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    The Engines Of God
    The Engines Of God
    The Engines Of God
    Ebook567 pages7 hours

    The Engines Of God

    By Jack McDevitt

    3.5/5

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    About this ebook

    The first Priscilla Hutchins novel from Jack McDevitt, hailed by Stephen King as “the logical heir to Isaac Asimov and Arthur C. Clarke.”

    Humans call them the Monument-Makers. An unknown race, they left stunning alien statues on distant planets in the galaxy. Each relic is different. Each inscription defies translation. Yet all are heartbreakingly beautiful.

    And for planet Earth, on the brink of disaster, they may hold the only key to survival for the entire human race.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherPenguin Publishing Group
    Release dateDec 1, 1995
    ISBN9781101532744
    The Engines Of God
    Author

    Jack McDevitt

    Jack McDevitt is the author of A Talent for War, The Engines of God, Ancient Shores, Eternity Road, Moonfall, and numerous prize-winning short stories. He has served as an officer in the U.S. Navy, taught English and literature, and worked for the U.S. Customs Service in North Dakota and Georgia.

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    Reviews for The Engines Of God

    3.5/5

    471 ratings28 reviews

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    • 3/5
      Fun, interesting science fiction adventure set in the near future. Enjoyable writing with a page turning, rich plot and female characters that are real people, not just props.
    • 3/5
      This novel is actually exactly what I think of when I hear the words “space opera.” There is nothing I have read that more fits that category than this novel.

      The basic plot of the novel involves alien structures that a team of space-archeologists/anthropologists is working on placing in a historical timeline and/or researching to perhaps locate such aliens (extinct or not). At times, some of the threads of this plot were difficult for me to follow – not because, I think, that it is hard science or that it is too big a concept – honestly, I think the writing just does not sharpen the resolution enough on what is going on. Perhaps, there is not really all that much there, too. So, the concept is made to seem bigger than it is and is kept somewhat just out of focus.
    • 2/5
      For something that claims to be "hard scfi", this novel is awfully soft. Now that could just be a petty observation on my part, so be it. But throughout this second reading (my first was in my early twenties), I couldn't help but think that this was almost a Star Trek fan-fic without the pseudoscience.
      Although the Earth is going thru its final throes due to overpopulation and a runaway greenhouse effect, all if the characters seem utterly unaffected by this: they eat steaks and bottles of wine, live in picturesque houses by the sea and enjoy all the fruits of advanced technology.
      And the technology doesn't really hold up to today's discoveries where exosolar planets seem more the norm than the exception. The lack of technical knowledge of the "pilot" seems overly egregious. Sending one just one or two people to
      pilot a starship without any support staff sounds ludicrous.
      And in the end, some questions are answered but the ones that aren't are set up almost cynically for a lead-in to a sequel or three.
    • 2/5
      Intensely dull. Interesting premise with cardboard characters used mainly as deliverers of exposition, and a plot that proceeds at the speed of Brexit.
    • 4/5
      This was an impulse buy. A scruffy old copy I found in a charity shop. I’d never heard of the author and thought it might be a bit B-movie-ish, but I liked what it said on the back cover, spelling error and all. Turns out it’s a very good novel.

      The themes are time and death.

      The background is that humanity has reached the stars and found the archeological remains of two extinct human-like species. Big timespans are bandied about. 19,000 BC, 1,000 BC (“Dates are rendered in the standard language of the Christian epoch, out of respect for everyone’s sanity”). McDevitt really brings out the sadness of those near misses. Such a long time in human terms, just a moment in astronomical terms.

      In the foreground is the narrative, each chapter located in time to the minute. It’s really impressive how many things that move the plot along also express the themes. The choices we make about how to fill the little time we have left, the fury with which we rush to get things done under that pressure and the sacrifices we make for what we really want.

      It’s in that intersection between second and light year, species and individual, that this novel finds something to say.

      There are also some flaws, but they’re not that important.
    • 3/5
      This was a perfectly serviceable space adventure with space travel, archaeology and monsters. The characters were a little thin, but the best part was that many of them were women, including the main character. It's nice to get an adventure story without it being uncomfortable because girls are barely allowed.
    • 3/5
      I enjoyed the story line but I book felt like sereral ‘episodes’ that were interesting by themselves but not clearly part of the overall story. Honestly I didn’t ever consider abandoning the book and I wanted to know the outcomes. I also often wished I could get to the end sooner.
    • 4/5
      A great beginning to what looks to be a really fun series. Looking forward to continuing reading . Really like the way Jack McDevitt tells a story...
    • 4/5
      It's the year 2197, earth is in a bad way (famine, drought, overpopulation, and general suffering due to the effects of climate change) and has been looking for another planet to colonize for quite some time. In the search for habitable planets, monuments from another race are discovered. On one planet that is on the schedule for immediate terraforming, a connection between the monument-makers and the previous inhabitants is discovered which could lead to solving why the previous inhabitants are gone - and potentially to saving earth from the same fate.

      I enjoyed this well enough to continue with the series but I found the end to be a bit anti-climatic.
    • 4/5
      Humanity had managed to discover FTL and from there the universe. And as soon as we started looking, we started finding other races - one that had left monuments all over the place but is nowhere to be seen, one that we seem to have missed just for a few centuries, one in the middle of Civil war and at least a few more. Archeologists have new careers - amongst the stars. The Academy had been formed in order to study these alien world and humanity is going further and further away. Unfortunately Earth is not doing that well and a group of rich people wants to terraform one of those worlds that had supported alien life. The problem of course is that in order for that to happen, everything left from the previous inhabitants will get destroyed. And the archeologists are now thrilled about that. And just when it looks like they will need to live with it, they find something that may be the key to the history of the universe.

      Enter Priscilla Hutchins - a pilot sent to pick up the errant team of scientists and bring them home before the planet is flooded. She picks up a passenger on the way there - an old friend (who happens to be an archeologist - which is why he goes with her after all). Let's just say that things do not go very well - people die, people screw up and somewhere in the middle of that there is a big secret, a killer amongst the stars that explains everything that had been found.

      Add to this a few more planets and the usual corporation/science war; add a lot more death and suffering and by the end the truth is as strange as anyone could have imagined (although it does take them a lot longer than it should have to figure out the pattern).

      McDevitt uses a leaf of his own book and brings back the Monitor at the end of chapters in "The Hercules Text" and uses the sections at the end to show news from the time, diary records and other historical elements. It adds to the story and to the understanding of the world without needing a real story to tie them up. I liked it when he did it before, I liked it here as well.

