Fossil

Chapter Ten The Closest Search May Furnish But A Hint

The local workers seemed well trained. People scurried in many directions, but Hugh could see the underlying organization. Every native who was carrying something put it down carefully and took time to make sure it wouldn’t slide, roll, or block pathways. All in diving armor headed for the edge of the water; those not so equipped took up stations at the mooring lines of the submarine, on the upper portions of the hull itself, or along the water’s edge next to mooring bitts, racks of emergency floats, and other items of less obvious but presumably rescue-oriented equipment.

Hugh himself hesitated only a moment before leaping toward the water. As usual, there was a tautness in his stomach as he remembered the five hundred kilometers through which he might sink if things went wrong, but he had spent enough time on and under Habranhan seas to be able to ignore this. Also his brain, if not his lower nervous system, knew that he was equipped for bottom pressures. He could survive down there for a long time, even if—

He pulled his mind sharply away from the thought of being lost in those depths.

He didn’t actually dive in, but sprang to the submarine’s side, obtained a firm grip on its skeletal structure, and began to climb downward. Reekess said nothing. Without breathing equipment she couldn’t follow him; she simply kept out of the way of scurrying natives and waited.

Once submerged, the Erthuma let go of the ship briefly. His buoyancy should still be slightly positive for the liquid air density of the Pits. A moment unsupported in the slightly denser water set him drifting upward and confirmed the belief. He juggled briefly with suit controls and began swimming downward again before they had finished responding. The effort decreased over the next few seconds as cylindrical tanks around his waist and hips drove their enclosed pistons upward, admitting water below and forcing some of the buffering oxygen on the other side back into its storage tank. Hugh could detect the change, and might even have returned to the surface if it had not occurred, but was more concerned with finding the Cephallonian.

He could see well enough. Water was appreciably less transparent to Grendel’s redder-than-Solar light than seemed normal to Erthumoi, but he was still close to the surface. The whole length of the submarine could be distinguished, but he didn’t have to look that far. The being he sought was under the hull beside one of the thruster pods, about as far back from the bow as Hugh had entered the water. It — no, he — did not seem to have panicked; there was no violent thrashing. The Cephallonian might have been doing something with his small and rather inefficient hands, but the great driving muscles of his flukes and after body were relaxed. Two armored Habras hung beside him, working with ropes. Hugh swam closer to get more detail. This revealed itself in slow-motion playback fashion.

The pod was sinking gently away from the hull frame, snapping a final support cable as Hugh watched. The streamlined form of the Cephallonian settled with it, the two-body system twisting slowly to bring the thruster underneath and conceal it from Hugh’s view. He could now see that the swimmer was wearing a fairly complex work harness, and got the impression that the pod had somehow become attached to this and was dragging him away from the surface.

The Habras had closed in and were now also partly hidden beneath their fellow worker, whose body was much longer than theirs — he was far larger than the Cephallonians whom Hugh and his wife had known earlier. Whether this was an individual peculiarity or racial characteristic implying a different world of origin was unimportant at the moment; the fact itself was what had to be faced. It might either help or hinder. Hugh set his own buoyancy a little further toward negative and approached the group as quickly as he could.

“Can’t they get you loose?” he keyed. The two stage code-through-Falgite-to-Cephallonian translation caused some delay in the response.

“Probably not,” the answer came. “I wasn’t expecting them to try very hard.”

“I have a good knife. Is cutting your harness acceptable?”

“No. We don’t want to lose the driver.”

“What can I do?”

“How much buoyancy can you furnish?”

“Only two kilograms-water-equivalent. You could swim upward with more force than that, I’m afraid.”

“Please try, anyway. More support lines are coming; the slower we sink, the easier it will be to get them to us.”

The Erthuma closed the remaining distance between himself and the Cephallonian and secured a one-handed grip on the harness. With the other he twisted his buoyancy control to full positive. As he had feared, the effect on their group sinking rate was very small, though he could feel the tension on his arm.

He wondered briefly how deep they could go before pressure endangered the other, but decided not to ask yet. If that problem became urgent, he could expect to be told. He coded what he considered a more immediate question.

