Fossil (1993)

by Hal Clement

  It took over a quarter of an hour to identify the natives who had not gone with Rekchellet; Hugh, in fact, had to conceive the notion of calling the truck and asking, when Third-Supply-Watcher could get its attention, one of those who had. The call and conversation were quick enough, but the gestation of the idea had been embarrassingly long. Another sixty seconds of relaying through the Habra community — it was nice, the man reflected, that someone could use radio freely here — had him in touch with a being the translator called Miriam.

  Janice put the question to her, not because she expected to get more sympathy from a female but because Hugh’s hand was getting cramped again. Miriam, winging somewhere near the settlement on her own affairs, answered readily enough.

  “I could see the ornaments. The ice was fairly clear, and they caught my attention because I’d never seen anything like them. I couldn’t even tell whether it was a man or a woman.”

  “Not even from the body?”

  “Well — I…” Janice was quick-witted and hardened to many local customs. She guessed the likely cause of the hesitation.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude. The ornament pattern, though — that was completely unfamiliar?”

  “Completely. It corresponds to no age group, sex, or social organization I have ever seen in my life.”

  “And like most of your people, you’ve been all over your world.”

  “That’s right, as far as the continent goes.”

  “Then it’s reasonable to guess that this person has been in the ice for a long time.”

  “I can’t think of any other explanation.”

  “And — please forgive me if this question is also discourteous — will anyone be bothered if we use a very tiny sample of his or her tissue to try to find out how long ago death occurred?”

  “That would be all right even if there were known relatives, unless they were very odd people indeed. There are such folk, but I really wouldn’t worry. All of us here would very much like to find out how long ago this person froze, and where and why; but I suppose some of that will have to wait until we find the people who were in the truck.”

  “And maybe longer,” was Hugh’s contribution to the close of the discussion. “Thanks, Miriam. Jan’ll let us all know as soon as she has anything to tell.” He turned to his wife and gestured, not using standard code, “All right, darling. Do your job.”

  She came as close to expressing affection as environment armor allowed, and headed for her lab.

  Hugh thought briefly of bumping someone from a tour of watch duty which demanded a different sort of concentration and was, in its way, a sort of relaxation, but the seed of another idea was starting to sprout. He decided to stay where he was, as undisturbed as possible, to let it grow.

  The truck had come to Pitville some undetermined distance from some undetermined point somewhere on Darkside, apparently under automatic control. The last seventy or eighty kilometers of that journey had followed the regular road from the sea. The rest had apparently been cross-country.

  Why had it followed the road? Why had it not come into the settlement straight from its point of origin? Because someone wanted that point to remain unknown?

  But then why allow the autodriver to make a record of the trip? And why set it to follow the road, even briefly? Any random direction of approach would be just as deceptive. Could the driver’s chart have been falsified in some way? One of the people on the truck had been a Crotonite, who might very well have been able to make the device sit up and talk — and lie. So could the Erthumoi who had apparently been there, or any other passengers; it was a matter of learning the foibles of that instrument, not of belonging to a particular species. Any technically trained member of the Six Races, or, for that matter, a Habra, could probably have learned the requisite skills from a competent instructor in, at the outside, an hour or so.

  Should he, Hugh Cedar, call Rekchellet and Third-Supply-Watcher and their companions and suggest that the search was a waste of time? Not yet. There’s a broad gap between even the most reasonable hypothesis and the weakest real theory, and a good chance still remained that people were actually in trouble and needing help somewhere out there in the chilly half-light of setting Fafnir. Or somewhere where Fafnir had already set.

  What was needed was a bit of testing. Someone, as a first step, should go out to the point where the truck had left the road and look for — what?

  Well, for evidence of whether the machine had stopped there and for how long. It would have melted snow under its body, which would have frozen into a sheet of ice almost at once when it left. With luck, the sheet would even bear marks of its treads, and possibly other tracks.

  Who should go?

  Agreed — by and with himself — that the truck shouldn’t be called back. It should continue what it had started.

  A Habra or a Crotonite could get there from Pitville far faster than Hugh himself, even in the low gravity. Unfortunately, the only Crotonite to whom he could explain the whole matter quickly enough was Rekchellet. It would take too long to get any other even to start listening. The Habras were both pleasant and bright enough, but he didn’t feel for the moment that he knew any of them that well, even Ted. Janice couldn’t go any faster than he. S’Nash. .

  Maybe. The snake could travel fast enough. Janice, however, had shared with her husband her mixed feelings about the Naxian’s trustworthiness, and Hugh had already felt much the same; his thoughts during the meeting at the ice dump had closely paralleled hers.

  Strongest point of all: the ice sheet, if it had been produced at all, had not been noticed by any of those now with the truck. It could easily have been covered by blown snow, or even by an advancing dune. Third-Supply-Watcher would have seen it only if she had been looking for it, and she had presumably had no reason to do that. Or had she? Hugh remembered that something had been said about examining each place the truck had stopped for clues.