      It is an entertaining story that may have been planned as a single story (and it can as well had remained so) but by now there are a few more books about Hutchins. Onto the next book by McDevitt.
    • 4/5
      Funny, I thought this book would be boring, but it really wasn't. It was pretty exciting. It's got space ships, scientists and archaeology of ancient alien civilizations, alien space stations, other worlds and other beings on other worlds, not all nice either, murder, love, mystery, a sense of foreboding -- what more do you want? Hutch, the protagonist, is a space ship pilot and while many reviewers complain that her character doesn't develop sufficiently for them, I really enjoyed her. I did feel, however, like it was two novellas loosely connected, as though there were a climax in the middle of the book and then, boom, off to a new adventure. That threw me. The ending was also somewhat abrupt. But I enjoyed reading about the Monument Makers, the alien languages and symbols, the fight to remain alive in what appears to be a dark moment for all. This is the first in a series and I've already gotten more books in this series. I want to find out more of what happens. I was quite happy with this book and think this is what good sci fi should be. Recommended.
    • 4/5
      Even though I had read books 3-6 in the series previously, this novel which effectively sets up the entire universe of the story, still had me on the edge of my seat.

      Nobody does xenoarchaeology like Jack McDevit, yet somehow the massive scale of the story never retracted from fully realized characters.

      It drags slightly in 3rd quarter, but massively delivers in the 4th. This guy can write one hell of a conclusion.
    • 3/5
      Not sure the Goodreads star ratings match up well for this story. It was a solidly-written 3 star book, but really only rates as an "It's okay" more so than "I liked it".

      I knew going into this novel that it was part of a much greater series, however, I still felt very disappointed by the fact the book raises a lot of questions but doesn't deliver any answers. I would be more drawn into the series if there had been real revelations that created an even broader mystery and greater promise and questions. I just don't feel that by the end, as a reader, we were any further along than we were after the first quarter.

      I also found the pacing of the book all over the place. McDevitt raises some really interesting ideas with the future archaeologists unearthing mysteries of other ancient alien life-forms, but too often it does't seem to lead anywhere. The major action points feel forced and out of character with the type of people meant to be engaged in these activities. I didn't buy the snowball/fallen asteroid situation - surely the drama should have been about the work the scientists themselves were doing, not some kind of frat-boy high-jinks? And too often after these odd heights, the story settles into a kind of denouement that requires the story be rebuilt from scratch again. The stakes don't get raised, rather, we rinse and repeat what just happened, albeit it in a different locale was a slightly different cast. I felt this made the story lag way too much in parts.

      As a reader, there's nothing worse than feeling I've read 1/3 of the book and now we are starting afresh again. I became so frustrated I literally started skipping over parts to get back into the drama. I'd just spent pages and pages on the minutiae of excavation on a alien planet for what? To go through it again?

      I assume that as one delves deeper into the series more of the promise will be delivered upon, but I really question whether I have the heart for it.
    • 3/5
      OK McDevitt, but very much like many of his other novels. Though far enough in the future to have faster than light travel, people and technology not otherwise very different. Bureaucrats appear about as often as adventurers. Much of the action is planetary, where the usual unsuspectedly deadly creatures do in a handful of explorers. There's a nice sequence aboard a spaceship with failing power and falling temperatures, where rescue is on the way but looks to be a few days too late.
    • 4/5
      This book follows a fairly classic science fiction trope - small team goes out and discovers an odd phenomenon, must rush to figure out what the odd phenomenon is. In this case, its alien archaeological sites that seem to end every 6000 years or so. There also there is a species of technologically advance species, nick named "The Monument Makers" - so seem to add create odd not-cities on moons and leave beautiful sculptures in random places.

      Its a solid book - but it does it have multiple problems - a good editor for starters a good third of the book is unnecessary. Characters could have been combined. Also - I think the author was lazy in his aliens. They are too human - too easy to understand. A team of archaeologists might be able to decipher alien languages from a dead civilization - but they shouldn't have been able to pronounce the language. It was disconcerting. Other problems - first, the book was written in 1994 - so some leeway can be given to to how race and women are referred to. For example, the lead character Hutchins is described in terms of romance and being a woman. Even her Mother calls her to chide her for not being married with children. In this day and age, it felt very contrived. As for race, there wasn't any. It was all white males who lead the scientific teams. There were a few black people, but they were only mentioned briefly. It felt very white washed. Last, in terms of bureaucracy - at the beginning of the book, the science teams felt like part of a larger scientific institute. By the end, the same science teams were flying off to all sorts of places, with not much oversight. It was totally disconcerting after how the first part of the story was set up.

      This book is really a 3.25, rather than 3.5 - but it kept me interested, and I liked how the archaeology was handled. I also liked how the mystery of this book - it kept me reading more (But I was disappointed in the final review of the big mystery) Seriously? A cloud of nanoparticles things that destroy anything with right angles? Wouldn't it be easy to create civilization using round buildings, or underground, and get missed completely? I think its a good read for when you want an easy book that has a bit of a mystery set in space.
    • 2/5
      Abandoned it. The situation is moderately interesting, but the writing doesn't hold up and you don't care about the characters.
    • 5/5
      The Engines of God, by Jack McDevitt, is a powerful and fascinating science fiction novel by the Campbell Award and Nebula Award winning science fiction writer (and one of my favorite authors). A group of twenty-third-century scientists excavate and study extinct civilizations on planets in extremely distant solar systems. FTL space travel and many other scientific advances have enabled the discovery and exploration of these planets where alien civilizations once flourished. Unfortunately, only material remnants of those civilizations remain to tell their stories. However, finding and excavating those alien ruins, in unpredictable and deadly habitats, is difficult and perilous. Also, restoring, translating and interpreting the alien artifacts to extrapolate descriptions of the alien civilizations is extremely difficult, and political and corporate expectations and restrictions add to the difficulties. As usual, McDevitt develops a diverse and engaging group of fearless characters in this book. They endure extreme hardships and life-threatening incidents, and some characters do not survive. Gradually the scientists perceive a cyclical pattern of destruction in the universe and a captivating mystery investigation unfolds for the reader. This is an astonishing book, with great characters, a well-written and intellectually-satisfying plot, life-or-death struggles, and exotic environments. I was totally enthralled by it and I highly recommend it to anyone, but especially to those who like science fiction. Another good thing about this book is that it is the first book of McDevitt’s “Priscilla Hutchins” series. There are five more “Hutch” books in print now and one more is scheduled for release in November 2013. I am eager to read all of them very much.
    • 3/5
      It has a good beginning but the middle is slow. The ending is good but it takes a while to get exciting again. By than it's ended, but the ending leaves you wanting to read the sequel. It follows some themes from Childhoods End from Sir Arthur C. Clarke.
    • 4/5
      Earth is set to terriform a world where The Academy is working to extract the remains of alien artifacts before they are lost. Just before the deadline, a new find is made that changes everything.

      What a fun read. Just the sort of book I like. No laser wars, no crazy manic madmen, just scientists trying to figure out the strangeness of what they find.

      Definitely continuing this series.
    • 4/5
      My reactions to reading this novel in 1995. Spoilers follow.