“Can’t you swim upward yourself?”

“Not with the thruster where it is, ahead of my center of buoyancy; I can’t turn upward. The Habras arc trying to shift it closer to my tail without losing all hold on it. Your hands are much more dexterous than mine, and your arms longer than theirs; perhaps your best tactic would be to match buoyancies so as to free both arms, and help them with their rope work.”

Hugh tried following this suggestion, but found that even at greatest negative buoyancy he still sank less rapidly than the group. He would have to use one arm for holding on, at least at first — maybe he could lash himself to the cluster if there were enough cord, or put an arm through part of the harness. He reminded himself once more that he had no depth problem himself, since both he and the Habras could face sea-bottom pressure with their equipment, and strove to match the apparent calm of the Cephallonian who was being dragged toward an unpleasant death. His kind could stand several kilometers without technological assistance as a result of their evolution, and had never had any reason to develop the diving fluid.

The big swimmer had been right; human arms could reach between him and the pod far more effectively than the Habras. The thruster was firmly entangled in harness straps, but Hugh could, he was sure, work it loose in a minute or two. He reported this to the others. The Cephallonian repeated his earlier desire not to lose the equipment.

“Let them attach lines to both sides of my gear, long enough to let the pod hang three or four meters below me and fastened far enough from my head so I can direct myself upward. Don’t free the tangle, please, until you are sure they’ve finished this with at least four lines; I know they have that many. If you can see well enough underwater, please check their knots at both ends. They know I mean no offense by asking this.”

It was getting darker as they sank, but the light which had annoyed Rekchellet was still part of Hugh’s armor, and he switched it on. He was able to help with the knotting and, as a matter of tact as well as safety, asked the Habras to check his own work. There was no way for the Cephallonian to see that far back on his own body, but he seemed willing to accept the word of the others that the attachments were secure.

“All right, Erthuma, you may free the pod from my harness if you can. It will help if you are reasonably quick; I’m beginning to feel some slight need for air. I foolishly did not wear full work equipment, not expecting to go any distance from the surface, and had been working under the boat for some time when this incident occurred.”

Hugh reflected that if the swimmer could spend that much air in talk things couldn’t be very serious yet; then he remembered that the other’s vocal equipment was a tympanic membrane not driven by an air stream from his lungs, and bent hastily to his task.

His estimate had been a little optimistic, but it was less than three minutes before the thruster fell away from the stream-lined body. None of the others had uttered a word during this time, though the water around them was growing frighteningly dark beyond the range of Hugh’s light.

As he felt freed of the weight, the Cephallonian nosed upward and set his swimming muscles into action. It turned out almost at once that he could not go straight up without having his flukes encounter the lines which held the pod. but he modified his climb angle slightly and continued to swim. Hugh could see after a moment that he was actually dragging motor, thruster, and housing upward, after another moment that the climb was faster than the Erthuma’s armor rose at full positive buoyancy; he had to swim. The ascent was uneventful and silent; nothing more was said even about oxygen shortage.

They were close enough to the surface to see the bright area of the port, where sunlight fell on open water, before they met a dozen descending Habras pulling lines behind them. The Cephallonian firmly refused to relinquish his burden until these were ail attached to the thruster, but the moment he was assured of this he spoke to Hugh with urgency obvious even through the translator “All right, cut me free!” Hugh managed this in four quick slashes, and the long, streamlined body surged upward. Hugh, the Habras, and the equipment followed much more slowly. By the time they reached the surface, the Cephallonian had almost finished replenishing his personal oxygen reserve, and was awaiting them impatiently. Hugh saw no reason to help remount the thruster, but wanted to get the swimmer somewhere where Reekess could see him, and suggested that they rest out on the ice for a while.

“I can relax better afloat,” the answer came. “It’s much harder to breathe without water to support one’s weight, even here. However, I’m sure you’ll be more comfortable ashore. By all means emerge, and I will stay as close as I can. I am interested in learning how you happened to appear so conveniently.”

