Patron of the Arts

But it was not treasure or even archaeological knowledge that brought me, in the chilly Martian morning, to stand within the great vault. I wanted

to

experience

everything I could

about

Mars.

Here—perhaps—the ancient kings had been laid to rest. But the place could easily have been the equivalent of a monastery or a Hall of Fame or a prison cemetery. Perhaps we would never know.

But ancient hands, inhuman hands, had built this vault. A groined roof, one of the few left—or discovered— arched overhead. Every footstep was echoed; even my breathing seemed loud. Instinctively I tried to make no noise, although I would have been delighted to raise the dead.

Most of the crypts that were visible were opened, their sealing slabs labeled and set aside. I peered into one of the arched vaults, my torch quickly scanning it. I don’t know what I expected. Rats. Moldering bones. Staring eyes. A shrouded figure rising. But there was nothing. Literally and actually nothing but dust. Not much of that. The next one was the same, and the five after that. Not even bones. The cold dry air must have kept them mummified for centuries upon centuries, but if only a small percentage dried up and disappeared each century there had been so many centuries that nothing was left. Were the experts right? Had Mars once been a garden? Waters flowing

from

the

polar

caps,

watering

verdant

forests

of—what?—red-leaved trees? Were there any experts on Mars?

I walked to the center of the vast vault. Arches were everywhere, branching into more and more passages, more vaults, a giant cemetery of alien dreams.

“Hello!”

My shout echoed and echoed, but did not even raise dust. I ran my light over the ceiling. Unadorned, except for its structural beauty. No Michaelangelo here. No six-fingered hand holding brushes with paint dripping into its tentacles. No royal commissions, no patron, not even a WPA assignment. A place to house the beloved dead, not a pleasure palace.

I went back out and climbed on the cat. I could be back in time for the noon meal and then—on to Bradbury!

We went straight up the Ceraunius, cut west a bit at Lacus Ascraeus then back to north, across the Tracus Albus, through Lux, detoured into Thaumasia to drop off some supplies to a lone miner there, then into the highlands of Lacus Silis and Bradbury.

That’s what it said on the log and on the latest Martian Commission Official Map, Sector 5-100. The way Wootten told it was,

“We roll up the Cerry until we hit Sandcat Tower, ding a dot westerly over the Crashstrip, through Luxy, then drop off some bits with Old Ed Amendola. We’ll break a beaker of top-pop, then tear-ass up the high country and snap it off at Bradbury.”

There is a lot that never appears on any “official” map, whether it be Mars or Michigan.

I was very excited now. Not only was I approaching Nova; I was also going through some of the prettiest country on Mars. I remembered my father telling me how desolate and phony the moon had seemed to him when man first took the giant step. He said it was much the same with the first Martian flybys, and even after the first landing at Touchdown, which is a pretty dreary spot. Not until