      This book, at 419 pages, was a relatively quick read, a compelling mystery of the best sf type: mysterious alien ruins and monuments which ultimately point the way towards a destructive force that periodically comes out of the galactic center to lay waste to urban civilizations and a race of monument makers who try to deflect this force away from themselves and other alien races. The solution to this mystery leaves a lot of questions. Is the Omega cloud really some sort of cosmic balancing force that prevents an urban species – at least one that builds right angle structures – from dominating a planet? Did the Monument Makers flee it into the galactic center? Did the Omega cloud visit Earth and destroy Sodom? A shorter sequel would be in order to, among other things, explore the boost the Omega cloud gives religious fundamentalism.

      McDevitt’s style mixes archival memoirs, future histories (relating the events of the novel), ship’s logs in an effective matter that foreshadows events without spoiling suspense, and the plot is full of tense moments when archaeology becomes lethal or, at least, hazardous: desperately pulling artifacts out of the Temple of the Winds before it is destroyed by terraforming generated earthquakes, a band of archaeologists huddling in a ship with crippled life support and waiting for death and another band bearing the brunt of an Omega cloud hitting a planet, and an attack by lethal and all too intelligent crabs. (I wish there would have been more exploration of the idea they are sentinels for the ruins of the Monument Makers.)

      McDevitt’s world is much like ours with a few high tech accoutrements like ftl ships and “Flickinger fields”. He gets away with this (nanotech is mentioned a couple of times but only as an alien technology) by postulating a Collapse (with a “Great Famine”) so that the world of 2197 seems much like ours (including pending environmental disasters and ethnic hostilities) with some high tech goodies to propel a space opera plot. (The technology seems to have no effect on life on Earth.)

      Generally, I didn’t find McDevitt’s characters all that compelling, but the group interactions were good – particularly when characters – when sober and angry – blamed each other for getting colleagues killed. I suppose, all things considered, McDevitt, as in his The Hercules Text, wrote himself into a corner, and the solution to the archaeological mystery was bound to be disappointing. Perhaps an air of mystery is good.

      There were a couple of mistakes. The Monument Makers are first described as having six digit hands then later as having five digit hand.
    • 4/5
      I love the big ideas of Jack McDevitt, and I enjoy that, unlike so much fantasy and sci-fi, he doesn't often depend on violence or the threat of violence to advance the plot and to create tension. This book, moving in several stages, begins to explore the mysteries surrounding dead civilizations that humans have discovered in their travels. Characters are a little less developed than I prefer, but I'm hooked and ready to read the next books in the series.
    • 4/5
      (Reviewed October 8, 2008)

      McDevitt's sense of mystery and discovery is...amazing. It really is. There is so much pleasure to be gained from uncovering all the puzzles contained within this book.

      His character development needs some SERIOUS work, though. I lost count of the amount of times I rolled my eyes. But that's a pretty common shortcoming of SF, so it's not a huge issue.

      Good stuff.
    • 4/5
      This was a required read for a RL book group. I was dreading it because a previous encounter with the author was very frustrating. Another outing with alien archeology, but he took the whole book to set it up, rushed through the subject, never explored it, and seemed to leave it all for a follow up book.

      I was expecting the same with this book (uneven pacing, and writing about everything but the subject). I was wrong and pleasantly surprised.

      This book does deal with alien archeology. There are archeologists at a dig on a planet far away from earth. It was interesting, if a bit contrived - they have a deadline because a private company with government approval is going to terraform the planet and destroy the artifacts, and all lifeforms. Earth is crowded, hot and desperate.

      The characters were rather superficial and seemed to be stock. It tried to be SF, a thriller and a disaster book all in one. In fact it seemed to be very TV-ish. The writing is a bit wordy, but it does flow, and it kept my interest.

      The book also seems to be split into two different stories, the dig and then a group of characters follow a cosmic event that impacts the civilizations it passes by. They end up in place that has been more recently destroyed and go exploring. Bad things happen.

      I guess I rated it as high as I did because it was so much better than I expected. Others may be less generous. It is supposed to be the first in the series, and I am still ambivalent about reading further.

      Damning with faint praise I guess.
    • 3/5
      The premise (from Barnes & Noble.com): Two hundred years ago, humans made a stunning discovery in the far reaches of the solar system: a huge statue of an alien creature, with an inscription that defied all efforts at translation. Now, as faster-than-light drive opens the stars to exploration, humans are finding other relics of the race they call the Monument-Makers - each different, and each heartbreakingly beautiful. But except for a set of footprints on Jupiter's moon Iapetus, there is no trace of the enigmatic race that has left them behind. Then a team of scientists working on a dead world discover an ominous new image of the Monument-Makers. Somehow it all fits with other lost civilizations, and possibly with Earth's own future. And distant past. But Earth itself is on the brink of ecological disaster - there is no time to search for answers. Even to a question that may hold the key to survival for the entire human race...

      My Rating

      Wish I'd Borrowed It: there were just too many factors working against this book for me personally to really latch on. The sense of wonder element wasn't near strong enough to sucker me in, though it did keep me reading just to finish the book. I didn't connect with any of the characters, and despite the mystery uniting the overall storyline, it felt too episodic and too cluttered. In some ways, I think this book would translate well into a television series, but it didn't work well for me as a novel. Then again, I'm having more and more trouble stomaching science fiction lately, and every time I pick up an SF, I wonder if that book will be the one to break the streak of "meh" I've been feeling, but so far, no good. It's not to say I won't ever give McDevitt another shot ever again, but I won't be returning to the Priscilla Hutchins series, that's for sure. I'll have to try the Alex Benedict or one of McDevitt's stand-alones instead.

      The full review, which does include spoilers, may be found in my LJ. As always, comments and discussion are most welcome.

      REVIEW: Jack McDevitt's THE ENGINES OF GOD

      Happy Reading! :)
    • 5/5
      The first step of McDevitt's "Hutch" series of books, "The Engines of God" is an outstanding achievement in the rapidly-dwindling pantheon of hard science fiction. However, it is perhaps most startling that the great achievement is due not to flashy technology or awesome starships, but rather the transplantation of the very terrestrial occupation of archeology to the stars.

      Following Priscilla Hutchins, pilot of superluminal (faster than light) spacecraft, the story is told in, effectively, three acts; as are many of McDevitt's books. Although McDevitt is famous - or, perhaps, infamous - for slow introductions, the revelation of the details in an archeological dig on the distant planet of Quraqua immediately hooks the reader in. McDevitt is careful in his revelations, never giving the reader quite enough to believe that they understand everything - a very real simulation of true archeology.

      However, when the essential villain steps in to disrupt peaceful academia, the introduction is not done with a sledgehammer. Rather than a clear-cut evil entity, the antagonist in the story instead becomes time itself - a deadline rather than an entity. While it is easy to lay blame on the corporation imposing the deadline, the justifications given are enough to plant the seed of doubt in the reader's mind.