Hugh told him frankly, while climbing a cross between a grooved ramp and a flight of stairs leading out of the water and presumably designed for armored Habras, that he and Reekess had been told about his recent accident, that they had a friend now undergoing Naxian treatment, and were interested in learning how effective this had been. He also introduced himself and the Crotonite, who had come to the edge of the water upon seeing Hugh emerge.

They quickly learned that willingness to talk about personal surgery was not confined to Erthumoi; the opportunity motivated the Cephallonian, who introduced himself as Shefcheeshee, to hurl himself onto the open ice after all and allow — actually, encourage — inspection of his personal repairs.

Since neither Hugh nor Reekess had known him before, they had to take the patient’s word for the state of things prior to the accident and the damage done by the latter. All either of them could see was that the skin of Shefcheeshee’s flukes and for half a meter forward of their point of attachment was visibly, though not strikingly, lighter than the blue-gray shade of his dorsal surface and the near white of the lower. The swimmer claimed that that entire part of his anatomy had been severed, that he narrowly escaped bleeding to death, that only heroic first aid measures by the natives had spared him from the latter fate, and that the Naxians who had arranged the regeneration of the lost body parts were benefactors of all galactic intelligence.

This was how Hugh summarized the account later, to Janice. The Cephallonian himself went into enormous detail, much of which he must have picked up from others since he had admittedly been unconscious almost from the moment of the accident itself. He was starting to go into factors leading up to this event when Hugh managed to change the subject. He later regretted doing this; it almost certainly cost him data which he had to seek out specifically and at some inconvenience afterward. He failed to realize this at the time, though, especially since the new discussion also proved useful.

This dealt with Shefcheeshee’s work with the sea bottom project in which the submarine was being used, and found the swimmer still enthusiastic. There had to be fossils in the bottom sediments; they should be possible to find even by simple dredging and coring; the information they would supply would be of enormous interest and value to the Habras themselves, as well as to scientists from other worlds. Shefcheeshee himself held no strong opinions one way or the other about off-planet origin of the Habras, inclining casually like most people to the positive, and seemed to care even less about the possibility that they might be descendants of the Seventh Race. He was an enthusiast, but an unusually objective one.

“I’d like to hear as much as possible about any results you get,” the Erthuma finally tried to stem the word flow. “You’re publishing them, I trust.”

“Oh, yes. We’re keeping careful records, which the Guild maintains for us, and have published ten papers so far.” Hugh found that statement impressive and somewhat annoying; he had thought himself familiar with all the significant Habranhan paleontology in progress. More honestly, he had thought his own group was doing it all. First S’nash and Barrar had mentioned other work on the dark hemisphere, then whatever Ennissee was doing, and now this. He wondered briefly how Spreadsheet-Thinker would react to the news, and then whether she knew it already and hadn’t considered it worth mentioning to her safety chief. But the Cephallonian was talking on.

“I give regular talks here at the port on our results, and what they mean to the natives in both philosophical and practical ways. The next one is not yet planned in detail, but the Guild office will tell you a little later when it’s to be given; I’ll make a point of asking them.”

Hugh thanked him, suggested that he get back in the water and rest after his near-accident, and thanked him again more fulsomely than was really comfortable in code. The swimmer, unhampered by code constraints, returned even more voluminous gratitude for Hugh’s help and finally admitted that others must be waiting for him. Erthuma and Crotonite left the port area deep in thought.

“I guess they’ll do all right with Rek,” the latter said as they approached the road. “Can you find your way back to the office? I can steer you from overhead if it will help.”

Hugh reviewed his memory of the Naxian-guided trip and accepted the offer, so they entered the Guild structure together a quarter hour later and reopened with the first Crotonite official they could find the discussion of Rekchellet’s safety.

This one, who had not been present at the time of their earlier visit, also admitted that the Naxians in the orbiting station did claim ability to do major physical repairs even on fliers, but no one had yet been willing to take them up on the offer. He knew a male named Ennissee who had lost wing membranes to freezing and was currently using prosthetics; these were less than satisfactory, but he had loudly declared that he would never be the first to subject himself to the experiments of a bunch of crawlers.

