Paw-Prints Of The Gods Page 7

  “Hestia!” he called, addressing the pink-haired stocky student who knelt with her back to him in the nearby pit. She was doing her best to brush away the layer of fine red sand that seemed to come back as soon as it was cleared. “That’s enough for now.”

  The girl turned and nodded at the sound of his sing-song tones. Abandoning her task, she made for the ladder at the edge of the trench, raising a fresh cloud of dust with her feet. The original five-metre square pit had this morning been lengthened another couple of metres towards the northern edge of the dome. The desert sand was so fine it had to be kept at bay by an ugly system of poles, wires and plastic panels. Hestia had done well to tidy the mess left by the automatic excavators and Govannon regarded the trench with a keen eye.

  In the centre of the three-metre deep pit was the dark, mysterious feature recorded in the site report simply as ‘the arch’, a name that barely did it justice. The graceful curving structure stood at the end of two parallel walls, the latter a metre and a half apart and sloping up from the south, all made of the same neat bricks of volcanic-like glass. To the shabbily-dressed archaeologist it was the stuff of dreams, for this wall was twelve light years from Wales and considerably older than the legacy King Offa had left behind to tantalise him as a child. Thermoluminescence dating across the site confirmed the same thing; whatever it was that had created the strange silicon bricks had done so a hundred thousand years before humans had even considered stepping foot on Falsafah.

  The latest extension to the trench only served to reveal another layer of mystery to the enigma. As Govannon returned to scratching his chin, he looked not at the arch but beyond. Careful excavation had uncovered an adjoining triangular-topped mass, corresponding exactly to the ghostly desert shadows of an earlier survey. It was the southernmost spur of a perfectly-symmetrical six-pointed star, built of the same bricks seen elsewhere, one that the geophysical study showed extended northwards beneath the sand maybe sixty metres or more.

  “What do you think it is, Doctor Jones?” asked Hestia, coming to his side. Her choppy hairstyle was now streaked with blue, transformed by bioelectric fibre-optic extensions woven into her own mousy tresses. “The entrance to an alien temple?”

  “There’s no such thing as aliens!” muttered Govannon, irritably.

  “The Dhusarian Church uses a six-pointed star as its symbol,” Hestia pointed out.

  “So does Judaism. The work of alien rabbis, is it?”

  “It must be alien!” she protested. “You said it was too old to be built by humans.”

  “It could be a natural phenomenon,” he suggested weakly. “An outcrop of volcanic magma. One that somehow crystallised into a regular shape, see?”

  “With a door?”

  Govannon looked to where Hestia pointed. The arch was sealed by a recessed wall of silicon blocks, which at a glance could be taken for bricked-up door into the triangular spur. Despite the early discovery of a strange script carved on the nearby wall, Govannon stoically maintained that the arch was nothing more than the remains of an unusually-regular volcanic vent, yet the hard evidence of what had already been coined the ‘star chamber’ severely shook his resolve. He had spent his academic life exposing the sensationalists of the archaeological world who saw evidence of aliens in almost every ancient ruin, for he had long ago become convinced that humankind was alone in the universe. Here in the Arallu Wastes he had found enough evidence to destroy a lifetime of arguments. With a sigh, he turned his gaze towards the waiting laser-mapper machines.

  “Three-dimensional scan,” he instructed. “Full spectrum analysis.”

  The drones began their methodical plotting of the trench. The expedition was able to work on the inhospitable planet without survival suits thanks to three inflatable-walled domes, forty metres in diameter with airtight doors every ninety degrees for interconnectivity, each kept in place by desert rocks heaped into external perimeter troughs. Govannon heard the soft thump of boots upon sand and turned to see a figure approaching from the connecting tunnel to the neighbouring dome.