      McDevitt sets the tone for the rest of his works in the structure of the plot for this book. Just when the story seems concluded, it is revealed that the "concluding" events are actually just a segue into what could very well be the thrust of the story. Best of all, McDevitt does not achieve this effect through sudden introduction of plot or person, but rather by tying up loose ends introduced much earlier in the story. The evidence is always visible to the reader, and McDevitt masterfully ties the loose ends together into a hook for the second half of the book.

      Filled with very real human moments and breathtaking descriptions of alien worlds, "The Engines of God" is a book for any hard science fiction fan. McDevitt does not "cheat" on his science fiction, and explains with open hands exactly how his universe works - a trait that has been vanishing from the genre in recent years. Science fiction fans will not be disappointed.

      -BrowncoatLibrarian
    • 4/5
      A very enjoyable read. Very much enjoyed the political ramifications, the ethical and sociological discussion that permeated throughout the book. This is not a space opera, "look we're in space" science fiction book. It is about humanity and how we relate to space and the dangers that come from it in the upcoming centuries.

      More importantly, at least for me, it leaves to the reader to ponder about the uniqueness of man. Can man stop its destruction?

      You won't find out, but it will leave you thinking for sure.
    • 5/5
      Hard science fiction at it's best. The title may be a turn off to some, but the mystery embedded within has little to do with an almighty power and everything to do with an ominous alien force.
    • 1/5
      The best thing about this book was the jacket art.

    Book preview

    The Engines Of God - Jack McDevitt

    PART ONE

    MOONRISE

    1.

    Quraqua. 28th Year of Mission, 211th Day. Thursday, April 29, 2202; 0630 hours local time.

    Almost overnight, every civilization on this globe had died. It had happened twice: somewhere around 9000 B.C., and again eight thousand years later. On a world filled with curiosities, this fact particularly disturbed Henry’s sleep.

    He lay awake, thinking how they were running out of time, thinking how the Quraquat had known after all about the anomaly on their moon. They were unaware of the two discontinuities, had lost sight of them toward the end, and remembered them only in myth. But they knew about Oz. Art had found a coin which left no doubt, whose obverse revealed a tiny square on a crescent, at the latitude of the Western Mare. Precisely where Oz was located.

    He wondered whether Linda’s surmise that the Lower Temple era had possessed optical instruments would prove correct. Or whether the natives had simply had good eyes.

    What had they made of the thing? Henry buried his head in his pillow. If the Quraquat had looked at their moon through a telescope, they would have seen a city occupying the center of a vast plain. They would have seen long airless avenues and rows of buildings and broad squares. And a massive defensive wall.

    He turned over. Eventually Oz would surface in Quraquat mythology and literature. When we’ve collected enough of it. And mastered the languages.

    His stomach tightened. There would not be time.

    The anomaly was only rock, cunningly hewn to create the illusion of the city. There was the real puzzle. And the explanation for Oz lay somehow with the race that had inhabited this world. This was a race that had built complex cultures and developed philosophical systems that had endured for tens of thousands of years. But its genius did not extend to technology, which had never risen much beyond a nineteenth-century level.

    The door chimed. Henry? The voice in the speaker was tense with excitement. Are you asleep?

    No. He opened the door. Did we get in?

    Yes—

    Henry threw back his sheet. Give me two minutes. I didn’t think it would be this quick.

    Frank Carson stood in the corridor. You have a good crew down there. In the half-light, he looked pleased. We think it’s intact.

    Good. That’s goddam good. He turned on his table lamp. Beyond the window, sunlight filtered down from the surface. Did you see it?

    Just a peek. We’re saving it for you.

    Yeah. Thanks. The traditional lie amused Henry. He knew they had all stuck their heads in. And now they would pretend that the boss would make the grand entrance.

    If there was anyone with the Academy’s archeological teams homelier than Henry Jacobi, he would have been a sorry sight. In Linda Thomas’ memorable phrase, he always looked as if a load of scrap metal had fallen on him. His face was rumpled and creased, and his anatomy sagged everywhere. He had slate-colored hair, and a permanent squint which might have derived from trying to make out too many ideographs. Nevertheless, he was a master of social graces: everyone liked him, women married him (he had four exwives), and people who knew him well would have followed him into combat.

    He was a consummate professional. Much like those paleontologists who could assemble a complete brontosaur from a knee bone, Henry seemed able to construct an entire society from an um.

    He followed Carson through the empty community room, and down the stairway into Operations. Janet Allegri, manning the main console, gave them an encouraging thumbs-up.

    Creepers and stingfish moved past the wraparound viewpanel. Beyond, the sea bottom was crisscrossed by trailmarker lamps. The sunlight was fading from the water, and the Temple was lost in the general gloom. They passed into the sea chamber, and put on Flickinger harnesses and jetpacks. Henry rubbed his hands together in pure pleasure.

    Carson straightened his shoulders in his best military bearing. He was a big man with a square jaw and intense eyes that saw the world in sharp colors. That he was a retired colonel in the army of the North American Union would surprise no one. This is just the beginning, Henry. I still say we should hang on here. What are they going to do if we refuse to leave?

    Henry sighed. Carson didn’t understand politics. They would put a lot of heat on the Academy, Frank. And when you and I went home, we would find ourselves back in classrooms. And possibly defending ourselves in court.

    You have to be willing to take risks for what you believe, Henry.

    He had actually considered it. Beyond Earth, they knew of three worlds that had given birth to civilizations. One of the civilizations, the Noks on Inakademeri, still survived. The inhabitants of Pinnacle had been dead three-quarters of a million years.

    And Quraqua.

    Quraqua, of course, was the gold mine. Pinnacle was too far gone, and since the Noks were still in the neighborhood, the opportunities for investigation were limited. Nonetheless, there was hardly a graduate student who hadn’t found a buried city, uncovered the key to a mass migration, tracked down a previously unknown civilization. It was the golden age of archeology. Henry Jacobi understood the importance of saving this world. But he had no inclination to risk anyone’s life in the effort. He was too old for that sort of thing.

    Does Maggie know we’re in?

    They’re getting her now. The poor woman never gets any rest, Henry.

    She can rest when we’re out of here. Maggie was his chief philologist. Code-breaker, really. Reader of Impossible Inscriptions. The lamp on his left wrist flashed green. He activated the energy field.

    Carson punched the go pad, and the lock cycled open. Water sloshed in over the deck.

    Outside, visibility was poor. They were too close inshore: the marker lights always blurred, the water was always full of sand, and one could seldom see the entire Temple.

    The Temple of the Winds.

    A bitter joke, that. It had been submerged since an earthquake somewhere around Thomas Jefferson’s time created a new shoreline. The Temple was a one-time military post, home for various deities, place of worship for travelers long before humans had laid bricks at Ur or Nineveh.

    Sic transit.

    Fish darted before him, accompanied him. Off to his left, something big moved through the water. Carson turned a lamp in its direction, and the light passed through it. It was a jelly. Quite harmless. It rippled, blossomed, and swam leisurely on its way.

    A broad colonnade masked the front of the Temple. They settled onto the stone floor, beside a circular column. It was one of ten still standing. Of an original twelve. Not bad, for a place that had been through an earthquake.

