by Allen Wold
They left the area by a covered concourse, passed through another lobby with what might have been shops along some walls, and through another concourse, fractured and with intrusions of lava that had penetrated the deep layer of ash above. They went through a smaller lobby, a glassed-in balcony, a tubular passage that once had hung suspended, perhaps over gardens. On the other side was a glassed-in balcony adjoining another small lobby, with balconies on all four sides. From there Droagn led them down ramps into the service cellars.
Here they followed a corridor with pipes and machinery and cables along the ceiling to another lobby on that same level. From there they followed a broad, darkened concourse that ended in a very small lobby.
"You still think this is a chateau?" Rikard said.
"Something like. There was one group of us, a culture called the Lambeza, who did in fact establish larger, shared communities wherever they were. They didn't wander around as much and..." He stopped, put down some of the stuff he was carrying, reached up, and, grasping the circlet by one of its projecting spikes, took off the Prime with one hand and massaged his scalp where it rubbed against the metal band with another.
"There weren't very many of them," he went on, "and they didn't live on many worlds, but they were fairly stable, and so everybody else sort of looked on them as record keepers and the like." He bent his head as if he were giving Rikard a sidelong glance. "Just exactly the kind of people you like to deal with. If this were a Torniro townhouse, or a Rohmaiik chateau, there'd be nothing for you to find. Oh, maybe a small personal library, but what can you learn from a few best-sellers. No, if you're going to find anything interesting, it would have to be in a Lambeza residence. At the most there'd be three or four hundred families here. They were different. But then, they didn't survive into my own time."
The far side of the small lobby in which they stood was all windows, fractured and crazed, bowed inward by the pressure of lava and ash. There were other, similar lobbies to either side. The one to the right turned a corner in the direction they wanted to go.
On the third side of the square they turned away toward the center of the ruins, but shortly found their route completely blocked. There was no covered concourse, no readily accessible cellars, and no side passages within the reach of Droagn's Prime. Only a lava-sealed window.
Droagn put down all the equipment he was carrying, and Rikard knelt to unpack the cutting wand. Droagn took the wand, which looked like a pencil in his huge hand, and quickly cut through the wall just below the ceiling, then down to the floor on either side of the door frame. By the time he and Rikard packed the cutter back in its case the metal had cooled.
Droagn gripped the cut edge on the right side up near the top and pulled back. The material of the frame bent toward him, then an uncut spot gave way and the whole panel ripped inward.
The surface of the scoria and pumice stone, where it had pressed against the window, was as smooth as the window itself had once been. Droagn picked up his staff and, thrusting it like a spear, struck against the black glasslike material with the blunt end. When it struck, the power of the blow, not inconsiderable in itself, was magnified by the staff and converted into a succession of vibrating shock waves. The volcanic stone shattered.
He struck again, and again, boring a tunnel. After about fifteen meters they came to another window, which they broke through into yet another small lobbylike chamber.
Beyond this there were only cellars. They passed through two fairly large rooms, then a long service corridor with side rooms, some of which showed signs of having been stripped of built-in equipment. At the end was a narrow service ramp, going up one full circle to a door that opened easily into a little alcove on the side of a large open space, with what looked like sales counters along one wall, and a complete window wall opposite the ramp, with an open portal beyond to a walkway, covered by transparent glazing, that crossed over a once-open space.
They hurried through the once-suspended passage. It went on for twenty meters and ended in another open area, subtly different from the first.
There was color here, or the remnants of color, darkened by heat and time. Columns supported a ceiling two levels overhead, around which were balconies. In the wall opposite the windows were a series of broad, shallow alcoves, each with an elaborate, wide, double bifold door, geometrically ornamented. On either side broad corridors went off into the darkness, with counters on the inside walls, more arches farther on.
Droagn slid off to the right, to another series of alcoves up the broad corridor from the doors, and Rikard and Grayshard followed. In each of these alcoves, as wide as the others but about three times as deep, were three elevated floor sections, each of them shaped somewhat like a comma, with the "tail" starting at the floor and rising to the "head," which was nearly a meter above it. They had once been covered with some kind of material, the texture of which was almost visible though now it was no more than fine ash.
Droagn slithered around to one of the commas and lay on it, his torso elevated, his serpentine lower body comfortably curling down the tail and then around the whole "couch" two and a half times. "Get a couple friends," he said, "and sit around and chat before the show begins."
Grayshard shone the light around the walls of the alcove. "Look at that."
It was a niche, within reach of the couch opposite that on which Droagn reclined, in which rested a small object. Droagn took it down.
"Just a cup," he said. He held it out to his two friends. Lamplight glinted off the crystalline facets. It had a foot and a short stem. It looked not much different from any number of other wineglasses Rikard had seen, except for its capacity, which was about a liter. "Just my size."
Grayshard had backed out of the alcove, and was shining the lamp onto the wall over the archway. "And this," he said.