  He was still not sure what to make of Professor Cadmus. The burly English academic was supremely qualified and an alumnus of both Oxford University and the renowned Institute of Archaeology, University College London. Govannon’s assumption that his colleague would share his views on the non-existence of ancient aliens was rocked when Cadmus revealed he was on Falsafah as chairman of the recently-established Que Qiao Alien Encounters Board. Govannon, having visited Daode in Epsilon Eridani, remembered with affection how the local Que Qiao government were quick to discredit all sightings of the legendary alien greys. That the corporation had such thing as an Alien Encounters Board was puzzling.

  “Doctor Jones!” called Professor Cadmus. He waved to Govannon with the touch-screen slate in his hand. The brown jacket and trousers he wore made him look every bit the academic, an image reinforced by a grey square-cut beard in a style most agreed had never been in fashion. “I need you to sign off the site report. I trust your records are up to date?”

  “All but the context scans for this one,” Govannon told him, raising his voice against the buzz of the mapper robots. Using the tip of his trowel, he pointed to the tiny rotor-driven machines whizzing up and down above the new extension to the trench. “I’ve only just got the drones back from your lot on trench fifteen.”

  Professor Cadmus had barely kept away from Govannon’s work at the arch over the last fortnight. He went to the edge of the pit and peered at the triangular edifice, singularly unconcerned that his presence would be captured by the scanning equipment and recorded for posterity. Govannon was more worried about the panels and wires reinforcing the trench, which were visibly buckling under the strain of keeping the weighty professor away from the business end of a minor landslide. Hestia retreated to a safe vantage point behind Govannon, having caused an embarrassing trench collapse the day before.

  “Impressive,” Cadmus remarked. “Did you find time to take samples of the glass?”

  “Bagged and logged,” confirmed Govannon. “I had a quick look under the microscope and it has the same weird cellular structure we saw before, like a silicon version of fossilised wood. I’m guessing the main outcrop is of the same origin as the vent, see?”

  “You mean the tomb and the doorway?”

  “We still have no proof that this is an artificial structure!”

  “Of course it is!” snapped Cadmus. “Does any of this look natural? Here we are, standing on the eve of the greatest discovery of all time and still you deny what is laid plain before your eyes. Be serious, man!”

  “Standing on the eve, is it?” retorted Govannon. He leaned wearily against a convenient wheelbarrow. “It’s you on the edge of that trench I’m worried about.”

  Cadmus smiled and stepped back from the pit. “Why do you still doubt? Are you not as keen as I to prise open that door and see what wonders are waiting beyond?”

  “Door, is it? All my eyes see is...”

  “You need to look beyond what you can see! Can you not open your heart and mind to the possibility of what we may have discovered here?”

  “I am not prising anything open until we get clearance, see!”

  “Don’t be so officious! The past belongs to all.”

  “Since when has our dear sponsor been so magnanimous?” retorted Govannon. It had recently come to light that funding for the excavation had come from the Alien Encounters Board and thus the Que Qiao Corporation, for reasons not yet made clear.

  “The Dhusarians think we’re desecrating a holy site,” added Hestia.

  “And no doubt that idiot Dagan will take great pleasure in reminding us of that if he’s still hanging around the depot,” said Govannon. A young Arab man and self-proclaimed defender of the Dhusarian faith had made his presence known during their previous visits to meet their ship. “I’m sure it was he who sabotaged the ’risor so it wouldn’t serve tea.”

  “I’m in charge here on Falsafah!” declared Cadmus. “
We are archaeologists, scientists, seekers of the truth! What happened to the thrill you felt barely two weeks ago when the desert revealed what lay beneath? Both you and that student helping you could hardly contain yourselves! What was her name?”

  “Ravana,” said Govannon. “She was a good kid. It was a shame she had to leave.”

  “She had no doubts about what we’ve found here. Why have you?”

  Govannon opened his mouth to reply, wondering whether the professor was aware he had caught Ravana trying to compare the carvings with the very odd version of the Dhusarian Isa-Sastra on her slate, then shrugged.

  “Tell him what you found,” prompted Hestia. “The oxygen tank.”

  “I still need to make sure it’s not one of ours!” hissed Govannon.

  “What’s that?” asked Cadmus. “A tank?”