    Frank. Linda’s voice broke in on his earphones. She sounded pleased. And with good reason; she had planned this aspect of the excavation. She’d taken a couple of chances, guessed right, and they’d broken in well ahead of schedule. Under the circumstances, the time gained was critical.

    Henry’s with me, said Carson. We’re on our way.

    Henry, she said. We’re open as far back as we can see.

    Good show, Linda. Congratulations.

    The Temple entrance gaped wide. They swam into the nave. Lines of colored lights trailed off through the dark. It always seemed to Henry that the lamps exaggerated the size of the place.

    Blue, said Carson.

    I know. They followed the blue lamps toward the rear. Only vestiges of the Temple roof remained. The gray light from the surface was oily and thick against the cheerful glow of the markers.

    Henry was in poor condition. Swimming tired him, but he had declared jets too dangerous to use inside the excavation. He had to live by his own rules.

    The glowing blue track angled abruptly off to the left, and plunged through a hole in the floor.

    He could hear Linda and Art Gibbs and some of the others on the common channel. They were laughing and cheering him on and congratulating one another on the find.

    He swam down the labyrinthine approach tunnel. Carson stayed to his rear, advising him to take his time, until Henry finally lost patience and asked him to be quiet. He rounded the last bend and saw lights ahead.

    They stood aside for him. Trifon Pavlaevich, a husky Russian with a giant white mustache, bowed slightly; Karl Pickens beamed; and Art Gibbs floated proudly beside Linda.

    Linda Thomas was a redheaded dynamo who knew what she was doing and didn’t mind sharing credit with her colleagues. As a result, they loved her. She stood over a shaft, waving him forward. When he reached her, she shook his hand, and their fields glimmered.

    All right, he said briskly. Let’s see what we’ve got.

    Someone pressed a lamp into his hand.

    He lowered it into the darkness, saw engravings and basreliefs, and descended into a chamber whose dimensions reached beyond the limits of the light. The walls were busy, filled with shelves and carvings. There were objects on the shelves. Hard to see precisely what. Maybe local sea life, accumulated before the room was sealed. Maybe artifacts.

    His team followed. Trifon warned them not to touch anything. Got to make a chart before anything gets moved.

    We know, Tri.

    Lights played across the wall-carvings. He could make out animals, but no likenesses of the Quraquat. Sculptures of the intelligent species were rare, except in holy places. In any age. And among most of their cultures. There seemed to be an imperative that prohibited capturing their own image in stone. There would be a reason, of course, but they had not yet found it.

    The floor was covered with a half-meter of silt.

    Other chambers opened beyond. And voices echoed happily in his phones:

    This used to be a table.

    The symbols are Casumel series. Right?

    Art, look at this.

    I think there’s more in back.

    Here. Over here.

    And Linda, in the room on the north side, held a lamp up to a relief which depicted three Quraquat figures. Trifon delicately touched the face of one of the images, trailing his fingers across its jaw, along the thrust of its mouth. The Quraquat had been warm-blooded, bipedal, furred creatures with a vaguely reptilian cast. Alligators with faces rather than long jaws and mindless grins. These were robed. A four-legged beast stood with them.

    Henry? She motioned him over.

    The figures were majestic. They radiated power and dignity. Are they gods? he asked.

    What else? said Tri.

    Not strictly, said Linda. This is Telmon, the Creator. She indicated the central figure, which was dominant. She is the Great Mother. And these are her two aspects: Reason and Passion.

    The Great Mother? Henry sounded surprised. The Quraquat at the time of their demise had worshipped a supreme male deity.

    Matriarchal societies have been common here, she said. Tri was taking pictures, and Linda posed beside the figure. For perspective, more or less. If we ever get a decent analysis on the Lower Temple, she said, "we’ll discover that was a matriarchy. I’ll bet on it. Moreover, we’ll probably find Telmon in that era as well."

    Carson’s voice came in on Jacobi’s personal channel. Henry, there’s something here you’ll want to see.

    It was in the largest of the chambers, where Carson waited before another bas-relief. He waved Henry nearer, and raised his lamp. More Quraquat figures. These seemed to be set in individual tableaus. There are twelve of them, he said in a significant voice. Like the Christian stations.

    Mystical number.

    Henry moved quietly around the room. The figures were exquisitely wrought. Pieces had broken away, others were eroded by time. But they were still there, frame after frame of the Quraquat in that same godlike dignity. They carried rakes and spears and scrolls. And, near the end, a fearsome creature with partially hooded features appeared.

    Death, said Linda.

    Always the same, thought Henry. Here or Babylon or New York. Everybody has the same image.

    What is this? Do you know?

    Linda was glowing. It’s the story of Tull, the Deliverer. Here— She pointed at the first tableau. Tull accepts the wine of mortality from Telmon. And here he is behind a plow.

    Quraquat mythology wasn’t Henry’s specialty. But he knew Tull. Christ figure, he said. Osiris. Prometheus.

    "Yes. Look, here’s the visit to the armorer. She drifted along the friezes, pausing before each. And the battle sequences."

    There’s a problem here somewhere, said Carson. The myth is later than this period, isn’t it?

    We’re not sure of very much yet, Frank, said Linda. And maybe this place isn’t as old as we think. But that doesn’t matter as much as the fact that we have a complete set of tableaus.

    Marvelous, said Henry. They’ll put these in the West Wing and hang our name on them.

    Someone asked what they represented.

    Here, said Linda. It begins here. Tull is an infant, and he’s looking down at the world.

    It’s a globe, said Art. They knew the world was round.

    That knowledge was lost and recovered several times during their history. Anyway, Tull envied the people on the world.

    The Quraquat.

    Yes.

    Why?

    "It’s not clear. The Quraquat apparently thought it was obvious why an immortal would behave this way, but they didn’t explain it. At least not in any of the records we’ve been able to find.

    "Over here, he’s assumed a devotional attitude. He is requesting the gift of mortality from his mother. Look at the universal outstretched hands.

    And here—she moved past Henry, pointing—here, he is a teacher.

    And here, caught up in war. Arm raised. Expression fierce. His right hand was broken off. He would have been holding a weapon, she said. He was at a disadvantage, because when they gave him mortality, they did not deprive him of all his divine attributes. He understood the suffering of his enemies. And he could see the future. He knew that death in battle awaited him. And he knew the manner of its coming.

    The crocodilian image of the god-hero was not without its nobility. In one frieze, he contemplates mortality in the presence of dark-robed Death.

    Eventually, said Linda, he asks that his godhood be restored. Here, look at the supplicating hands.

    Henry nodded. I assume it was restored?

    "Telmon left the decision to him. I will comply with your wish. But you have chosen by far the better part. Continue in your present course, and you will be loved so long as men walk in the world. She didn’t say ‘men,’ of course, but used the Quraquat equivalent." Linda illuminated the final tableau. Here, he has made his decision, and puts on his armor for the last time.