Hugh and Reekess heard this with great interest but little surprise, nor were they astonished to hear that the Guild office did not know Ennissee’s present whereabouts. He was believed to be somewhere on the Solid Ocean, but his vehicle had no neutrino transmitter.

At this point, the most obvious explanation for what had happened to Rekchellet was a little hard for a civilized being to believe, in spite of the way some Crotonite societies treated their ambassadors. It tended to make Reekess think rather more kindly of nonfliers, or at least to narrow the culture gap a little. They thanked their informant and let him go his way.

Hugh took the opportunity to call Pitville, in the line of duty. Nothing serious had happened in the dig, and he had of course postponed the intended exanimation of the Cold Pole site until his return; the people he had drafted had returned to their regular tasks. He wanted to be there himself if and when anything were found. At the moment, Pitville life was pure routine, Janice told him with a straight face and steady fingers. Hugh promised to return as soon as possible to corrupt it for her, and turned his attention to an impatient and verbose Guild subordinate who seemed to care for little except that everyone should know he was a native of Earth itself and that he wanted to use the transmitter. The discussion provided no useful information.

Hugh had not thought to ask about the age of the corpse since his wife had evaded S’ Nash’s question so many hours before, and for the moment nothing was farther from his mind.

Even with the rather halfhearted enthusiasm of the Crotonites in the office, Reekess seemed to feel a little better about Rekchellet’s being under Naxian care by the time a call came down from the orbiting station. She listened closely, however, as the few words came through their translators.

“Rekchellet is conscious. His mind appears undamaged. He wants to talk to friends. His wings will need extensive regeneration, as will his hands and feet. This will take about half a Habranhan year.”

Hugh acknowledged with appropriate thanks, and turned to his companion.

“I’ll go up to see him. I assume you’ll come too, regardless of air.”

“I can get a breather here. Certainly I’m coming. You sent our flyer back with Janice; how do we get there?”

“Our machine wouldn’t have made it safely anyway; it could drive in space, but might not protect its occupants properly. There are regular Naxian shuttle flights, I gather. Get your mask and come on.” Reekess obeyed, and a few minutes later they were back at the site where they had left their own craft a few hours before.

There was another Naxian shuttle waiting, and no objection was made to their boarding, though neither attempted any explanation. It did not lift immediately, however; it seemed to be a scheduled carrier, and fifteen or twenty minutes passed before its hatch closed without announcement and the craft headed skyward. Over a quarter of an hour was spent on the flight, much of it in maneuvers presumably designed to match orbits without straining passengers used to low gravity. The vessel did not attach itself to an outer lock via catwalk or tube, but entered a much larger one, and waited for the doors to close behind it and the surrounding space to fill with air. The lock chamber was only a little larger than the shuttle, however, so the latter process was brief.

They were at the station axis, in free fall. Hugh and Reekess were both reasonably experienced in this condition, and followed a Naxian guide with no trouble. Presently rotation, still by far the most reliable form of artificial “gravity,” made itself felt, and in a few minutes they were progressing along a passage which had a definite floor. Weight increased until they had about a quarter Erthumoi normal, standard for Crotonites but noticeably more than either Hugh or Reekess had experienced for a long time. A few meters of travel along a corridor at this weight level brought them to a door, like all in the station capable of making an airtight seal, and this led into Rekchellet’s room, if it could be called that.

It was much larger than a typical hospital chamber and contained much equipment, only a little of it obvious in function to the visitors. A number of Naxians were busy at various stations. The Crotonite’s body was hanging from padded straps; all his limbs passed through sealed sleeves into opaque tanks in which, presumably, the cold-damaged tissue was being replaced by new growth.

The general setup impressed Hugh as an experimental arrangement combining biological and mechanical gear, which might not be too far from the truth.

If Rekchellet could move any limbs the fact was not evident, but his eyes were open and it became clear at once that he could speak.

“Hugh! And — Reekess, isn’t it? Sorry I made such an idiot of myself.”

