flash floods, and the beings, whatever they were, who had left only hints of their advanced development–all these had flourished and vanished before life on Earth had evolved to anything more complex than blue-green algae.
Now the metal mirror on the desk, incised with a thousand characters, gave testimony that a billion years ago Mars had been host to a high culture.
“I suppose Forster knows of this already.”
“Yes, I regret to say,” the driller replied. “The word spread fast on the grapevine. Forster’s on his way from Earth now.”
A smile flirted with the archaeologist’s mournful mouth. “It will be amusing to see what he makes of it.”
“He’s already held a media conference, you know. Already given the makers of this a name.”
“Oh? What name?”
“He calls them Culture X.”
The sad archaeologist allowed himself an amused grunt.“Dear Professor Forster. Always energetic. Not always very original.”
“That at least is to our advantage.”
* * *
No efforts of drilling teams or scientists ever found any trace of a treasure hoard on Mars. But ten years after the discovery of the Martian plaque, a mining robot on the surface of Venus–a planet as different from Mars as hell from limbo–was prospecting in a narrow canyon near an ancient beach, a beach a billion years old. The robot’s diamond-edged proboscis cut through a wall of rock and came upon strange things. Within hours news went out across the solar system that Culture X had been, without doubt, a spacefaring species.
PART ONE
CONCERNING RESEARCH
INTO LOST TIME
I
Sparta closed her eyes, stretched in the tub, and let her chin bob at the water line. At the threshold of sound, the water fizzed. Droplets condensed on her eyelashes; invisible bubbles tickled her nose. The odor of sulfur hung lightly over the baths.
The precise chemical formulation of the minerals in the water appeared unbidden in her mind’s eye; they changed every day, and today the water cocktail mimicked the baths of Cambo-les-Bains in the Pays Basque. Sparta analyzed her environment wherever she went, without thinking about it. It was a reflex.
She floated easily; she weighed less, and the water weighed less, than they would have on Earth. She was a long way from Earth. Minutes went by and the warm water rocked her into relaxed drowsiness as she savored the news she had long awaited and only today received, her orders from Space Board headquarters: her assignment here was ended, and she was recalled to Earth Central.
“Are you Ellen?” The voice was quiet, tentative but warm.
Sparta opened her eyes and saw a young woman standing shadowed in the mist, naked but for the towel wrapped around her waist. Her straight black hair was tied in a bun.
“Where is Keiko?”
“Keiko was unable to come today. I’m Masumi. If it is all right with you, I will give you your massage.”
“I hope Keiko isn’t ill.”
“A minor legal matter. She asked me to apologize for her, most sincerely.”
Sparta listened to the woman’s soft voice. She heard nothing but the simple truth. She rose from the tub. Her slick skin, rosy with heat, gleamed in the filtered light from the terrace. The diffuse light played over her dancer’s small taut figure, over her slight breasts, over her flat stomach and abdomen ridged with muscle and her slim hard thighs.
Her disheveled blond hair, soaking wet in back where it had been submerged, fell straight to her jaw line; she kept it chopped off straight, with little regard for fashion. Her full lips were perpetually parted, tasting the air.
“Here’s a towel for you,” Masumi said. “Would you like to go on the upper terrace? We still have an hour of Venus-light.”
“Certainly.” Sparta followed the woman along the row of steaming tubs and up the steps to the open roof deck, brushing the water from her shoulders and breasts as she walked.
“Excuse me a moment, please. They forgot to
Now the metal mirror on the desk, incised with a thousand characters, gave testimony that a billion years ago Mars had been host to a high culture.
“I suppose Forster knows of this already.”
“Yes, I regret to say,” the driller replied. “The word spread fast on the grapevine. Forster’s on his way from Earth now.”
A smile flirted with the archaeologist’s mournful mouth. “It will be amusing to see what he makes of it.”
“He’s already held a media conference, you know. Already given the makers of this a name.”
“Oh? What name?”
“He calls them Culture X.”
The sad archaeologist allowed himself an amused grunt.“Dear Professor Forster. Always energetic. Not always very original.”
“That at least is to our advantage.”
* * *
No efforts of drilling teams or scientists ever found any trace of a treasure hoard on Mars. But ten years after the discovery of the Martian plaque, a mining robot on the surface of Venus–a planet as different from Mars as hell from limbo–was prospecting in a narrow canyon near an ancient beach, a beach a billion years old. The robot’s diamond-edged proboscis cut through a wall of rock and came upon strange things. Within hours news went out across the solar system that Culture X had been, without doubt, a spacefaring species.
PART ONE
CONCERNING RESEARCH
INTO LOST TIME
I
Sparta closed her eyes, stretched in the tub, and let her chin bob at the water line. At the threshold of sound, the water fizzed. Droplets condensed on her eyelashes; invisible bubbles tickled her nose. The odor of sulfur hung lightly over the baths.
The precise chemical formulation of the minerals in the water appeared unbidden in her mind’s eye; they changed every day, and today the water cocktail mimicked the baths of Cambo-les-Bains in the Pays Basque. Sparta analyzed her environment wherever she went, without thinking about it. It was a reflex.
She floated easily; she weighed less, and the water weighed less, than they would have on Earth. She was a long way from Earth. Minutes went by and the warm water rocked her into relaxed drowsiness as she savored the news she had long awaited and only today received, her orders from Space Board headquarters: her assignment here was ended, and she was recalled to Earth Central.
“Are you Ellen?” The voice was quiet, tentative but warm.
Sparta opened her eyes and saw a young woman standing shadowed in the mist, naked but for the towel wrapped around her waist. Her straight black hair was tied in a bun.
“Where is Keiko?”
“Keiko was unable to come today. I’m Masumi. If it is all right with you, I will give you your massage.”
“I hope Keiko isn’t ill.”
“A minor legal matter. She asked me to apologize for her, most sincerely.”
Sparta listened to the woman’s soft voice. She heard nothing but the simple truth. She rose from the tub. Her slick skin, rosy with heat, gleamed in the filtered light from the terrace. The diffuse light played over her dancer’s small taut figure, over her slight breasts, over her flat stomach and abdomen ridged with muscle and her slim hard thighs.
Her disheveled blond hair, soaking wet in back where it had been submerged, fell straight to her jaw line; she kept it chopped off straight, with little regard for fashion. Her full lips were perpetually parted, tasting the air.
“Here’s a towel for you,” Masumi said. “Would you like to go on the upper terrace? We still have an hour of Venus-light.”
“Certainly.” Sparta followed the woman along the row of steaming tubs and up the steps to the open roof deck, brushing the water from her shoulders and breasts as she walked.
“Excuse me a moment, please. They forgot to
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