There were at least a dozen languages, all in alphabets I had never seen before, strings of meaningless ciphers among which I could pick odd cross-hatched symbols that seemed to be numerals, and peculiar serpentine forms that might have represented human figures in stylized poses.
Suddenly my eye caught:
CYR*RK VII A*PHA LEP**IS *D 1317
Below was another, damaged but legible.
AMEN*TEK LG*V *LPHA LE*ORIS AD 13**
There were blanks among the letters, where time had flaked away minute grains of the stone.
My eyes raced down the column. There were a score more entries:
PONT*AR*H*CV ALPH* L*PORIS A* *318 MYR*K LV* A**HA LEPORI* AD 13*6 KYR** XII ALPH* LEP*RIS AD 1*19
The list of names, all from Alpha Leporis, continued down the column. I followed it to the base, where the names ended three inches from the bottom, then moved along the surface, across rows of hieroglyphs, and picked up the list three or four columns later.
M*MARYK XX*V A*PHA LEPORI* AD 1389
CYRARK IX ALPHA *EPORIS AD 1390
I went over to the megalith on my left and began to examine the inscriptions carefully.
Here the entries read:
MINYS-259 DELT* ARGUS AD 1874 TYLNYS-413 DELTA ARGUS *D 1874
There were fewer blanks; to the right of the face the entries were more recent, the lettering sharper. In all there were five distinct languages, four of them, including Earth’s, translations of the first entry running down the left-hand margin of each column.
The third and fourth megaliths recorded entries from Gamma Grus and Beta Trianguli. They followed the same pattern, their surfaces divided into eighteen-inch-wide columns, each of which contained five rows of entries, the four hieroglyphic languages followed by Earth’s, recording the same minimal data in the same terse formula: Name Place — Date.
I had looked at four of the megaliths. The fifth stood with its back to the sun, its inner face hidden.
I walked over to it, crossing the oblique panels of shadow withdrawing to their sources, curious as to what fabulous catalogue of names I should find.
The fifth megalith was blank.
My eyes raced across its huge unbroken surface, marked only by the quarter-inch-deep grooves of the dividing rules some thoughtful master mason from the stars had chiselled to tabulate the entries from Earth that had never come.
I returned to the other megaliths and for half an hour read at random, arms outstretched involuntarily across the great inscription panels, fingertips tracing the convolutions of the hieroglyphs, seeking among the thousands of signatures some clue to the identity and purpose of the four stellar races.
COPT*C LEAGUE MILV BETA TRIANGULI *D 1723
ISARI* LEAGUE *VII BETA *RIANGULI AD 1724
MAR-5-GO GAMMA GRUS AD 1959 VEN-7GO
GAMMA GRUS AD 1960
TETRARK XII ALPHA LEPORIS AD 2095
Dynasties recurred again and again, Cyrark’s, Minys’s, — Go ‘s, separated by twenty- or thirty-year intervals that appeared to be generations. Before AD 1200 all entries were illegible. This represented something over half the total. The surfaces of the megaliths were almost completely covered, and initially I assumed that the first entries had been made roughly 2200 years earlier, shortly after the birth of Christ. However, the frequency of the entries increased algebraically: in the 15th century there were one or two a year, by the 20th century there were five or six, and by the present year the number varied from twenty entries from Delta Argus to over thirty-five from Alpha Leporis.
The last of these, at the extreme right corner of the megalith, was:
CYRARK CCCXXIV ALPHA LEPORIS AD 2218
The letters were freshly incised, perhaps no more than a day old, even a few hours. Below, a free space of two feet reached to the floor.
Breaking off my scrutiny, I jumped down from the base stone and carefully searched the surrounding basin, sweeping the light dust carpet for vehicle or foot marks, the remains of implements or scaffolding.
But the basin was empty, the dust untouched except for the single file of prints leading down from the half- track.
I was sweating uncomfortably, and the thermo-alarm strapped to my wrist rang, warning me that the air temperature was 85°, ninety minutes to noon. I re-set it to 100°, took a last look round the five megaliths, and then made my way back to the half-track.
Heat waves raced and glimmered round the rim of the basin, and the sky was a dark inflamed red, mottled by the thermal pressure fields massing overhead like storm clouds. I jogged along at a half run, in a hurry to contact Mayer. Without his confirmation the authorities on Ceres would treat my report as the fantasy of a sand-happy lunatic. In addition, I wanted him to bring his camera; we could develop the reels within half an hour and radio a dozen stills as indisputable proof.
More important, I wanted someone to share the discovery, provide me with at least some cover in numbers. The frequency of entries on the megaliths, and the virtual absence of any further space — unless the reverse sides were used, which seemed unlikely — suggested a climax was soon to be reached, probably the climax for which Tallis had been waiting. Hundreds of entries had been made during his fifteen years on Murak; watching all day from the observatory he must have seen every landing.
As I swung into the half-track the emergency light on the transceiver above the windscreen was pulsing insistently. I switched to audio and Mayer’s voice snapped into my ear.
‘Quaine? Is that you Where the hell are you, man? I nearly put out a mayday for you!’
He was at the camp site. Calling in from the observatory when I failed to arrive, he assumed I had broken down and abandoned the half-track, and had come out searching for me.
I picked him up at the camp site half an hour later, retroversed the tracks in a squealing circle of dust and kicked off again at full throttle. Mayer pressed me all the way back but I told him nothing, driving the Chrysler hard across the lake, paralleling the two previous sets of tracks and throwing up a huge cloud of dust 150 feet into the air. It was now over 95°, and the ash hills in the valley at the end of the lake were beginning to look angry and boiled.
Eager to get Mayer down into the basin, and with my mind spinning like a disintegrating flywheel, it was only as the half-track roared up the table slope that I felt a first chilling pang of fear. Through the windscreen I hesitantly scanned the tilting sky. Soon after reaching the basin we would have to shut down for an hour, two of us crammed together in the fume-filled cabin, deafened by the engine, sitting targets with the periscope blinded by the glare.
