Bowl of Heaven

by Gregory Benford; Larry Niven

  But he could make out a faint, ominous rumble from below. There was no actual geology here, so it had to be machinery moving on the outer face of the Bowl. He got up and walked barefoot, feeling the vibration. It seemed louder in one direction and as he moved, the ground trembled a bit more. Birds rustled and chirruped in response to it.

  Then it began to fade, though he kept walking, and by the time he reached a slab of fused rock, he could feel nothing. The source must have passed, so maybe it was a moving platform on the other side, an elevator or similar.

  Then he noticed he was out of the trees. Feeling vulnerable alone, he glanced at the mercifully empty sky and quickly sought the canopy cover. Like a terrified rodent, he thought ruefully.

  But he couldn’t get back to sleep. He had been deep in a softly erotic dream of Beth. Their biggest problem was the unending day. They all had trouble sleeping because there was always something up and active, rustling through foliage, setting off their apprehensions. Now, though, the others were snuffling and snoring and he envied them. At least he could use the time to think, to plan.

  He lay back and looked through the canopy at the dim presence of the star. The jet was a scratch across the sky, flexing with whorls and tendrils. Near the star little flashes of brilliance lit the base. He was getting used to this sky, to this place—and that was dangerous.

  So much here had a familiar feel—the sudden sizzle of lightning splintering a sky, a patter of rain, moaning breezes—but the tremor just now gave him an important warning. Here they all lived with a strangeness made all the more discomforting by its deceptive likeness to a world they all knew, and would never see again.

  So they had to use everything, especially deception. They were torn between the need to stay out of sight and the drive to explore. They had disguised their craft, making it sand colored. From a distance, the sand ship made no impression, but close up it did move and attract the eye. The fixed wing aerial surveys they occasionally saw in the distance had missed them. Cliff hoped their pursuers were losing interest, because the fliers were getting spotty. Luckily, no intelligent aliens seemed to live in this vast desert.

  But his gang of five was getting surly and hungry. They had learned to spot and shoot the large, savage lizards that lived in the rock outcroppings. The meat was nearly as leathery as the brown hide, but over a roaring fire of hardwood that did not give off smoke, it supplied protein they badly needed. No talk; they ate eagerly. Carbohydrates were harder to find, and water always an issue.

  He had tried to forage for edibles, but the problem was tough. Not only was this an alien ecology, but it was also one that worked without night. What did that do to plant evolution? What kind of defenses did plants have here? On Earth, poisons were defenses against predators—tobacco was a particularly effective one in the tropics, where there was no winter to kill off the insects.

  But in this Bowl, no winter saved plants or animals from constant predation. So Cliff expected to find plenty of poisons, deceptions, disguises. He had already seen plants that looked like rocks or even skeletons. The leathery lizards could bound sideways, because they had two forelegs and one hindleg designed to give them startling leaps. What hunted the lizards? He expected that the evolutionary arms race meant that a big predator was around, but he saw none. Maybe the lizards ruled this region, the top predators.

  Humans were new here, so creatures mostly took no notice of them. But big birds smacked them in the head, or dived for their eyes, apparently mistaking them for some easier game—but what creature was that?

  They had all lost weight. Howard, who was always recovering from some accident or injury, was now downright pallid and scrawny. They all leaned on Cliff to find more edible foods, and he had some successes—but was running out of ideas.

  He heard some movement nearby and turned, automatically reaching for his laser. “You woke me up,” Irma said, sitting down beside him.

  “Spotty sleep is better than none,” Cliff said, holding out a piece of the odd fruit they’d found. It looked like a puffer fish with spokes of purple hair, but tasted sweet and dark.

  “Good call on this one. Better than mangoes, even.”

  “Sliced it, smelled it, tip of the tongue—that’s all we’ve got to go by. I wish I had some testing gear to use on candidate food.”

  Irma nodded. “Those woodlands we first went into, the soil was more acidic and moist. The soil here, though, seems alkaline and dry.”

  “Like most Earthside deserts.”