“We don’t know much of what happened,” the Erthuma answered, “but the fact that we found you just as you planned suggests that you handled things pretty well. We gather you came up against another Crotonite, so you needn’t feel too low.”

“What have you figured out? I’ll correct what’s necessary and fill in the rest. It’s a little hard to talk with my wings pinned this way.”

“I won’t say I understand that, but I can believe you. All right, you met this other Crotonite— Ennissee? — who was accompanied by several Habras while you were herding the truck westward on the long leg of its map. Somehow they got your translator away from you, and delayed you while they took over the truck from Third-Supply-Watcher. Then you came back to the truck, got or were given your translator back, and had an argument or at least a discussion with Ennissee, who seems not to speak your language.

“We don’t know what was said, of course. Eventually the autodriver was set on a westward path and the truck started, the Locrian was freed and told falsely that interfering with the autodriver would shut off the general power and endanger her life. You had written a rather obscure note about not giving Ennissee date information freely, while he or she was setting up the driver. The two of you left together. We found another note from you on a food wrapper which did help us find you; we knew you couldn’t have been planning to fly directly to the Cold Pole, and searched the truck’s line until we found your note, and then were guided by it until we found you. I’m afraid there’s a good deal you’ll have to tell us, even if talking isn’t easy. Make believe you’re in my armor, full of diving juice and using code.”

Rekchellet’s rigid features, consisting largely of beak, did not permit a grimace, but a sound much like a human snort suggested the same meaning to the Erthuma.

“That was Ennissee, all right. He’s a Wildwinder, a Trueliner, firmly convinced that we’re descendants of the Seventh Race and entitled to everything they’ve left.”

“‘We’ meaning Crotonites in general.”

“Of course. Well, ones who agree with him, anyway. He’s heard of my disagreement with that idea somewhere — I’ve never made any secret of it, though I’ve never flown around making public speeches on the subject — and has a low opinion of me. My association with Naxians, Erthumoi, and similar crawlers doesn’t help either, except to reinforce his opinion.”

“I suppose he tried to change your opinion in the truck.”

“No. I don’t know whether he considered that hopeless, or considered me worthless. He talked about the Pit project, and what we must have found, like plant roots, and maybe whole bushes. What it all led up to was a query whether our people might date the frozen body in the truck.”

“We have, though I don’t know what answer Ian got. Why do you think Ennissee wants to know?”

“I can’t even guess. I’m just suspicious because he didn’t simply ask us. You Erthumoi would have done the work and given him an answer without thinking twice, and Spreadsheet-Thinker is just the same. A Crotonite wouldn’t, and he was being very Crotonite, and trying to trick us out of the information, I’ll bet. What do you think, Reekess?”

“It seems to fit. You’ve met him, though; I haven’t. You have, I judge, more reason to distrust him.”

“I do. Plenty. When we left the truck, he’d never given me back my tracker; his Habras got that when he first took my translator. He said we’d fly to a food cache he’d established and then go on to others until we reached his own dig — he’d said a little about that, but no details; I’m only guessing that that’s where he found that frozen Habra — near the Cold Pole. I was already pretty tired and hungry, and he flew fast. Those factory-made wing membranes of his saved him a lot of heat, too — you know about them?”

“Third-Supply-Watcher told us. We heard a little more at the Guild office. Tell you later.”

“Well, I was pretty well done, and had dropped a kilometer or so behind, when he finally came down. I never saw his cache. I don’t know where it was or what it was, so I don’t know if Habras could spot it. When I landed beside him he was just finishing a food pack, and there were no more in sight. He chuckled, ‘Good-bye, Friend-of-Crawlers!’ tossed me the wrapping, and took off to the west. You know the rest. He doesn’t like me, and it’s mutual. Please don’t do him any favors.”

“So it looks as though the truck was sent to Pitville just to get us to date that body. He knew he’d have no trouble getting it back; we’d be bound to use it to search the track recorded by the autodriver.”

“That’s how I see it,” agreed Rekchellet.