    After his death, his mother placed him among the stars. She turned toward Henry. That’s the point of the myth. Death is inevitable. Even the gods are ultimately subject to it. Like the Norse deities. To embrace it voluntarily, for others, is the true measure of divinity.

    The dark, robed figure was disturbing. Something familiar about it, said Henry.

    Carson shook his head. It just looks like your basic Grim Reaper to me.

    No. He had seen the thing before. Somewhere. It isn’t Quraquat, is it?

    Art pointed a lamp at it. Say again?

    It isn’t Quraquat. Look at it.

    No, it isn’t, said Linda. Does it matter?

    Maybe not, he said. But take a close look. What does it remind you of?

    Carson took a deep breath. The thing on Iapetus, he said. It’s one of the Monuments.

    Dear Phil,

    We got a complete set of the Seasons of Tull today. I have attached details of the design, and tracings of eight wedges with inscriptions in Casumel Linear C. We are exceedingly fortunate: the place is in excellent condition, considering that it was close to sea water for most of its existence, and in the water for the last few centuries.

    Time was, we would have had a major celebration. But we are getting close to the end here. We’ll be turning everything over to the terraformers in a few weeks. In fact, we are the last team left on Quraqua. Everybody else has gone home. Henry, bless him, won’t leave until they push the button.

    Anyway, your wunderkind has struck gold. Henry thinks they’ll name the new Academy library for me.

    Linda

    —Linda Thomas

    Letter to her mentor, Dr. Philip Berthold, University of Antioch. Dated the 211th day of the 28th year of the Quraqua Mission. Received in Yellow Springs, Ohio, May 28, 2202.

    2.

    Princeton. Thursday, May 6, 2202; 1730 hours.

    Hutch killed the engine and the lights, and watched the first wave of office workers spread out through the storm. Most headed for the train station, an elevated platform lost in the hard rain. Some huddled in the shelter of the Tarpley Building, and a few—the more prosperous—dashed for their cars. The sky sagged into the parking lot, its underside illuminated by streetlights and traffic.

    His lights were still on, but the blinds were down. It was a corner office on the top floor of a squat utilitarian building, a block of concrete and glass, housing law firms, insurance agents, and jobbers reps. Not the sort of place one would associate with romance. But for her, just being here again, just seeing it, set her internal tides rolling.

    People were piling up at the main doors, pulling their collars tight, wrestling with umbrellas. Two or three energy fields blinked on. Cars swung into the approaches, headlamps blurred, wipers moving rhythmically.

    Hutch sat unmoving, waiting for the lights to go out, waiting for Cal Hartlett to appear out on the street, wondering what she would do when he did. That she was here at all angered her. It was time to let go, but instead she was hanging around like a lovesick adolescent, hoping something would happen. Hoping he would change his mind when he saw her, as though everything they’d had would come rushing back. But if she didn’t try, she would have to live with that knowledge, and she would always wonder.

    She shrank down into the front seat, and drew the rain and the night around her.

    He had first confessed his love to her in that office. She’d sat in as a systems technician for him one memorable evening, and they’d stayed until dawn.

    How long ago all that seemed now. She had been between flights, and when it all ended everything had seemed possible. We’ll find a way.

    The glidetrain appeared in the distance, a string of bright lights against the general gloom. A few people hurrying across the lot broke into a run. It approached on a long slow curve, braked, and whispered into the station.

    Cal was a financial analyst with the brokerage firm of Forman & Dyer. He enjoyed his work, loved to play with numbers, had been fascinated by her profession. My star pilot. He loved to listen to her descriptions of distant worlds, had extracted a promise that one day, somehow, she would take him along. At least, he’d smiled, to the Moon. He had gray eyes and brown hair and good laugh lines. And he loved her.

    The lights in his office went out.

    He lived eight blocks away. Cal was a fitness nut, and even in weather like this he would walk home.

    The glidetrain pulled out, accelerated, and slipped into the storm.

    The steady flow of people thinned to a handful. She watched the last of them, several waving down their rides, two breaking into a run toward the station.

    And then he came through the door. Even at this distance, and in the blurred light, there could be no mistaking him.

    She took a deep breath.

    Cal pushed his hands deep into the pockets of his soft brown jacket and strode into the lot, away from her, with a quick step. She watched him cross the plastene, skirting puddles, plowing steadily ahead through the storm.

    She hesitated, very deliberately shifted to low feed, and switched on the engine. The car moved silently across the pavement, and drew up beside him. Until the last moment, she was uncertain whether or not she would swerve away.

    Then he saw her. Her window was down, rain pouring in. He looked startled, pleased, ecstatic, uncomfortable. The whole range of emotions played across his face. Hutch. He stared at her. What are you doing here?

    She smiled, and was glad she’d come. Want a ride?

    The passenger’s door lifted, but he stood watching her. I didn’t know you were home.

    I’m home. Listen, you’re getting drenched.

    Yeah. Thanks. He came around the front of the car and got in. The after-shave was the same. How are you doing?

    Okay. How about you?

    Fine. His voice was flat. You look good.

    Thanks.

    "But then you’ve always looked good."

    She smiled again, warmer this time, leaned over, and carefully kissed his cheek. Cal had seemed fairly dull when she’d first met him. And his profession had done nothing to enhance that image. But he’d touched her in some primal way so that she knew, whatever happened tonight, she’d never be the same. His appearance, which had been so ordinary in the beginning, was now leading-man, drop-dead caliber. How and when had that happened? She had no idea.

    I wanted to say hello. Swallow. See you again. Who were the couple who slept with a sword between them to ensure forbearance? She felt the presence of the sword, hard and dead.

    He was silent, searching. Hello.

    Rain rattled on the roof. I missed you.

    He frowned. Looked uncomfortable. Hutch, I have something to tell you.

    Up front, she thought. That was his style. You’re getting married.

    His eyes widened again. He grinned. It was the sheepish, friendly, disingenuous grin that had first attracted her two years before. Tonight, it reflected relief. The worst of this was already over. How did you know?

    She shrugged. People were telling me about it ten minutes after I landed.

    I’m sorry. I would have told you myself, but I didn’t know you were back.

    It’s not a problem. Who is she? She negotiated a deep puddle at the exit, and turned onto Harrington Avenue.

    Her name’s Teresa Pepperdil. She’s like you: uses her last name. Everybody calls her ‘Pep.’ She’s a teacher.

    She’s attractive, of course.

    Again, like you. I always restrict myself to beautiful women. He meant it as a compliment, but it was clumsy, and it hurt.

    Hutch said nothing.

    He looked past her, avoiding eye contact. What can I tell you? She lives in South Jersey, and, as far as I know, she plans to stay here. He sounded defensive.

    Well, congratulations.

    Thanks.

    She turned left onto 11th. Cal’s apartment was just ahead, in a condo designed to look like a castle. The pennants hung limply. Listen, she said, why don’t we stop and have a drink somewhere? She almost added, for old time’s sake.