  “Right, so we can use our intuition from what works there. Look there—”

  Within a few meters were fernlike plants, thorny bushes, prickly globes dangling temptingly from enormous trees. “Okay.”

  They climbed partway up the crusty bark of the tree and brought down two of the large oval fruit. “Funny,” Irma said. “They trail these coarse leafy strands, look more like tendrils.”

  He cut into one. “There’s this fuzzy red tinge to the skin, like blister rust on Earth. But what’s that mean here?”

  He sniffed the rosy skin and found no stink of decay, but again, what would rot smell like here? So he sliced off a chunk, bit in—and found a gusher of warm soft sweet succulence burst in his mouth. “Maybe poison, sure, but soooo good…”

  She grinned. “I’ll wait, see if you topple over.”

  He waited to see if his stomach rejected it, but nothing happened. Irma said, “I think we should sleep in shifts. Keep two guards up, spell each other every four hours.”

  “Let’s try it. But it’s hard to sleep on the sand ship.”

  “We have to keep moving if we’re going to learn much.”

  “Yeah, sure—but I’m wondering what we’re doing, running around. We sure as hell aren’t getting closer to understanding this place.”

  She patted him on his shoulder. “Don’t get down about it. The guys take their cues from you.”

  “Huh? I’m not in charge.”

  She grinned. “Like it or not, you are.”

  “Who said?”

  “Primate politics. Ever notice? They say their piece, argue, then look at you.”

  He sniffed. “No, I hadn’t noticed. Aybe and Terry give me plenty of grief.”

  “They’re scared. We’re all scared. Sometimes that comes out as anger.”

  “Uh, glad you brought that up.” The scent of her, after yesterday’s swim in a pond, was messing with his concentration. He felt uncomfortable somehow, so resorted to safer generalities. “I see some old patterns emerging under the stress. The guys are summoning up their inner macho, like putting on armor. Not that I’m immune, either.”

  “You don’t flex it like they do.”

  He chuckled ruefully. “Look, as a teenager I practiced cool smoking in the mirror—” She laughed and he blushed. “No, I really did. Cancer sticks! I also impressed dates by revving the engine at stoplights.”

  She laughed. “No! You had a combustion car?”

  “An heirloom, the license cost a fortune. Once I tried on thirty sunglasses to get the right ominous look. With guys like Aybe and Terry, I talked tech and .45 automatics, usually while holding a beer bulb. And—” He glanced at her. “—I wore jeans so tight, I got sore balls and a red rash.”

  She cackled, slapped her knee. “That’s so bad, it must be true.”

  “Sure, it was ridiculous then, it’s ridiculous now—but Aybe and Terry are faking a calm they don’t have.”

  She nodded. “Sometimes it’s so thick, you could cut it with a knife. I see them eyeing us, hiding their fears. Good deduction, Cliff-o.”

  He turned to her. “We’ve gotten used to being scared, maybe. But I don’t—”

  Without warning, she reached over, hands on his shoulders, and kissed him. Held it, long and hard. Let go, sat back, looked at him levelly. “Had to say that.”

  Say what? he thought. “I, look, I’m—”

  “Married, I know. So am I.”

  “I hope I didn’t—”

  “Give
some sign? No, damn it.” She took a deep breath and rapped out words in a rush. “We’re on the run across a goddamn artifact we don’t understand and could get caught any minute, or killed, maybe worse than killed—so, way I see it, the usual rules, they don’t matter.”

  “I—”

  “No real argument, Cliff. But you and I have got to keep this little bridge party going and, and, I’m feeling so lonely, so like I’m on the edge, have got to—hell, I don’t know what I’m saying.”

  He smiled. “I don’t either, but I … liked it.”

  They just sat and stared at each other for a while, letting the moment brew.

  She raised an eyebrow, gave him a twisted grin. “Y’know, what anybody thinks of us means, to me, less than zero.”

  “You make a good case.” Cliff wondered what he was doing, mind boiling. But something strong in him knew he needed this.

  “I never liked sex in daylight, though.”

  “I never was so picky.”

  * * *

  Terry said, “We’re getting nowhere.”

