Down to a Sunless Sea

12 The Discovery

They broke camp and made a run for it under cover of darkness. But Brant was getting awfully tired of running, and said so.

“Sooner or later, it’s gotta come to a showdown between us—a fight,” he growled, as they saddled the lopers. “And I’d wish it was sooner than later.”

The older man said nothing, nodding silently. He knew that what truly irked Brant was the people under his care: two women, an old man, and a renegade. Brant would probably have taken a stand and fought it out, had it not been for them.

But fourteen warriors—for there were at least that many— were too many to fight with any real chance of victory. So … run they must, no matter how it irked the big Earthsider.

The one advantage in their favor was that, at least as yet, it would seem that none of the warriors of Tuan had been able to descend the cliffwall. This part of the shoreline of the prehistoric continent was too sheer to afford an easy descent, so all that Tuan and his war party could do was follow their route along the ridgeline.

Once Tuan got a sizable number of his followers down to their level, it would, of course, be a very different ballgame. But that time had not yet come.

As they rode out under cover of darkness, again abandoning some of their gear, Brant and Harbin conferred. Brant still felt that it would at least gain them time to leave the ancient golden dish behind, with the thief bound and helpless. Harbin again declined to agree with him, arguing that the insult to the clan-pride had been more than enough to rouse the ire of Tuan against the two of them, and the women, as well. Brant cursed under his breath, but in his heart he felt that the old scientist was probably right.

So they ran. But—to what haven?

Dawn broke, that sudden, silent explosion of pale light that illuminated the sky without warning, and they were still running. Mercifully, no riders were to be discovered on the ridgeline, which did not necessarily mean that they had outdistanced them, but just that the outlaw band was riding more cautiously than were they.

After a brief rest break and some food, they mounted up and rode on ever deeper into the south, seeking a safe haven. They doubled up in the saddle, for, although bearing twice the usual weight would in time weary their steeds, they could make better time this way.

Every time he had a chance, Doc Harbin studied the ancient dish with the aid of his powerful lens. During the second rest stop, he drew Brant aside to confer. The old scientist seemed agitated, as if suppressing a discovery of considerable interest.

“Can you read the old writing yet, Doc?” inquired Brant. The other man shook his head.

“I can only make out, or guess the meaning of, about one word in four,” he confessed. “Nevertheless, Jim, I think I’ve discovered something that may help us.”

“Well, we could sure use a little help right now, so let me have it,” said Brant. Harbin produced the worn and ancient dish.

“The charactery inscribed around the lip of the dish is too ancient and too illegible for me to figure out, lacking my library and my instruments,” Will Harbin admitted. “But this design in the central part, this wandering, curved line, seemed utterly meaningless until it occurred to me to compare it to my maps.”

He paused impressively, but Brant was in no mood for a build-up.

“Spit it out, Doc,” he granted.

“Very well! This curved line matches quite closely the contours of the edge of the prehistoric continent whose cliffwall, or shoreline, we are now following,” he said. Brant looked unimpressed.

“So what? A map—what of it?”

Will Harbin pointed to a place on the meandering line graven in the golden dish.

“This spot lies about two hours’ hard ride south from where we are now,” he said excitedly. “There is a bit of writing etched at this point—see?”

Brant nodded briefly. “So what? If you can’t read the writing—”

“These characters are almost legible,” breathed Harbin.

“They translate as something in the nature of ‘the refuge,’ or ‘the way in,’ or ‘the safe place,’—-I can’t be precisely sure—”

Brant shrugged irritably. “So what does it mean, d’you think? C’mon, Doc, we’re wasting time.”

Harbin looked dubious. “I’m not exactly sure … a cavern, perhaps, a hiding place, some sort of niche in the cliffwall important enough, or secure enough, to be so marked. It is the only place on the ancient map that is marked at all.”

Brant rubbed the line of his jaw with one thumbnail, thinking.

“A hiding place, then. God, we could use one! But will it still be there, after half a million years, or however old this map may be?”

“I can’t say,” Harbin admitted. “But it’s better than running. Because they have more men than we, and probably more guns. And sooner or later, our lopers will founder under the double weight. …”

“I know, damn the luck,” growled Brant. “Okay, since it’s in our path, we’ll watch for it. Let me know when the map exactly matches the terrain.”

“I will,” said the other man.

They mounted up and rode on into the day.

Zuarra shared the saddle with Brant on the remainder of that day’s riding, and she seemed to be in a surly and sullen mood. Glancing back, Brant guessed the reason. For Agila had the other woman, Suoli, before him in the saddle, and his hands were wandering under her robes and he was whispering something in her ear that caused her to giggle and to blush shyly.

Hearing the giggling, Zuarra tightened her jaw and pinched her full lips together, staring ahead grimly.

Brant grinned wolfishly, but said nothing. His arms tightened a little about Zuarra’s lissom waist, and she did not seemingly resent the minor intimacy.

The breach between the two “sisters” had widened since that episode on the ledge where the more feminine of the two had fearfully shrunk from coming to Zuarra’s aid. Brant kept his thoughts to himself, but enjoyed the tantalizing nearness of the woman in his arms and savored the dry, musky perfume of her body.

They rode on into the unknown, for there was nothing else to do, since to stand and fight against Tuan’s band, which now numbered at least fourteen warriors, would have been, quite simply, suicidal. But inwardly Brant felt a welling-up of hopelessness: they were following a map millions of years old, perhaps, looking for a refuge which might very well no longer exist.

But there was nothing else to do… .

During the next rest stop, Brant scanned the ridgeline through his binoculars, and found the tireless riders. He swore under his breath.

“They keep up with us, the bastards, but nothing more! Why, goddammit, why?”

It was a rhetorical question, but Will Harbin took it seriously enough to offer an answer.

“Possibly because Tuan fears that, if pressed, we will destroy the golden dish,” he suggested. “We could do it very easily, you know. One bolt from your power guns would fuse the ancient relic to a shapeless puddle of metal. …”

Brant considered. “Hmmm … hadn’t thought of that. You may be right. You’re a good man to have along, Doc, on a risky ride like this one.”

Harbin smiled and said nothing.

Just past midday, they reached the site marked on the golden map. Or so, at least, Harbin was convinced.

“The weather on Mars is of little consequence,” he said. “It takes many millions of years to sufficiently deface a shoreline like the one we are following. The site marked on the map is—there!”

He pointed to a narrow cleft in the wall. It looked so unimportant that Brant would easily have ridden past it without even noticing it. His expression was dubious.

“You sure, Doc?” Harbin nodded.

“Sure as I can be.”

They rode closer. Harbin gave voice to an exclamation, and pointed with a trembling hand. Brant peered and saw ancient characters cut in the stone above the cleft, almost worn to the point of being indistinguishable.

“Can you read ‘em?” Brant demanded gruffly.

The expression on Doc’s homely face became somber, almost reverential. “No, but I can almost guess,” he breathed.