“Is there enough oxygen for anything like that?” Sachiko was asking.
“Seems to be, close to the ground.” Fitzgerald got the headband of his loup adjusted, and pulled it down over his eyes. “He found this thing in a ravine down on the sea bottom—Ha, this page seems to be intact; now, if I can get it out all in one piece—”
He went on talking inaudibly to himself, lifting the page a little at a time and sliding one of the transparent plastic sheets under it, working with minute delicacy. Not the delicacy of the Japanese girl’s small hands, moving like the paws of a cat washing her face, but like a steam-hammer cracking a peanut. Field archaeology requires a certain delicacy of touch, too, but Martha watched the pair of them with envious admiration. Then she turned back to her own work, finishing the table of contents.
The next page was the beginning of the first article listed; many of the words were unfamiliar. She had the impression that this must be some kind of scientific or technical journal; that could be because such publications made up the bulk of her own periodical reading. She doubted if it were fiction; the paragraphs had a solid, factual look.
At length, Ivan Fitzgerald gave a short, explosive grunt.
“Ha! Got it!”
She looked up. He had detached the page and was cementing another plastic sheet onto it.
“Any pictures?” she asked.
“None on this side. Wait a moment.” He turned the sheet. “None on this side, either.” He sprayed another sheet of plastic to sandwich the page, then picked up his pipe and relighted it.
“I get fun out of this, and it’s good practice for my hands, so don’t think I’m complaining,” he said, “but, Martha, do you honestly think anybody’s ever going to get anything out of this?”
Sachiko held up a scrap of the silicone plastic the Martians had used for paper with her tweezers. It was almost an inch square.
“Look; three whole words on this piece,” she crowed. “Ivan, you took the easy book.”
Fitzgerald wasn’t being sidetracked. “This stuff’s absolutely meaningless,” he continued. “It had a meaning fifty thousand years ago, when it was written, but it has none at all now.”
She shook her head. “Meaning isn’t something that evaporates with time,” she argued. “It has just as much meaning now as it ever had. We just haven’t learned how to decipher it.”
“That seems like a pretty pointless distinction,” Selim von Ohlmhorst joined the conversation. “There no longer exists a means of deciphering it.”
“We’ll find one.” She was speaking, she realized, more in self-encouragement than in controversy.
“How? From pictures and captions? We’ve found captioned pictures, and what have they given us? A caption is intended to explain the picture, not the picture to explain the caption. Suppose some alien to our culture found a picture of a man with a white beard and mustache sawing a billet from a log. He would think the caption meant, ‘Man Sawing Wood.’ How would he know that it was really ‘Wilhelm II in Exile at Doorn?’ ”
Sachiko had taken off her loup and was lighting a cigarette.
“I can think of pictures intended to explain their captions,” she said. “These picture language-books, the sort we use in the Service—little line drawings, with a word or phrase under them.”
“Well, of course, if we found something like that,” von Ohlmhorst began.
“Michael Ventris found something like that, back in the Fifties,” Hubert Penrose’s voice broke in from directly behind her.
She turned her head. The colonel was standing by the archaeologists’ table; Captain Field and the airdyne pilot had gone out.
“He found a lot of Greek inventories of military stores,” Penrose continued. “They were in Cretan Linear B script, and at the head of each list was a little picture, a sword or a helmet or a cooking tripod or a chariot wheel. That’s what gave him the key to the script.”
“Colonel’s getting to be quite an archaeologist,” Fitzgerald commented. “We’re all learning each others’ specialties, on this expedition.”
“I heard about that long before this expedition was even contemplated.” Penrose was tapping a cigarette on his gold case. “I heard about that back before the Thirty Days’ War, at Intelligence School, when I was a lieutenant. As a feat of cryptanalysis, not an archaeological discovery.”
“Yes, cryptanalysis,” von Ohlmhorst pounced. “The reading of a known language in an unknown form of writing. Ventris’ lists were in the known language, Greek. Neither he nor anybody else ever read a word of the Cretan language until the finding of the Greek-Cretan bilingual in 1963, because only with a bilingual text, one language already known, can an unknown ancient language be learned. And what hope, I ask you, have we of finding anything like that here? Martha, you’ve been working on these Martian texts ever since we landed here—for the last six months. Tell me, have you found a single word to which you can positively assign a meaning?”
“Yes, I think I have one.” She was trying hard not to sound too exultant. “Doma. It’s the name of one of the months of the Martian calendar.”
“Where did you find that?” von Ohlmhorst asked. “And how did you establish—?”
“Here.” She picked up the photostat and handed it along the table to him. “I’d call this the title page of a magazine.”
He was silent for a moment, looking at it. “Yes. I would say so, too. Have you any of the rest of it?”
“I’m working on the first page of the first article, listed there. Wait till I see; yes, here’s all