    Can’t, he said. She’ll be over in a little while. I need to get cleaned up.

    She pulled in at the curb, short of the driveway. Cut the engine. She wanted to back off, let it go, not embarrass herself. Cal, she said, there’s still time for us. She spoke so softly she wasn’t sure he’d heard.

    No. His eyes turned away. She had expected anger, perhaps bitterness, sadness. But there was none of that. His voice sounded hollow. There never was time for us. Not really.

    She said nothing. A man approached with a dog. He glanced at them curiously, recognized Cal, mumbled a greeting, and passed on. We could still make it work, she said. If we really wanted to. She held her breath, and realized with numbing suddenness that she was afraid he would say yes.

    Hutch. He took her hand. You’re never here. I’m what you do between flights. A port of call.

    That’s not what I intended.

    It’s what happens. How many times have we had this conversation? I look at the sky at night, and I know you’re out there somewhere. How the hell could you ever settle in to hang around Princeton the rest of your life? And rear kids? Go to PTA meetings?

    I could do it. Another lie? She seemed to be flying on automatic now.

    He shook his head. Even when you’re here, you’re not here. His eyes met hers, finally. They were hard, holding her out. When’s your next flight?

    She squeezed his hand, got no response, and released it. Next week. I’m going out to evacuate the Academy team on Quraqua.

    Nothing ever changes, does it?

    I guess not.

    No— He shook his head. I’ve seen your eyes when you start talking about those places, Hutch. I know what you’re like when you’re ready to leave. Did you know you usually can’t wait to get away? You could never settle for me. His voice trembled. Hutch, I love you. Always have. Always will, though I won’t mention it again. I would have given anything for you. But you’re beyond reach. You would come to hate me.

    That would never happen.

    "Sure it would. We both know that if I said, fine, let’s go back and start again, you call up what’s-his-name and tell him you’re not going to Quraqua, wherever the hell that is, and you’d immediately start having second thoughts. Immediately. And I’ll tell you something else: when I get out of the car, and you wave goodbye and drive away, you’re going to be relieved. He looked at her, and smiled. Hutch, Pep’s a good woman. You’d like her. Be happy for me."

    She nodded. Slowly.

    Gotta go. Give me a kiss for the old days.

    She managed a smile. Saw its reflection in his face. Make it count, she said, and drank deep.

    Moments later, as she turned onto the Conover Expressway headed north, she decided he was wrong. For the moment, at least, she felt only regret.

    Amity Island, Maine. Friday, May 7; 2000 hours.

    Hurricanes had been Emily’s kind of weather. She’d loved riding them out, sitting in front of the fireplace with a glass of Chianti, listening to the wind howl around the central dome, watching the trees bend. She’d loved them even though they were getting bigger every year, hungrier, wearing down the beach, gradually drowning the island.

    Maybe that was why she loved them: they were part of the intricate mechanism of steadily rising seas and retreating forests and advancing deserts that had finally forced reluctant politicians, after three centuries of neglect, to act. Probably too late, she had believed. But she heard in the deep-throated roar of the big storms the voice of the planet.

    Richard Wald was struck by her in their first encounter. That had come in the days when archeology was still earthbound, and they’d been seated across a table in a Hittite statuary seminar. He’d lost track of the statuary, but pursued Emily across three continents and through some of the dingiest restaurants in the Middle East.

    After her death, he had not married again. Not that he’d failed to recover emotionally from his loss, nor that he’d been unable to find anyone else. But the sense of what he’d had with her had never been duplicated, nor even approached. His passion for Emily had dwarfed even his love for ancient knowledge. He did not expect to find such a woman again.

    It had been her idea to settle in Maine, well away from D.C. or New York. He’d written Babylonian Summer here, the book that made his reputation. They’d been here on Thanksgiving Day, watching a storm like this one, when the announcement came that FTL had been achieved. (At the time neither Richard nor Emily had understood what was so special about FTL, much less how it would change their profession.) That had been just two weeks before she’d died, enroute to visit her family before the holidays.

    Rain blew hard against the windows. The big spruce trees in his front yard, and across the street at Jackson’s, were heaving. There was no longer a hurricane season. They came at all times of the year. Counting from January 1, this was the seventh. They’d named it Gwen.

    Richard had been reviewing his notes on the Great Monuments while preparing to write an article for the Archeological Review. It was a discussion of the current disappointment that we were no closer to finding the Monument-Makers after twenty years of effort. He argued that there was something to be said for not finding them: Without direct contact, they (the Monument-Makers) have become a considerable mythic force. We know now that it is possible to create an advanced culture, dedicated to those aspects of existence that make life worthwhile, and even noble. How else explain the motivation that erected memorials of such compelling beauty?

    It might be best, he thought, if we never know them, other than through their art. The artist is always inferior to the creation. What after all are Paeonius, Cezanne, and Marimoto when contrasted with the Nike, Val d’Arc, and the Red Moon? Firsthand knowledge could hardly lead to anything other than disappointment. And yet—And yet, what would he not give to sit here on this night, with the storm hammering at the door, and Beethoven’s Fifth in the air, talking with one of those creatures? What were you thinking atop that ridge? Hutch thinks she understands, but what was really going through your mind? Why did you come here? Did you know about us? Do you simply wander through the galaxy, seeking its wonders?

    Were you alone?

    The leading edge of Hurricane Gwen packed two hundred—kilometer winds. Black rain whipped across his lawn and shook the house. Thick gray clouds torn by livid welts fled past the rooftops. The metal sign atop Stafford’s Pharmacy flapped and banged with steady rhythm. It would probably come loose again, but it was downwind of the town, and there was nothing the other side of it except sand pits and water.

    Richard refilled his glass. He enjoyed sitting with a warm Burgundy near the shuttered bay window, while the wind drove his thoughts. One was more alone in heavy weather than on the surface of Iapetus, and he loved isolation. In a way he did not understand, it was connected with the same passions that flowed when he walked the halls of long-dead civilizations. Or listened to the murmur of the ocean on the shores of time. . . .

    There was no purification ritual anywhere in the world to match that of a Force 4 hurricane: Penobscot Avenue gleamed, the streetlights glowed mistily in the twilight, dead branches sailed through town with deadly grace.

    Keep down.

    It was, however, a guilty pleasure. The big storms were gradually washing away Amity Island. Indeed, it was possible, when the ocean was clear, to ride out a quarter mile and look down into the water at old Route One.

    He’d been invited to eat at the Plunketts that evening. They’d wanted him to stay over, because of the storm. He’d passed. The Plunketts were interesting people, and they’d have played some bridge (which was another of Richard’s passions). But he wanted the storm, wanted to be alone with it. Working on a major project, he told them. Thanks, anyhow.