“Except — does he have the truck again now? He must have known we’d find it, even if he hoped we wouldn’t find you and maybe hoped we’d find it too late for Third-Supply-Watcher. He couldn’t have cared much about either of you. The last I knew, it was abandoned where the Locrian stopped it and transferred to our flier. We left power and lights on, so anyone could find it again easily enough, but would he or any of his people have dared to come back after what they did to the two of you?” “I’d think not.”

“‘That puts me back to an earlier idea I was toying with. I wonder if he’s trying to get us to visit this dig he told you about…”

“He’s a liar!”

“Granted. He may still want us to go there tor some reason of his own.”

“A good reason for not going!”

Reekess spoke for the first time in some minutes. “You really don’t want to see him again?”

“I do, very much,” snapped Rekchellet, ““but not until I’m out of this machine and able to fly a few hundred kilometers.”

“You want me to wait ten or twelve Common Days until they’ve patched you up, before we go out there?” Hugh stated.

“I’d certainly appreciate it. Look — think of Hnnissee, waiting to see whether you’ve swallowed his bait — wondering when you’re going to arrive— trying to explain to his Habras why nothing has happened yet…”

“I wouldn’t have supposed he could get Habras to work for him,” mused Hugh. “They don’t go for deceit, and certainly not for the sort of thing that was done to you.”

“You’re generalizing,” pointed out Reekess. “There must be all sorts of Habras, just as there are all sorts of Erthumoi and Crotonites and Naxians. Besides, there were no natives around when Rekchellet was abandoned, as I understand his story. Ennissee’s assistants may not have any idea of the nasty part of his actions; they may simply be helping in another research dig.”

“I suppose so,” agreed Hugh. “You talk like my wife. I assure you that’s a compliment. But they helped take Rek’s tracker…”

“We can find out from them later,” Reekess countered. “We already know Ennissee’s a liar, and why. He could very well have lied to them, too. Are you willing to…”

“What do you mean, you know why?” Rekchellet could move no limbs, but obviously wanted to.

“It seems that he doesn’t want to be the first Crotonite to undergo Naxian regeneration. We think he arranged for you to be a preliminary test subject.”

“In that case,” Hugh keyed hastily, “he must have made some arrangement to have you found while there was still time to use you that way.”

Several Naxians approached, and one of them uttered an admonitory “You are disturbing the patient. He should remain relaxed, and make no effort to move.”

“All right. There’s plenty more to do. I suppose we’d better report all this to the Guild, too, before…”

“NO!” snapped both Crotonites together. “I’ve lost enough self-respect from this,” Rekchellet continued alone. “Asking for help from anyone but personal friends and sharers of responsibility would make it worse.” His beak snapped firmly shut, and he stared hard at Hugh. Reekess was looking at Rekchellet; Hugh couldn’t read any expression on her features but was fairly sure she approved his words, but asking one of the closely watching Naxians was hardly advisable.

“All right. I tell only Janice, and Reekess tells whomever she considers appropriate. She can make up the group to go out to the Pole. We’ll run it pretty much as we planned before, but this time carry food for everyone on the flier. You decide, Reekess, whether we take few enough folks to cram aboard or whether it’s all the flying people I can talk out of Barrar.

“And if anyone comes up with the smallest glimmering of an idea why we’re wanted out there, and how we can keep from doing just what Ennissee wants when we do arrive, please tell me before we start!”

He intended to get another opinion on that point, of course, but not to confide that matter to the Crotonites.

An hour and a half later, they were back in Pwanpwan, and Hugh had made contact with Barrar. The Samian seemed unconcerned about the loss of Rekchellet’s services for a time, and didn’t even appear greatly bothered by the fact that the aircraft were all in use again and it would be a day or so before Hugh and Reekess could be picked up. The Erthuma was beginning to wonder what a steady job of chipping ice at the bottom of a lake of liquid air would be like when the administrator went on: “There’s something Spreadsheet-Thinker wants checked at Pwanpwan while you’re there. We understand there’s another fossil dig being planned,” Hugh’s eyebrows shot up, “and we’d like details. Apparently the entire crew is native, which is reasonable enough, but makes it awkward for Guild contact. You have Habra friends — you’ve been here longer than most Erthumoi, longer than most anyone except the Crotonites, and I can’t see using them where tact is wanted.” Hugh glanced at Reekess, but she seemed to be developing the sort of control Rekchellet had learned. She showed no sign of irritation. “Let us know when you hear something, please,” Barrar continued. “Then we’ll send an aircraft as soon as possible for the two of you.”

