The sea was calm, but the peaks along the shore, and the Towers, were lost in murk. Carson, who seemed to wear his feelings close to the surface, looked unhappy. 'Good to see you,' he said, cheering up. 'Roll up your sleeves.'
Moments later, they submerged and headed at high speed for Seapoint
If the skies had been clear, and if they'd been six minutes slower to leave, they would have seen a fireball glide si4ently out of the northeast. They would have seen it arc out to sea, and pass below the horizon. And anyone standing on the pier, even in the thick gloom, would have noticed a sudden brightening of the southern sky.
She had slept during most of the flight down from Wink, so she was ready to work. Since she was too small to be of much assistance lugging containers around, she asked Eddie whether there wasn't something she could do. He directed her to a storeroom where she found Tommy Loughery.
'Eddie asked me to get you started,' he said. His black hair was in disarray, somewhat in the sloppy style common to graduate students in those times.
'Okay,' she said. 'What do I do?'
He pointed at a table loaded with artifacts. There were wedges, pieces of masonry, pottery. 'Most of this just came down from Maggie's operation. They're all from the Lower Temple. And priceless. They get red-tagged. There'll be more later. All of this is high-priority, and should go up on the next shuttle. We need to pack it.'
'Show me how,' she said.
He produced a stock of plastic cloth and dragged over two of the barrel-shaped containers, which he loaded onto a motorized cart. He held an artifact up to the light, turned it so she could read the four digits on the red tag. 'That's the catalog number,' he said. 'Record it on the packing list.' Then he wrapped the artifact in plastic, taped it, and placed it in the container.
It was simple enough, and she proceeded to clear the table, while Tommy found other things to do. When she'd finished filling both containers, he returned.
'What next?'
'We seal them.' He picked up a spray gun. It was fed by a short hose that connected to a pair of drums, labeled «A» and 'B.' He pulled the cart closer, and pointed the gun into one of the containers. 'Stand back,' he said. He pulled the trigger. A thick white stream slushed out and rolled over the packages.
'It's poly-6, a low volume, expanding rigid urethane,' he explained. 'Great packing material. It's biodegradable. And it sets quickly. As you can see.' He snapped off the flow.
'You didn't put much in,' said Hutch.
'Only needs about five percent of volume.' He threw the gun aside, clamped the lid down and locked it.
'The merchandise is fragile. Won't it get crunched?'
'No. The poly-6 doesn't apply pressure. When it meets resistance, it stops.' He handed her the gun. 'Just leave the containers on the cart. When you're finished, call me and we'll take them over to the sub.'
George Hackett removed the last of the petrified timbers, held his breath, and smiled with satisfaction when nothing happened. This was as deep as they'd penetrated into the Lower Temple. Beyond, a hole in the wall opened into a chamber that was three-quarters filled with silt. 'We'll need to brace the roof, Tri,' he said. 'On both sides of the opening.'
'Okay. Hang on. Braces coming.'
While he waited, George thrust his lamp forward. This could be the inner sanctum of the military chapel, the chamber in which priests prepared to conduct services, where they perhaps stored their homilies and their sacred vessels.
'Can you see anything?' Tri called.
Yes. There was something, a piece of furniture probably, to his right, half-buried, just out of reach. It had been metal once. 'Something,' George said. 'A washstand, maybe. Or a cabinet. Can't tell.'
Tri moved forward with a pair of braces. 'Let's get these up first,' he said.
'Just a second.' George inched into the space. He was acutely conscious of the weight of the Temple hanging over him. 'I think it's a machine.'
'In here? What kind of machine?'
'I don't know. But there is a housing. Wait.' The hole was too narrow for him. He pulled back, scraped out silt and loose rock, and tried again.
'That's enough, George,' said Tri. 'Let's do it right.'
He got his shoulders through the entrance, and pushed forward. 'There's a metal framework here. With, uh—Hell, Tri, I don't know what to make of this.' He carried a camera on his left forearm. 'Maggie, are you there?' he asked through the commlink. 'Can you see this?'
'Maggie's coming,' said Andi, who was watch officer.
He struggled to get closer.
'What do you have, George?' It was Maggie. He knew she'd be straining to see the object on the big screen.
'Don't know.' He was in now, and stood over the device. Metal bars and plates were connected to a system of springs and pulleys. Everything was heavily corroded.
'Shine the lamp to your left,' Maggie said. 'Look, there's a tray.' There were small objects that looked like stones in the tray. 'See if they're loose,' she said.
He took one out, dabbed at it carefully, and held it close to the camera. There was a dark smudge on it.
Maggie was silent for several moments. Then her voice went very soft. 'Goddammit, George, I think you've found us a printing press!'
'Well, good,' said George.
'Yes.' Her voice was ecstatic, and he heard her clap. 'Show me the frame.'
He did.
'Closer,' she urged. And then: 'It's got some sort of typesetting arrangement. It's filled with type.'
'What language?' said Andi. 'Can you tell?'
'Not yet. But we might be able to restore enough of it.' He listened to her breathe. 'It might be the jackpot.'
'How do you mean?'
'Place like this would need multilingual prayer-cards. Or whatever. If there's a Rosetta stone here, this could be //. George, haul it out.'
Henry was napping in the community room when his commlink chimed. He came immediately awake. Henry lived these days in constant fear of disaster. He knew he was violating safety procedures, risking his people, risking his career. Not good, but he knew that history was watching him. It was not a time for caution. 'What is it, Andi?'
'Kosmik on the line. You want to listen? Or take the call?'
'I'm busy,' he said. 'You do the talking. If necessary, tell them you'll check with me and get back. And, Andi?'
'Yes?'
'Don't give them any trouble. Okay?' He shook the last of the sleep out of his brain, got up, and walked wearily downstairs to Operations.
Henry loved Quraqua. He loved its quiet mountain ranges, and its long wandering rivers; its vast silences and its abandoned cities. The ancient walls and towers rose out of deep forests, bordered great plains, embraced harbors. Many of the more recent ruins remained in good condition: one could not stroll through them without anticipating that the dusty fountains would one day flow again, the lights come on, and the avenues fill with traffic. Quraqua was a place, in Richard Wald's memorable phrase, 'on the shore of time.'
He had been here sixteen years, had married two of his wives here, one of them atop the Golden Stair at Eskiya. He had gone back to Earth only when necessary, to fight with the Second Floor about funding, or to take on those who wanted to rearrange his priorities. He was a blue-collar archeologist, an excavator, a detail man, tough, competent, good to work for. Not brilliant, in the way that Richard was brilliant. But solid. Methodical. If one could say that Richard Wald was curious about the inscription at Oz, it was equally arguable that Henry was driven by it. And not because of some deeper mystery behind the arcane symbols, but because he understood he was locked away from fundamental truth, essential to understanding this thing he loved so much.
Andi was waiting for him. As he arrived, she pressed Transmit. 'This is the Temple. Go ahead,