    The major project would consist of curling up for the evening with Dickens. Richard was halfway through Bleak House. He loved the warm humanity of Dickens’ books, and found in them (to.the immense amusement of his colleagues) some parallels to the Monuments. Both espoused, it seemed to him, a sense of compassion and intelligence adrift in a hostile universe. Both were ultimately optimistic. Both were products of a lost world. And both used reflected light to achieve their sharpest effects.

    How on earth can you say that, Wald?

    Carton in A Tale of Two Cities. Sam Weller in Pickwick. In Dickens, the point always comes from an unexpected angle.

    Richard Wald was somewhat thinner than he had been when he’d walked the ridge with Hutch five years before. He watched his weight more carefully now, jogged occasionally, and drank less. The only thing left for him seemed to be womanizing. And the Monuments.

    The meaning of the Monuments had been debated endlessly by legions of theorists. Experts tended to complicate matters beyond recall. To Richard it all seemed painfully clear: they were memorials, letters sent across the ages in the only true universal script. Hail and farewell, fellow Traveler. In the words of the Arab poet, Menakhat, The great dark is too great, and the night too deep. We will never meet, you and I. Let me pause therefore, and raise a glass.

    His face was long and thin, his chin square, and his nose tapered in the best aristocratic sense. He resembled the sort of character actor who specializes in playing well-to-do uncles, Presidents, and corporate thieves.

    The storm shook the house.

    Next door, Wally Jackson stood at his window, framed by his living-room lights. His hands were shoved into his belt, and he looked bored. There was a push on now to shore up the beach. Harry was behind that. They were losing ground because of the frequency of the storms. People were simply giving up. Real estate values on Amity had dropped twenty percent in the last three years. No one had any confidence in the island’s future.

    Directly across Penobscot, the McCutcheons and the Broadstreets were playing pinochle. The hurricane game had become something of a tradition now. When the big storms came, the McCutcheons and the Broadstreets played cards. When Frances hit the year before, a Force 5, they’d stayed on while everyone else cleared out. Water got a little high. McCutcheon had remarked, not entirely able to disguise his contempt for his fainthearted neighbors. But no real problem. Tradition, you know, and all that.

    Eventually, the McCutcheons and the Broadstreets and their game would get blown into the Atlantic.

    Darwin at work.

    The commlink chimed.

    He strolled across the room in his socks, paused to refill his glass. Something thumped on the roof.

    Three-page message waiting in the tray. The cover sheet caught his interest: the transmission had originated on Quraqua.

    From Henry.

    Odd.

    He snapped on a lamp and sat down at his desk.

    Richard,

    We found the attached in the Temple of the Winds. Est age 11,000 years. This is Plate seven of twelve. The Tull myth. Frank thinks it’s connected with Oz. Date is right, but I can’t believe it. Any thoughts?

    Oz?

    The next page contained a graphic from a bas-relief. An idealized Quraquat and a robed figure. Page 3 was a blow-up of the features of the latter.

    Richard put down his glass and stared. It was the Ice-Creature!

    No. No, it wasn’t.

    He cleared off his desk and rummaged for a magnifying glass. This was from where? Temple of the Winds. On Quraqua. Oz—The structure on Quraqua’s moon was an anomaly, had nothing in common with the Great Monuments, other than that there was no explanation for it. Not even a conjecture.

    And yet—He found the lens and held it over the image. Too close to be coincidence. This creature was more muscular. It had wider shoulders. Thicker proportions. Masculine, no doubt. Still, there was no mistaking the features within the folds of the hood.

    But this thing is a Death-manifestation.

    He slipped into an armchair.

    Coincidence, first. Somebody had once shown him an image on the outside of an Indian temple that looked quite like the long-departed inhabitants of Pinnacle.

    But something had visited Quraqua. We know that because Oz exists. And the evidence is that the natives never approached the technology needed to leave their home world.

    Why the Death personification?

    That question chilled him.

    He punched up an image of Quraqua’s moon. It was barren, airless, half the size of Luna. One hundred sixty-four light-years away. A little less than a month’s travel time. It was a nondescript worldlet of craters, plains, and rock dust. Not much to distinguish it from any other lunar surface. Except that there was an artificial structure. He homed in on the northern hemisphere, on the side that permanently faced the planet. And found Oz.

    It looked like a vast square city. Heavy and gray and pointless, it was as unlike the works of the Monument-Makers as one could imagine.

    Yet many argued no one else could have put it there. Richard had always dismissed the proposition as absurd. No one knew who else might be out there. But the Tull discovery was suggestive.

    He called the Academy and got through to the commissioner. Ed Homer was a lifelong friend. He, Richard, and Henry were all that was left of the old guard, who remembered pre-Pinnacle earthbound archeology. They’d gone through the great transition, had been mutually intrigued by million-year-old ruins. Homer and Wald had been among the first to set down on Pinnacle. Today, they still made it a point to get together for an occasional dinner.

    I don’t guess you’ll be jogging tonight, Richard. That was a reference to the storm. Ed was slightly the younger of the two. He was big, jovial, good-humored. He had thick black hair and brown eyes set too far apart, and heavy brows that bounced and rode when he got excited. Horner looked reticent and inoffensive, someone who could easily be cast aside. But that pleasant smile was the last thing some of his enemies remembered.

    Not tonight, said Richard. It’s brisk out there.

    Ed grinned. When will you be coming to D.C.? Mary would like to see you.

    Thanks. Tell Mary I said hello. Richard raised his glass toward his old friend. Nowhere I’d rather be. But probably not for a while. Listen, I just got a transmission from Henry.

    He sent it here, too. I haven’t seen it. Something about a Grim Reaper?

    Something about the Monument-Makers, Richard explained. Ed began to look uncomfortable.

    We’ve got a problem, he said. You know we’re getting ready to pull the plug on Quraqua.

    Richard knew. Quraqua was first in line to be terraformed. It was to be the New Earth. (No other world offered hope of supporting a settlement, save Inakademeri. Nok. But that garden world was already home to a civilization.) Now, a wide group of powerful interests saw Quraqua as a laboratory, a place to establish a utopia, a place to start over. When?

    Six weeks. A little less. Henry was supposed to be out of there by now. But you know how he is. Hell, Richard, once they start, we’re finished. Forever.

    Well, for a half-century anyhow. Might as well be forever. You can’t let it happen, Ed. The situation’s changed.

    "I can’t see how. Nobody gives a damn about the Monument-Makers. Not really. You and me, maybe. Not the taxpayers. And certainly not the politicians. But a lot of people are excited about terraforming. There won’t be any more delays."

    Have you spoken to Caseway?

    No. And I don’t intend to. That son of a bitch wouldn’t give us the time of day. No. Homer’s eyes flashed. Richard read his old friend’s frustration. "Look, you know I would if I thought there was a chance. Why don’t you try talking to him?"

    Me?

    "Yeah. He thinks you’re the big hotshot with this outfit. He’s read your books. Always speaks highly of you. Asked me why the rest of us couldn’t be more like you. Wald wouldn’t put his own interests first, he says. Thinks you have a sense

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