He signed off before Hugh could either point out that the flight would take only minutes or ask sarcastically whether the return was conditional on his getting the information, and long before he could report what they had already heard from Shefcheeshee. After a moment of thought he decided that this might be just as well, and refrained from calling back.

He deliberately ate before doing anything else, and then began taking steps to locate his various Habra friends. He should probably find out more than the Cephallonian had told them.

The planet’s population was only in the millions, but even one million is a very large number. They had a single culture spread over the “Iris” continent. Any native might be anywhere, as work or whim dictated. This did not promise well for finding anyone.

On the other hand, the Habras were highly civilized, had a single worldwide language, communicated naturally by electromagnetic waves, and had a sophisticated search system which worked very quickly for people actually on the continent; ones on the dark hemisphere or working undersea were quite another matter.

In less than an hour, after talking to three natives on or over various parts of the Iris, he had found Bill, the first native he had come to know at all well and with whom he and Janice had shared danger under Habranha’s seas. Bill knew all about the proposed fossil dig, though he was not involved himself; it was no secret, though no one had bothered to make a point of telling alien visitors about it. He had not known that a Cephallonian was involved.

It was to be on the ocean bottom in silicate sediment rather than ice. The Habras were quite used to dealing with this material; they mined it regularly to fertilize the ice of their floating continent. There were only two new developments involved. One was a technique for boring vertically into presumably hard mud instead of skimming soft stuff from the surface; this the Habras had worked out themselves.

The other was a means of sensing and identifying organic remnants in the material being searched. This involved a Big Box, an Erthumoi artificial intelligence. The Habras did not share the prejudice against such equipment held so firmly by the five non-Erthumoi star-faring species, and had not proven very susceptible to efforts to transmit it. Bill was enthusiastic, and wished he had gone on the trip, but the crew — of two — had already been selected when he had heard about the project. Ship and workers had been visiting the bottom now for over two years. He was voluble with details about the submarine, which he had himself handled, and displayed an interest in fossils and paleontology which he had never shown during his earlier association with Hugh, Janice, Rekchellet, and their other Crotonite partner.

Remembering the question Rekchellet had attributed to Ennissee, Hugh sounded Bill out on his attitude about Habranha evolution. No strong feeling was aroused. Bill shared an apparently general belief that the process did occur, but that, for chemical rather than mystical reasons, his own people could not be part of it. Hugh wondered if he had found another reason why some Habras were working for Ennissee.

He spent over an hour reminiscing with Bill before the native had to go his own way. Hugh headed back toward the Guild building with another minor problem of diplomacy on his hands.

Spreadsheet-Thinker and his group were very concerned with getting good, reliable, scientific answers from their own Pit Project so they could regard their administrative efforts as professional and successful.

It also seemed likely that getting answers before anyone else might carry weight with them. Barrar wanted information about the Habra project, and had mentioned interest in others. That seemed a most probable reason.

But now the natives were going to dig with the aid of artificial intelligence, in a place where fossils ought, one would expect, to be plentiful.

Locrian Spreadsheet-Thinker, Samian Ged Barrar. and the rest of their non-Erthumoi colleagues were about to collide with the fact that they were in direct competition with the nasty, immoral, improper, and generally unacceptable innovation of those irresponsible, juvenile newcomers to interstellar travel. They would be challenging Erthumoi-developed artificial intelligence. Ignoring the fact would leave them completely out of control of affairs on Habranha, because the natives would simply deal with people who could get things done.

Hugh gloated. Maybe his job was being done lor him.