  Govannon nodded. “It was just below the surface, barely a metre away from the vent. I mean the arch,” he corrected, seeing the professor’s steely glare. “It’s a small cylinder from a survival suit, though an old design. But the stratification is very muddled. We discovered overlapping areas of infill, see? It’s almost as if the site has been excavated before.”

  Cadmus raised a surprised eyebrow. “Can you put any dates to that?”

  “Optical dating in the south of the trench falls within a similar range to the rest of the site,” Govannon told him. Quartz within the glass, bleached by ancient sunlight, once buried had slowly baked in the background radiation of Falsafah’s desert sands. Optical dating, or optically-stimulated luminescence, was a way of using the resulting atomic changes in the quartz to estimate how long the mysterious structure had lain undisturbed beneath the sand. “The dates suggest the desert encroached within a thousand years or so after it formed. We’re talking about events a hundred thousand years old, so it’s hard to be accurate.”

  “After it formed?” asked Cadmus. “After it was built, you mean.”

  Govannon ignored the interruption. “However, there was a disturbed area to the north above your so-called arch, see?” he continued. “Optical dating suggests it was exposed to sunlight a mere twelve thousand years ago. It’s curious, but the infill was localised and cuts through two metres of sand. There’s also signs of more recent activity.”

  Cadmus’ eyes narrowed. “The cylinder you mentioned?”

  Govannon shrugged. “It may have been buried by one of the students as a lark.”

  “I understand you even accused Xuthus of carving those symbols,” said Cadmus, shaking his head sadly. “I think you know your students better than that!”

  “You have your theories,” Govannon replied softly. “I have mine.”

  “Yet we have but one site report to compile,” the professor replied. “Which, as I said, needs to be updated before we meet the ship. Hopefully, my superiors have had time to chew over the last instalment and are ready to give us permission to open that door.”

  “Volcanic vent!”

  “Whatever,” sighed Cadmus wearily. “Just write your damn report.”

  * * *

  Xuthus shifted uncomfortably upon his kneeling pad, which did little to ease the throbbing pain in his back that had been building all morning. He had scraped away at a section of wall for what seemed like hours and the screech of trowel against glass that so annoyed fellow student Urania was no longer funny. His overalls were crumpled, his pale skin was streaked with dirt and sweat, his hair felt disgusting and his knees hurt almost as bad as his back. He tried to tell himself he was fortunate to live in Bradbury Heights, where the city’s academy allowed sixteen-year-olds with the right aptitude to start university two years early, but archaeology was not as fun as he had hoped.

  Xuthus and fellow student Urania were working in dome three, where a series of shallow trenches had uncovered a right-angled stretch of wall and a number of fossilised tree stumps in regular rows. Urania knelt a few metres away, engrossed in cleaning one of the black stumps near the wall. She was an attractive dark-haired woman who wore her long hair in a loose ponytail and her overalls tightly belted. Like Xuthus, Urania had started her archaeology studies that year, though was five years older. Her parents, aerospace workers from Rio de Janeiro, were struggling to find regular work in Newbrum and Urania juggled several part-time jobs to fund her dream of becoming an archaeologist. In contrast, Xuthus and Hestia came from wealthy, middle-class American families who owed their good fortune to the Que Qiao pharmaceutical companies in Bradbury Heights.

  “Had enough?” Urania asked, glancing up from her own task.

  Xuthus grinned, captivated as always by her smile and lilting Brazilian accent.

  “This is boring,” he said. “I want alien bones, long-lost treasure!”

  “You’ve been watching too many holovids,” said Urania and gave a little laugh. “Most archaeology is back-breaking and tedious, especially when you get someone like Aberystwyth Jones who doesn’t trust automatic excavators.”

  “Why do you call him that?” Xuthus asked irritably. Doctor Jones had chastised him for using his nickname, but annoyingly still allowed the girls to do so.

  “He’s from Aberystwyth,” said Urania. “It’s a joke! You must have seen the movies. Indiana Jones and the Golden Fleece of Sirius was on Ascension Freeview last month.”