  Irma sniffed and poked at their small, popping fire. It burned old wood, which did not give off smoke. “We’re alive, right? And I wouldn’t have given us good odds on that last week.”

  Aybe sniffed, his wide mouth twisted skeptically. “Week? This damn place makes time meaningless.”

  Irma lifted her phone. “Standard time.”

  Techtypes all, they then ruminated on keeping a time standard here with their digital devices, which got updated aboard because SunSeeker had significant relativistic time effects versus Earth-normal time. Aybe cut this off as he leaned forward over the fire, where stick skewers turned and dark lizard meat sizzled. “This place was made to erase time, that’s my point. What kind of thing makes a big thing that hasn’t got seasons, change, variety?”

  Cliff said mildly, “Something that likes life predictable.”

  Terry pounced on that. “Yes! Something really strange. Those big, feathered things we saw—they run this place. We ran away from them!”

  “They were taking us prisoners,” Howard said. His injuries made him wince as he adjusted his seating around the popping fire.

  Terry said, “Maybe they just wanted to talk.”

  Irma said, “It didn’t seem like an invitation.”

  “Hey,” Terry said, “the thing about aliens is, they’re alien. We may have misunderstood them.”

  Aybe shook his head. “That doesn’t matter. We can’t live out here forever. What’s our agenda?”

  Cliff sighed, but put his hand over his mouth so they didn’t hear it. They all looked at him; Irma was right. He wished he were more certain, but said anyway, “Lie low. Work the sand sailer toward the mirror region. We’re making good time. We could get there in maybe a month.”

  “Month means nothing here,” Aybe said.

  Irma said, “Hey, we need to keep time straight. Call it a million seconds, okay?”

  They managed a low chuckle, the most they could muster as a group identity. Cliff watched their faces and seized the moment. “I’m hoping to find some access at the mirror zone. We saw that there were big constructions up there, close to the Knothole. Whoever runs this place probably hangs out there.”

  Terry furiously shook his head. “We need to talk to these aliens. Look at what they’ve built!”

  Irma said, “So?”

  Terry sat back, blinking. “Let’s get close to one of their living zones. Stop hanging out here in the desert.”

  Howard said, “I agree.”

  Irma said, “I don’t like going in under their terms. Maybe they think aliens like us should be eliminated—who knows?”

  Aybe scowled and jutted out his chin. “We escaped, remember? They may not take that kindly.”

  Terry shook his head once more. “All I know is, we’ll learn more observing them near here, instead of trying to move millions of kilometers up to the Knothole.”

  Irma pressed, “How?”

  Aybe pointed. “I climbed that big skeleton tree yesterday, got a look at a dark patch off that way. Green, must be a forest.”

  Terry said, “Better game, better concealment. Let’s go there, see if we can find some natives. Watch them, learn.”

  Cliff watched them as this got tossed around. He had realized that Terry was the sort of guy he had known in university. He liked to sit around and drink and philosophize, and if he got drunk, he would tell you what you could expect in life for the sort of person you were. That met the legal standard for an asshole, Cliff figured. When the crew was getting shaped up—centuries ago in real time, yes—he had barely met Terry. But now he knew what type Terry was and was thankful that there was no alcohol here. With a few drinks in him, the man could do real damage in a small group like this. Maybe without the drinks, too.

  So now Terry was far from what his skill set could deal with. Fleeing across a huge contraption nobody had ever imagined, Terry kept himself oriented, Cliff could see, by staying sharp of chin, assured, with eyebrows clenched behind aviator glasses. Sure of himself. Dangerous.

  Assurance in the face of uncertainty was a good pose for a leader, sure. But not without plenty of thought to back it up.

  “I say let’s vote,” Aybe said.

  “Sure,” Howard said, his only remark in a while. He kept picking at a nasty scratch he had scabbing over on his calf.

  Cliff said, “All in favor of following Terry’s idea.”

  Three hands: Aybe, Howard, and Terry. Cliff shrugged. “Okay, after breakfast we set sail.”

  Irma said wistfully, “I wish I was back on SunSeeker, not hiding and running.”