  He hesitated; he rather liked the idea he was developing, and didn’t want it to die too young, but common sense won. He called the truck. The Locrian answered.

  “Did you make a really close examination of the place where you left the road before you started climbing hills?” asked the Erthuma.

  “Not a deep one. There seemed no reason. There was no evidence of a prolonged stop, and it seemed unlikely that one would have been made so we checked only the surface. Is there reason to have gone deeper?” answered the Locrian with evident concern.

  “No strong reason. I had an idea, but not a very well supported one. Not enough reason for you to turn back. Have you found anything of interest?”

  “Not to the search. Judging by the differences between our actual height and readings on this chart, the hills move quite rapidly at some points and much less so at others. I have failed to find any systematic relation so far.”

  “If you do, put in for an advanced degree. Thanks.” Hugh signed off, thought for another minute or two, and called Ged.

  *

  Janice had picked up a coring tool at her lab and made her way to the warehouse. The slab of ice was lying where it had been left; not even a Habra was watching or guarding it. Miriam’s casual attitude toward the dead, or at least dead who weren’t personal acquaintances, seemed to be shared by the other natives. In the interest of statistical reliability the Erthuma took two dozen specimens from points scattered the length of the body, though mostly from its upper surface — even here the ice slab was hard to turn over lor a single human being in armor. She included some wing tissue for comparison with the specimen already found in the Pit.

  The operation was simple enough, but had to be done carefully, with each item separately stored and labeled; the whole procedure took nearly half an hour. Absorbed in work she liked, Janice took no real notice of the variations in weather which occurred during that time — a spell of clear calm, with Fafnir shining on the work area to lend his small assistance to her own lamp; another howling snow squall which forced her to bend close
to see what she was doing; a mass of slow-moving, nearly saturated, bitterly cold air which threatened to hide subject and equipment in quickly growing frost. She was used to Habranhan weather and paid attention to it only when its demand was insistent. She had checked her armor properly and trusted it.

  Back in the lab, she started a nondestructive examination. Like the Locrian, she was not familiar with Habra internal machinery or tissue structure, and it took her some time to realize that what she was seeing was not entirely animal tissue. When she began to suspect, it was easy enough to check, though she had to go outside once more for a comparison specimen — not, of course, from the body. Not even from a living native, which might have demanded more diplomacy than she yet felt ready to use. She found her specimen quickly enough, immediately outside the building, and spent more time with the microscope. Then she called Hugh.

  “I don’t think we’ll need to notify relatives with this one, either,” was her greeting.

  “Another fossil, if that’s the right word here?” Her husband’s eyes lit up.

  “It’s not a fossil. It’s a frozen specimen of original tissue. Don’t make me get technical in code when you already know. It’s certainly been buried, though.”

  “How old is it?”

  “I haven’t dated it yet. The point is that the tissue is riddled with microscopic threads which are turning out to be roots.”

  “You’re sure they’re not nerves?”

  “I wasn’t at first. Then I found them in parts of my ice cores which came from outside the body, and I’ve matched them from plant samples I took right at the lab door.”

  “Matched? Same species?”

  “I wouldn’t know. Same general structure. That body’s been under the ice long enough for bushes to grow above it and through it. I’ll run some dates now.”

  She signed off without formalities, and Hugh resumed thinking. Ninety seconds later he called his wife again.

  “Can you save some of your ice for Red, or should he get his own scrapings?”

  “I hadn’t thought about microbes. Silly of me. I can supply him. Shall I call him?”

  “I will. You’re busy, and it’ll take some explaining. He’ll be annoyed if we can’t give him an age, so get to it, Hon.”

  “Right.”

  Hugh got in touch with the Erthuma biologist who currently specialized in Habranhan microorganisms and explained matters as tersely as his listener would allow. His thanks consisted of a loud complaint that Biology had not been informed of the Habra body. Hugh pointed out that it had been in their possession less than three hours, identified as a specimen rather than a casualty for less than one, and that if Respected Opinion McEachern knew how to tell the age of such an object at first glance both Cedars would be delighted to hear his opinion. Meanwhile, Janice was attempting a carbon date and would let them know as soon as she could. He was welcome.

  Hugh leaned back and flexed the fingers of his code hand.

  Then he called the office of Spreadsheet-Thinker and asked whether he could have the assistance of a Locrian of third or lower skill rank for at least twelve hours. The problem would be explained in detail in a written report which Safety Chief Cedar would submit within the next hour to the administration office. He also wanted use of a land-traveling robot and an air-blast sweeper, but expected that this might take longer. It had occurred to him that there was no real need to go on foot.

  Hugh then went to a writing keyboard with what would have been a groan of relief if he had had the use of his vocal cords. It was so much easier to write than to send verbal-substitute code. It was a pity that people doing complex and dangerous tasks couldn’t take their eyes off them to read. .

  The report was done in a quarter of an hour; the brevity which code constraints had been forcing on him seemed to be carrying over. He transmitted it to Administration and three minutes later was informed that sweeper and Locrian would appear when the latter’s sleep period ended, which was very shortly. Where did Safety Chief Cedar want them in half an hour?