Rikard and Droagn went out to look. There was a plaque set into the wall above the center of the alcove arch. It might have been bronze or some similar metal. It was deeply inscribed. But whatever language it might have been, it was like nothing any of them had ever seen before. And on either side of the text, placed as if to hold it up, were the graven figures of two beings exactly like Endark Droagn.
2
Rikard's camera eye had the whole scene recorded. Even if nothing else were found, the figures carved over the doorway would prove the Ahmear origin of these ruins, and his reputation—his other, academic reputation—would be assured.
"I think it's time we went inside," he said. His voice was surprisingly calm and even. But he could feel himself grinning.
They went to the nearest of the large, decorative bifold doors. Rikard stood for a moment, contemplating the carved panels. It was all abstract work, and subtly different from anything else with which he was acquainted.
On Rikard's right Endark Droagn coiled on his long, serpentine body. His hands were working as if he wanted to push the doors open. To Rikard's left and a bit back was Grayshard, silent, motionless.
Though there were other Ahmear ruins on Trokarion, they had only recently been recognized as such, and all were mere fragments. The only other Ahmear artifact in the known galaxy was the Prime, which Droagn, the only living Ahmear in the known galaxy, now wore. And here, today, they had found a cup, a bas-relief, and these doors at least. The archaeological, historical, cultural worth of what might be found beyond made Rikard's chest tight and his hands clench.
To calm himself he turned his attention to his recording helmet and became consciously aware of its readouts, subtly superimposed over the external image in his left eye. He raised an eyebrow to adjust the color scale to compensate for the hues from Droagn's lamp, increased sensitivity down to half a lux, and increased the depth of field so that he wouldn't have to constantly change focus. Inertial compensators kept the helmet level, and kept his head movements slow and smooth. There was not much to record in the way of sound, so he kept the mikes set to 360-surround and set the volume high, but not so high that it picked up his or Droagn
's heartbeat, or that the sound of footfalls would be unpleasantly loud. "Okay," he said.
Droagn put his huge hands on the ornately curved levers of the door latches, pressed down, pushed to either side, and the panels folded in on themselves and away. He held the lamp so that it was just above Rikard's head, and together, with Grayshard close behind, they entered a huge, vaulted and columned space that the lamp was barely able to illuminate.
Between the columns, and as far as the light could reach, were statues, mostly life-size set on daises, and all Ahmear. Other serpentine sentients there might once have been, but a Human can tell the difference between his own species and another, and Droagn knew, too, that these were representations of his own people.
It was a long time before Rikard remembered to breathe. Though they could see only a portion of this great chamber, there was more within their view than in many smaller local museums Rikard had visited. Coffee table books could be published, art and archaeological monographs certainly would be published, even news services off-planet would report this find.
Yet this was not their objective. But since they still had to cross this hall of statues, Rikard was determined to make the most of the opportunity. He recorded everything.
Most of the statues were of a single Ahmear, in poses that suggested that they were being commemorated by the sculpture. At the base of each dais was a plaque, engraved in the same unknown language as that over the arch outside in the hall. A few were multiple figures, and these were usually reduced in scale, but not always. One set of three figures was represented fully three times life-size.
There were a few statues with rather more dramatic poses, arms upraised, or rearing high on their coiled tails, or representing some abstract idea rather than a specific person. Some of these were only twenty or thirty centimeters high, on pedestals that brought them up to what, for an Ahmear, was a comfortable viewing level—about eye level for a Human. Rikard was sorely tempted to take one or two of them. Aside from their historical value and great age, they were marvelous works of art. But now, he knew, was not the time to collect, that would be on their way back out.
The hall was large, and there were an awful lot of statues, and they saw only those nearest them as they crossed the dark, echoing space. They were placed not at random but according to some system, not exactly chronological but, Droagn guessed, more cultural or spatial, though not exactly that either. The aesthetics of the people who had built this place had been lost with them.
Most of the Ahmear notables represented by statues wore nothing other than their scales, but quite a few wore harnesses, similar in function if not in design to Droagn's. It was a matter of providing pockets and a place to hang things rather than a need for warmth.
Or modesty. An Ahmear's genitals were carried inside the body and didn't need to be concealed. But in one section the figures were actually wearing clothes, shirts or vests or open jackets, though they wore aprons or short skirts rather than pants.
In another place there were several Ahmear wearing armor—and armor designed to cover a serpent was very complicated indeed. Some of it was the equivalent of pregunpowder armor used by all but the most pacifistic of species, but a few pieces were of the more modern powered kind, such as worn by heavy-duty police or local military forces. There were still other figures who wore, or carried, other items of apparel, the nature and function of which was less obvious.
It was difficult for Rikard to pass by so quickly. He would gladly have spent hours if not days here, going from object to object, learning as much as he could about each one.