  “Aberystwyth Jones,” muttered Xuthus. “Hilarious.”

  “Here’s the man himself,” she added, pointing over Xuthus’ shoulder.

  Doctor Jones, Professor Cadmus and the ungainly figure of Hestia had just entered dome three. The tunnel-like walkway to the west led to dome one, which contained a pair of habitation cabins, another series of short trenches and an airlock leading south into the small hangar containing the life-support plant and the expedition’s transport vehicle. Dome two was to the north of dome one and it was here that the mysterious inscribed arch and star chamber had been found. Xuthus could not help feeling jealous that it was Hestia and not himself whom Govannon had asked when looking for an extra pair of hands.

  “Aberystwyth!” called Urania. She raised her trowel in a mock salute.

  Govannon waved back. Xuthus perked up at the prospect of a break from the hot, sweaty conditions and a tedious morning’s archaeology in the trench. Today marked the end of week six of their ten-week expedition and the day they got to leave the dome for their fortnightly trip to meet the ship. The excursion was a welcome change of scenery, while having fresh food and a proper shower in a cool air-conditioned spacecraft was a rare luxury between each two-week spell under the domes. What he was looking forward to most was the chance to speak to his mother and father back on Ascension. The expedition’s tiny fusion power plant was not up to supporting an ED transmitter on site and so there was a general rush to use the one aboard the ship whenever it was on Falsafah.

  Professor Cadmus, Doctor Jones and Hestia arrived at where Xuthus and Urania were busy in the trench. Hestia made straight for Xuthus’ area and greeted him with the smile of a best friend, which annoyed him no end. She had acted this way ever since Christmas, when his family had joined hers at their ski resort cabin in Kirchel, where an unfortunate series of events led to Hestia saving him from being eaten by a mad mechanical wolf. In his eyes, being rescued by a girl was embarrassing, which did not make them friends.

  Urania, having glanced at the time display on her wristpad, took their arrival as a cue to stop work and climbed to her feet, trowel in one hand and kneeling mat in the other. As the academics walked slowly along the edge of the shallow pit, Xuthus noted that while Doctor Jones appeared genuinely excited by the work he and Urania had done in the trench, Professor Cadmus seemed almost bored. Govannon paused above the fossilised tree stumps and gazed along the neat row Urania had uncovered. Each jagged stub was half a metre wide and some had visible growth rings.

  “Good work!” he declared. “That’s incredible evidence of climate change, see. It puts me in mind of the fossilised forests found in Antarctica after the thaw.”

  “I suspect the pla
ntation had ritual significance,” remarked Cadmus. It was a stock explanation much beloved of archaeologists when confronted with a mystery. “The stumps appear to be arranged in a very regular pattern.”

  “Coincidence!” snapped Govannon.

  “Perhaps trees on Falsafah were just better behaved,” said Urania, giving Govannon a sly wink. “Born with a natural instinct to stand in queues, like you English.”

  “I’m Welsh!”

  “What about the wall?” asked Xuthus, feeling his own hard work was being unfairly overlooked. “If it was an orchard, perhaps the wall was to keep people out.”

  “People, is it?” Govannon frowned. “Mesolithic humans in Tau Ceti?”

  “I meant aliens,” murmured Xuthus.

  “Aliens!”

  “Greys?” offered Urania.

  “It seems the logical explanation,” said Cadmus.

  “Perhaps this is where Neanderthals disappeared to,” Hestia solemnly quipped.

  Xuthus scowled, embarrassed by her attempt at a joke, though no one else appeared to be listening. Govannon turned away, muttering obscenities under his breath. Seeing Urania grab one of the wheelbarrows and head for the exit ramp, Xuthus picked up his own bucket and headed after her. By the time he and Urania returned from the spoil heap, Govannon was walking back towards the tunnel to dome one, taking his grumbles with him.

  “Curious man,” mused Cadmus. “Fallen off the boat to Thebes, that one.”

  “Sorry?” asked Urania.