slowly, carefully, to the airlock, towing the wagon behind. There was no reason why she should suffer anything worse than a bit of frostbite.
It had never happened. That didn't mean it wouldn't. Tia had no intention of becoming a tragic tale in the newsbytes. Tragic tales were all very well in drama and history, but they were not what one wanted in real life.
So the wagon went with her, inconvenient as it was.
The filters in this suit were good ones; the last suit had always smelled a little musty, but the air in this one was fresh and clean. She trotted over the uneven surface, towing the cart behind, kicking up little puffs of dust and sand. Everything out here was very sharp edged and dear; red and yellow desert, reddish-purple mountains, dark