Most of the statues were made of bronze, marble, petroplastics, and other materials that could stand unchanged forever. But some had been made of less permanent materials, such as wood perhaps, or the softer plastics. Perhaps there had once been moisture in this place, or maybe it had been the heat, or possibly even some bacteria or mites had survived to feed on the more organic substances, because some of the daises held only piles of crumbling rubble, and some of them nothing at all.
At last the light from Droagn's lamp reached the far wall. They hurried now, and as they neared the far side of the room they could see, off to their left, the arch of another doorway, fully as large as the one by which they had entered. There were no other doors to either side, though the lamp did not reach into the corners of this great museum room. That simplified their choices for them.
The room beyond was, if anything, larger than the first. That this was a serious museum and not just a hall of commemoratives was now apparent, since the objects contained in the wall alcoves adjacent to the door, on daises and pedestals elsewhere in the room, and in settings simulating normal use, were all items of furniture. Most were crumbled beyond recognition, but there were enough left in a sufficient state of preservation to be more than tantalizing.
One piece, for example, looked like an oversize chair, though how an Ahmear could sit in it was not at all obvious. Droagn dared not try it out, as it was far too fragile. Another was a couch, much like the built-in ones out in the foyer, but both more luxurious, with now collapsed and powdering leather, and less functional, due to the highly carved wooden rails and posts, now split and shrunken. "This is all very old," Droagn said.
"That's fairly obvious," Rikard commented dryly. "No, I mean, it would have been old in my time."
"At least twenty-five thousand years older," Grayshard said.
"I mean old," Droagn projected, vocalizing a growl at the same time. "I took some art history classes when I was in school—it was required—and I'm trying to remember... it's the pedestals, that's what it is, each one unique. The Lambeza stopped using that display method, ah, about two million years ago."
"It can't be that old," Rikard protested. "Of course it can, we've been around a lot longer than that. If only some pieces were displayed that way, then you might say that they were leftovers in a modern museum, but since every damn thing has its own special base, then that's the way this museum was set up."
There were obvious tables, cabinets, belly cushions as Droagn called them, some almost intact, others identifiable though collapsed under their own weight. The original intent had been to demonstrate differences in style, exemplary forms, variations in material, cultural influence. Even in its current state there was much that could be learned, though it would take scholars several centuries just to sort it out, especially without Ahmear help.
Elsewhere there were objects that, while apparently of Ahmear manufacture, were totally incomprehensible, even to Droagn. There was a thing like a very narrow toy top, balanced on a circular foot, with several niches around its widest part. There was what might have been a child's slide—even Ahmear children liked to slide—except for the transverse slots and the seven spikes projecting straight up from the sloping surface.
In spite of the size of this display area, they passed through quickly. Rikard was becoming saturated. It was not easy to maintain a high level of interest when almost everything was both unrecognizable and in a state of ruin and decay.
Again there was a single large doorway on the far side of the hall, not quite so large as the first two, and beyond it was a wide corridor. The walls were a succession of shallow alcoves set about a meter above the floor.
This was sculpture of a more decorative nature. There were statuettes, plaques, carvings in stone of various kinds, castings in bronze and other metals, work in permanent plastics and ceramics. Rikard recorded as many as he could, but to have done every piece justice would cost hours. He could only hurry past and pause when something special caught his attention.
Such as a half-meter-tall statuette in what might have been silver, it was so black and corroded, of an erotically entwined pair.
"Which is the male and which the female?" Rikard asked Droagn.
"If you can't tell, you don't need to know." Another might have been carved out of wood, but only the preservative matrix was left, the original material long since flaked away, a bust of some pe
rsonage, whose features could still be made out in spite of being only a sponge of plastic fibers.
One fine piece was carved out of crystal, in the shape of an animal that Grayshard thought was native to this world but now extinct, long and lean with six legs and an arching neck and flowing tail.
On one pedestal was a pile of rust in which lay a few gemstones, large and brilliant and elaborately cut.
Farther on they came to a sword-wielding warrior, with three shields, carved out of what might have been ivory.
Not far from that was a perfectly preserved bronze, untarnished due to a plastic coating, commemorating an event with two Ahmear shaking hands. Behind them was a stylized starship, in forced perspective. On a plaque below the figures was a text in a different alphabet from that on the others they'd seen. There was a centauroid figure carved out of green stone, like jade, more feline than equine. There was a blown-crystal representation of a Taarshome, except that it was supposed to be lit up. There was a series of plastic representations, one-tenth size but in natural color, of Kelarins in various dramatic poses.
There were small sculptures of animals, some native, some exotic. There were more representations of Ahmear and Kelarins, and of a few other species as well, but no Humans. There were a few abstracts, mostly of mixed media, some of them partially collapsed as the wood or leather or nondurable plastic gave way to time, desiccation, and even here the heat of the volcano.
Each of the objects had its own pedestal, within its shallow alcove, and each pedestal was unique. Some few of these also had inscriptions on plaques. "Notice the cartouches," Droagn said. "This is very old Lambeza."
"Can you read any of the languages?" Rikard asked. "I can't even read the alphabets."