  “At the warehouse — the terminal where the road comes in from the port.”

  “You will be there to provide instructions, or should we relay them?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  The Erthuma frowned thoughtfully over the communicator. He would also need a Habra, of course.

  Fortunately, Hugh could use one of his own safety people without having to clear through any higher office. There were senders, tied to his own desk, scattered throughout the settlement which would broadcast brief please-check-in messages at inoffensive volume to Habra safety watchers within two or three kilometers.

  There was only one other decision to face.

  Once again Hugh Cedar was looking at the pumps and condensers of the pressure-fluid equipment. He didn’t look long. He and Janice had spent one period, over half a Common Year before, with only one of them set for deep diving. It had seemed a good idea at the time, but Janice, who had been the diver, had gone back to air breathing well before that project had ended. Little had been said later, but there was a strong mutual feeling that henceforward it would be neither or both when it came to pressure treatment.

  Janice was currently far too busy to waste time in changeover, and Hugh could do what was now necessary easily enough with his armor full of liquid. Being less agile might be some hindrance, but being twice as heavy could only help.

  Hugh filed a plan of his proposed activities for the next few hours. He didn’t actually call Administration and tell them, but Spreadsheet-Thinker or Ged Barrar or any of their staff would be able to find him if they had to. So could any of his own safety people, especially a few minutes later when he made contact with Ted.

  The Habra came plunging out of the dimly-lit haze above the settlement before the Erthuma had gotten fifty meters from his door, and swept in graceful patterns above the street as Hugh made his way slowly toward the warehouse and the start of the Port road. He listened with interest as his chief shared ideas. He listened again, with no obvious urge to interrupt, as Hugh repeated them to the Locrian and to S’Nash who were waiting at the warehouse. The Naxian had apparently been examining the frozen body but did not actually explain its/his presence.

  “Eleventh-Worker, we’re going out to the place where the truck which is being back-traced left the road — you know about that?”

  “I know about the truck which arrived under automatic control. I heard nothing of an investigation, but I am not surprised that you are making one.”

  “I have an idea that it stopped at that point and was deserted by the last, or perhaps by all, of its living occupants there. If it did, it should have left an ice patch similar to that.” Cedar indicated the spot, now partly covered with drifted snow, a few meters from where the ice-shrouded corpse was lying. “It’s likely that any such trace will be covered by now, either by blowing snow or a moving hill. We might find it by digging, but obviously you can save us a lot of time, especially if it’s not there.”

  “Of course.”

  “The robot will use the sweeper to clean any area you indicate, so that I can examine it too…”

  “And I,” S’Nash cut in.

  “Sure, if you want to come.”

  “I find myself most interested, even though there seem to be no Naxians involved in the Truck Mystery.” The listeners could almost hear the capital letters. “There does seem to be a Crotonite, and there are reasons which I’ll be glad to explain when you have enough time why I am trying to understand the flying ones better than I now do.”

  “No need, unless Eleven or Ted wants to hear. I suspect we all feel much the same on that point— though maybe Ted, as a flier himself, has no problem.”

  “You star travelers are all strange to us,” the Habra admitted, “the Crotonites no less than the others. The fact that they can fly makes no real difference.”

  Hugh smiled at the thought of how Rekchellet would have reacted to that remark. “We ground types can ride on the sweepe
r,” he keyed. “You’re welcome, too, Ted, but I suppose you’ll be more comfortable in the air. The distance is fairly short, and we could all make it under our own power, but it will be much quicker if we ride. Just a minute; I’m thinking like a glacier today.”

  He left the group without worrying how the translators might handle the simile, and entered the warehouse, where he remained for some time. When he finally emerged, two other Erthumoi were with him, carrying a neutrino transmitter. This they settled as firmly as they could on the sweeper carriage, received Hugh’s coded thanks, and disappeared inside once more.

  “Climb on!” keyed the safety chief. “We’re on our way, unless someone else has an idea we can use. You all know what we’re looking for, and my brain isn’t working well today.”

  No one spoke up, and all but the Habra clambered onto various parts of the carriage.

  “I’ll stay within hearing,” were the native’s words as he lifted away from the group. Hugh gave the robot a quick code briefing, and the machine set the sweeper carriage in motion. The Erthuma watched his Naxian and Locrian companions narrowly at first, but neither seemed bothered by a robot chauffeur. After all, automatic pilots were used by everyone; they had been steering aircraft and surface vessels, spaceships and wheeled carriers for all the Six Races, except perhaps the Crotonites, for ages. Artificial intelligence was something else entirely. Even the fact that this driver had taken verbal instructions could be rationalized; following a road was simple enough, even if the road might sometimes be blocked by a creeping hill of ice dust. They did, after all, have a sweeper with them, and neither the Locrian nor the Naxian considered the road’s slope a problem. If the ground changed altitude, they might have noticed if they were walking or crawling, but certainly not while riding.