'He can't do that,' said Harvey.
'If so,' continued the recording, 'we'll have to be prepared to respond.
'This is not an easy call. If such an announcement is made, we'll handle the public relations end of it here. You will not commence operations until you are certain everyone is off Quraqua. I know that creates coordination problems for you, but I do not want anybody killed. If it happens, if Wald states his intention to stay beyond the deadline, you will inform him you have no authority to act at discretion, which is true; and tell him further that Project Hope will proceed on schedule, and that you expect him to leave in accordance with the court order and the terms negotiated with the Academy. Then you will notify me. Please acknowledge receipt of these instructions. And by the way, Melanie, I'm glad it's you who's out there.'
'Could be worse,' said Harvey, sliding into a chair. 'He might have told you to pull the switch no matter what.'
'I'm not sure I wouldn't have preferred that.' She had been here three years, and the archeologists had used one delaying tactic after another. 'It's the right decision,' she admitted. 'But the sons of bitches are going to put it to us again.' She got up, walked toward the viewport. 'I just can't believe this keeps happening to us.'
Melanie Truscott, Diary
The whole history of «negotiations» between the Academy and Kosmik has been a chain of demands, lies, threats, and finally the lawsuit that forced the Academy off Quraqua before they were ready to go.
Nevertheless, if I could, I would grant their request and give them another month or two—it really wouldn't create insurmountable problems for us—but the legal decisions have come in, and I would be, in effect, setting the court's decision aside and opening the door for more litigation.
So I will follow my orders to the letter.
How does it happen that the most intractable types always rise to the top? No give at all.
The young woman I spoke with today, on the Academy evacuation vessel, seemed reasonable enough. She and I could easily have worked out an agreement—I believe—avoided a lot of rancor, and saved a lot of money. And maybe even found the way to the Monument-Makers. But it won't happen.
June 7, 2202
7
On board Alpha. Monday; 2205 hours, Temple time. (Eleven minutes to midnight.)
The shuttle fell away from Winckelmann, dropping into a leisurely pursuit of the setting sun. The cloud cover was streaked with pink and purple; storms troubled a narrow belt just north of the equator. Hutch turned control over to Navigation, and tried keying into Kosmik communications. They were scrambled, another measure of the depth to which relations had deteriorated.
From the Temple site, she could pick up the common channel, listen to them calling one another, directing work, asking for assistance. Occasionally, they vented their frustration. / say we stay put and finish the job. A female voice. Hutch wondered whether remarks like that were being deliberately broadcast for the benefit of Truscott's people, who would also be listening in. No wonder the woman was getting nervous.
Atmosphere began to grab at the shuttle. Wisps of cloud streaked past. Navigation cut forward speed. She glided into twilight, passing high above blue mountains, descending into fading light. A wide river wandered into the gloom. The Oz moon, a witch's crescent, rode behind her.
She saw occasional reflections, water perhaps, or snow, sparkling in the starlight. Her scanners revealed an uneven sterile landscape, broken by occasional lakes and lava-beds.
A major ruin lay at Kabal, by a river junction. She went to manual, and took the shuttle to ground level. Her navigation lights flashed across half-buried stone walls. There was nothing else—no wharf, no boats lying inshore, no buildings. No hint of a track through the wilderness to mark the inhabitants' route to the next town. Kabal was celebrated because it was among the most recently abandoned of Quraquat cities.
They had been here when Columbus sailed, the remnants of a once-glittering, if loosely connected, global culture. She wondered what their last moments had been like, clinging to their town against the encroaching wilderness. Did they know they were on the edge of extinction?
She looked for a clear1 space, found it in the middle of the ruin, and landed. The treads pressed down on tall grass. She started the recycle process, intending to get out and look around. But something whipped through the stalks. It was out near the limit of her lights, and too quick to follow. She turned on the spots: nothing but tall dry grass gradually straightening.
Hell with that.
She aborted, and moments later was back in the air, heading southwest.
Snow fell on the plain. Woody plants began to appear. Their branches were thick and short, covered with green spines and long needles. The flat country gave way to a confusion of rolling hills, populated by grotesque growths connected by ropy, purple webs. The local variant of trees, she thought, until one of them moved.
Further south, she flew over thick-boiled gnarled hardwoods. They were enormous, bigger even than California's redwoods, and they stood well apart from each other.
The air temperature began to drop, and she cruised above a snowstorm. Mountains rose through the clouds, broad rocky summits wrapped in white. Hutch had known a few climbing enthusiasts. These would be an interesting challenge.
She went higher, across the top of the world, through yet another storm. There was open water beyond, a sea, dark and reflective, veiled in light mist, glass-smooth. The peaks curved along the coastline. She had arrived at the northern end of the Yakata. Where the gods play.
She opened a channel to the Temple. 'This is Hutchins on Alpha. Anybody there?'
'Hello, Alpha.' She recognized Allegri's voice. 'Good to see you. You are sixty kilometers east of the Temple. Just follow the coast.' Pause. 'Switching to video.' Hutch activated the screen, and looked at Allegri. It was hard not to be envious of those blue eyes and perfect features. But she appeared a little too socially oriented for this line of work.
This was not the sort of person who would stand up gladly to the rigors of modern archeology.
'You're about fifteen minutes out. You want me to bring you in?'
'Negative. Do you have a first name?'
'Janet.'
'Glad to meet you, Janet. My friends call me 'Hutch. »
Allegri nodded. 'Okay, Hutch.'
'What's the drill? Do you use an on-shore hangar? What am I looking for?'
'We have a floatpier. Watch for three stone towers in the water, about a hundred meters offshore. The floatpier's just west of them. Our shuttle will be there. Put down beside it, and we'll do the rest. It's the middle of the night here. You want breakfast ready?'
'No, thanks.'
'Suit yourself. See you when you get in.' She reached up, above the screen, and the monitor blanked.
Hutch glided over snow-covered boulder-strewn beaches, over long uncurling breakers and rocky barrier islands. She flew past Mt. Tenebro, at whose base lay a six-thousand-year-old city, most of it now under the sand or in the sea. Its minarets and crystal towers and floating gardens had been recreated in a series of paintings by Vertilian, one of which now hung prominently in the main lobby at the Academy's Visitor Center. She trained the scopes on it, but could see nothing except lines of excavation ditches.
She promised herself that when time permitted, she'd come back for a closer look.
Minutes later, the three towers came into view. They were massive, not mere pillars (as she had expected), but black stone fortresses rising about twenty meters above the waves. The tide rolled over the remnants of a fourth. They were circular, somewhat tapered, wide enough that twenty people could have sat comfortably atop each. A stiff wind blew snow off their crests.
Hutch unmasked the external mikes, and listened to the rhythmic boom of the surf and the desolate moan of