  They all nodded.

  Irma had a point, Cliff realized a bit later, but there were compensations. Here they got to deal with the crux of the problem, understanding this place, not just watching it from the orbiting ship. Plus, no boredom. An adventure is someone else risking their life far away.…

  And he had just dried off from a great swim in a warm desert pond. He felt great. He drank a cup of water, and snapped open one of the pods that held tangy little silky strands, like eating sweet cobwebs. The water was far better than SunSeeker’s recycled, bland water, and the air here had a fresh zest. Also, their chem tests showed it had no gut-buster microbes they could not nullify. Redwing certainly wasn’t breathing anything so good.

  It took two days to sail to the distant forest, over crusted sand that sang beneath them. The surface was glazed, and when they stopped he took small samples to study under his field microscope. The stuff was hard yet living—bacteria, lichens, and mosses mixed into sand. Maybe all these were waiting for the next rain to flourish. They learned the hard way that their sail ship had to skirt the darker patches, which were rough and once poked a hole in the bow. Sticking to the tan-colored zones gave them better speed. Somehow the place seemed ancient, even the occasional sand dune firm and polished. There were parabolic dunes, star dunes, straight dunes with radial crests. The emptier the land, Cliff realized, the more luminous and precise the names for its features.

  They passed by a raised bluff, tan and barren, and suddenly saw a canyon open in the steep stone walls. “There’s green in there,” Irma pointed out.

  Their sails flapped in the lee of the cliff when they lost the wind. Howard said, “Let’s have a look, take a break.”

  All heads nodded; they were getting stiff, sitting in the craft and managing the ropes to steer.

  They left Howard with the sailer, since he still had a gimpy leg from a fall. Marching two kilometers up the dry canyon was hard, working against the drifts of dun-colored sand in a broad streambed. A soft breeze swept their sweat away.

  The side channels looked ancient, and Cliff kept a wary eye on their shadows. Ruins of stone and twisted metal stuck out of the erosion plain. Terry tried to make sense of them, prying fragments from the soil, but most of it was rusted away. Breezes sighed around them as they came upon a larger wreck, a tumbled-down building of curiously long rock sliver
s, pale along their lengths and burnt at their edges. “Fire?” Aybe asked.

  “Looks abandoned,” Irma said, pulling a slab free of the rest. The whole stack of stone gave way, sliding down and tumbling so they had to lurch out of the way.

  “What’s that?” Aybe asked about a buried structure, and they spent fifteen minutes uncovering a hard metal carapace. The building’s collapse had dented but not breached the boxy thing.

  Aybe used up a lot of his laser charge cutting in. He used razor mode and the highest frequency, but the stuff was much tougher than any steel alloy. They levered the metal open to the music of wrenching screeches. Inside, wrapped in polycarbon, were fine metal grids and some mysterious black boxes with ports and plies in their sides.

  “Hard to figure this out,” Terry said, fingering the stuff, “but must be electrical.”

  “To do what?” Cliff asked. Not his area of techspeak.

  Aybe spread the metal grids across a slab of the pale, hard stone. “Doesn’t matter what it was for. Point is, what can it do for us?”

  “Like what?”

  Aybe grinned. He had been moody the last few days, but now a tech challenge animated him. “Amp up our antenna function. For our beamers.”

  “That’ll be tough, getting an impedance match to a beamer.”

  “I like problems.”

  They found little else but buildings that had collapsed a long time ago. No obvious resources, no primitives among the ruins as in a bad movie; nothing.

  The electrical stuff was too heavy to carry, except Aybe wanted the grids. Howard said, “Fine, so long as you carry them from here on out.” On the move, everything was about mass.

  As Cliff marched back to the sailer, he wondered how this huge desert zone had formed and whether the climate here needed vast, largely inert areas to function. There must be large-scale atmospheric movement of water, like the Hadley cells of Earth, but even with the occasional patterns of passing clouds, he could not figure out how things worked here. Earthly air moved in several circulating patterns, and the poles were the final place where matters got resolved. But on this Bowl, the only pole was the Knothole region. What did that do?