“She could probably explain these sounds,” Marjorie remarked, fighting down an overwhelming terror and despair, trying to convince herself she did not hear murmured conversation in wholly unhuman voices, musical voices with a burbling, liquid sound. “Have you asked her?”
“I have reported the effects,” Brother Mainoa said. “I think the authorities believe I imagine them. So far no one has come to see whether I imagine them or not.”
Father Sandoval, seeing Marjorie’s distress, decided to warn her off. “Such places as this occasion superstitious awe in the unwary. We must be alert to protect ourselves from such, Marjorie. These were merely creatures, now extinct. There must have been some central business or supply area. These houses seem almost rural. They lack an urban feeling.”
“So it is with all Arbai cities or towns,” said Brother Mainoa. “Though we diggers know they traveled through space — perhaps in ships as we do, though we have found none, or by some other means — we know also they chose not to live in great aggregations as we humans often do. We have found no town capable of holding more than a few thousand or so of them. On most worlds there are several towns of that size, but never many.”
“And here?” Marjorie asked.
“This is the only one we have found on Grass.”
Father Sandoval frowned. “It is not a subject I know much about. Is it known where their home world was?”
Brother Mainoa shook his head. “Some think Repentance because there are several such cities on Repentance. I have not heard that anyone knows for sure.”
“Somewhere there could be Arbai still living, then?” Father James mused, kicking at a bit of protruding stone.
The Brother shrugged. “Some believe these dead towns were only outposts, that their cities will yet be found elsewhere. I don’t know. You asked about a business or market section in this town. What we assume is the market section is down this street to the left. At least, the structures there do not seem to be dwellings.”
“Shops?” Father Sandoval asked. “Storerooms?”
Mainoa shrugged. “There is an open space, a plaza. With three-sided structures that could have been booths for a market. There is a building full of jars of many sizes and shapes. A building full of baskets. A central dais in the plaza, surmounted with something that could be a machine, a sculpture, a place for posting notices. Perhaps it was an altar, or a place for a herald to stand, or a place to sit while watching the stars. Or even a stage for acrobatic display. Who knows? Who can say? One building is full of their books, books which look very much as our own did, a century or so ago, before we had scanners and decks and screens.”
“Bound volumes?” Marjorie asked.
“Yes. I have a team of penitents taking images of each page. I should say I have them intermittently. When there is nothing better for them to do. Though I am here much of the time, I have a crew at work only now and again. Copying the books is dull work, and lonely, but necessary. Eventually, a full set of copies will be available at Sanctity and at some major schools, like the University at Semling Prime.”
“But no translation.” Marjorie stared through an open door at the carnage within, willing it to be otherwise.
“None. Line after line, page after page, signs made of curving lines, intertwined. If there were something we could call a church, we could look for a repeated sequence and hope it meant ‘God.’ If there were a throne, we could look for the word ‘King.’ If there were words on the door carvings, we could feed the context into our computers, which might make sense of them. If there were even pictures in the books… I will show you some of the books before you leave.”
“Artifacts?” asked Father James.
“Baskets. Plates. Bowls. We do not think they wore fabric, but there are belts, or more properly, sashes. Woven strips of grass fiber about six inches wide and a couple of yards long. Nicely colored, beautifully patterned. The result is much like linen, the experts tell me. The Arbai have few artifacts. It is as though they chose very carefully each thing they used. Chose each one for line or color, what we would call beauty, though many of them — the pots, particularly — do not seem beautiful to us. Perhaps I should say, ‘to me.’ You may find them lovely. Each thing is handmade, but without inscriptions, nothing we might translate as ‘Made by John Brown.’ We will see the artifacts later, Lady Westriding. We have found nothing made by machines and nothing we are sure is a machine. There are the things called the crematoria and the thing in the center of the town. Perhaps they are machines. Perhaps not. And yet, the Arbai traveled. They must have had machines. They must have had ships, and yet we have never found any.”
“Are the towns everywhere like this?” Tony ran his hands along the carving, cupping the time-worn line of an alien face.
“Where there is earth, they built of earth, polymerizing the walls, making vaults or thatching the roofs. Where there are forests, they built of wood. Where there is sufficient stone, they built of stone. Here on Grass the stone comes from a quarry not far distant. The grasses have covered it, but the signs of Arbai work are there, nonetheless. Each city is different, depending upon the materials. On one planet they built high among the trees.”
“Where is that?”
He looked at her as though he had forgotten who she was, trying to remember something, his face intent upon some interior search. “I… I can’t remember. But I know they did…”
“How many of their cities have you seen?” Marjorie asked.
Brother Mainoa chuckled, himself once more. “This one, lady. Only this one. But I have seen pictures of them all. Copies of reports are shared among those of us sentenced to this duty. In case something found in one place casts light on something found elsewhere. Vain hope. And yet we go on hoping.”
“All like this. And all the inhabitants died,” Tony said.
“Perhaps. Or went elsewhere.”
They walked through what might have been a marketplace, or a meeting ground, or even a playground. At the center was the dais Brother Mainoa had described. Upon it an enigmatic strip of material curled and returned upon itself, making a twisted loop through which a tall man might walk. Tony struck it with a knuckle, hearing it ring in response. Metal. And yet it didn’t look like metal. Along the edges were scalloped and indented designs, as though the molten stuff had been imprinted by mysterious fingers. The same designs decorated the edges of the dais. In the open space small flags marked the places bodies had been found, slaughtered in the open, bodies now moved under cover for later study. One flag lay within the looped structure, several others lay beside the dais, as though a gathering had been interrupted there.
“What killed these people?” Tony asked.
“Foxen, some say. I think not.”
“Why do you think not?” Father James was curious, brought out of his usual reticence by the strangeness of this place.
Brother Mainoa looked around him, ignoring the presence of Brother Lourai, but looking for anyone else who might be within earshot. There were no diggers on duty today, but Brothers did drop in from time to time on one errand or another, to make a delivery of foodstuff, to pick up the most recent copies of Arbai books. Some of them were undoubtedly spies for Doctrine.
When he had satisfied himself that no one was listening, Mainoa said, “We Green Brothers have been here for many years, young sir. Many years. Many Grass years. Wintered here, packed up in winter quarters like so many pickles in a jar. We’ve spent every spring and summer and fall among the grasses. In all that time, not one of us has ever been attacked by the foxen.” His tone carried more than conviction. It carried certainty.
“Ah,” said Marjorie. “So.”
The Brother nodded, looking long into her eyes. “Yes, Lady West-riding. So.”
“You mean the Hippae?” Tony asked, appalled. “Surely not!”
“Tony!” Marjorie said emphatically. “Let him say.”
“I have nothing to say.” Brother Mainoa shook his head. “Nothing at all. I would not offend unwilling ears, young sir.”
“Offend my willing ones,” cried Marjorie.
He gave Tony a look which said volumes before turning to Marjorie. The boy flushed.
“To you, madam, then I say this. Look at these poor creatures dead all these centuries. Observe their
