Hegira (17 page)

Now with the fallen Obelisk there were no limitations. In a few decades they would be able to piece together the entire history, culture, and technology of all the civilizations of the First-born.

Kiril almost wished he could stay and learn. But it was too late to stop. The three had to pass beyond the Wall. It was a dead certainty that what lay beyond the Wall was the Land Where Night Is a River. He ran his hand across his forehead and smiled. It was like being halfway through a stormy day riding a scrittori balloon, with clouds beginning to clear.

But they still had a long way to go.

“If we can't climb the thing, how do we get across?” he asked.

“I've been listening to their stories,” Bar-Woten said. “Their legends seem to fit those of my country, end to end, completing the stories and adding more details. But they've also seen them — ”

“Seen what?” Kiril asked.

“The holes. Every few kilometers there's a hole, about eight kilometers above the base of the wall.” He was ebullient. He clasped his hands together and touched two fingers

to his beard, smiling broadly as he looked across the plain. “They say when a man is worthy he can go into the hole and walk as far as he pleases . . . right across to the Land Where Night Is a River. Usually the holes are blocked — but for the worthy man they'll open right up!”

“And after that?”

“We'll see soon enough.”

“Are they going to let us go north?”

“I don't know. We can only ask.”

“They won't believe us.”

“Probably not,” Bar-Woten agreed. “So we don't tell them you're really a prince.” He grinned. “We tell them you're a curious scrittori from a land they've never heard of, and we,” he pointed to Barthel and himself, “are your humble student assistants. We've come to the ends of the world to see what there is to see and exchange what we have to give.”

“You're hopelessly optimistic.”

“These people have no reason to fight. No reason to conquer. They have everything already.” He grinned. His guard's down, Kiril thought.

“I never thought an old soldier would trust anybody,” he said.

“Nor I. That's why I left.”

“The Bey trusts these Wall people?” Barthel asked.

“They could have killed us a dozen times over, and instead they ask us to join their work crews and help them to restore a land they've never visited before.”

“Maybe they're ambitious to a fault,” Kiril suggested.

“What about the ship in Mur-es-Werd that was damaged by a hydrofoil?” Barthel asked.

“Ah!” Bar-Woten raised his hand. “One unanswered question. Maybe they fired first.”

“Perhaps there's more than one civilization with technology like this,” Kiril said. “What's going to happen when they all meet?”

“I don't know,” Bar-Woten said. He stroked his beard, then looked at Kiril as if the Mediwevan had pricked some happy private balloon and brought them all down hard. Kiril was surprised by the look — he'd made the suggestion almost cheerfully. But he sobered and said, “That's the way it always is: two equals meet, and they have to fight.”

“There is a reason for everything,” Barthel said. “Allah dropped the Obelisk here to stop such squabbles. He dropped it in a land of good people perhaps.”

“No, no,” Bar-Woten mused. “Barthel, would your Allah sacrifice ninety million people to hand good cards and fair dice to someone else?”

Barthel frowned for a moment, then nodded, yes. “It would not be without precedent,” he said. “My Allah is no simple God, Bey.”

“I opt for letting the Fall remain a mystery until we hear a better explanation not based on faith,” Kiril said. “There are things faith is good for, and this isn't one of them.”

They scrambled down the southern slope toward the camp. A work party of fifty men and women were laying tarmac for an airfield a half kilometer from the beach. By the time the three had descended, a whistle blew for dinner, and all work stopped.

A communal dining tent had been erected, and dinner was served inside with kerosene lamps on the tables. Most of the crew of the Trident ate under the canvas, and about thirty People of the Wall, including the camp director. He was a grinning, gray-haired man, tall and slightly stoop-shouldered, who called himself Orshist. After the meal was finished he went to a small platform at one end of the tent and set up a board to outline the plans for the excavation of the Obelisk.

His manner was crisp and brief. He carried a collapsible pointer and used it to emphasize his words like a fencer executing a riposte.

“We have the spire,” he said, “and we have Hegira. Hegira in this region has four layers that are familiar to us. They begin with topsoil, which is sparse here, and overburden, which consists of dead dirt and broken rock. Beneath that is the groundwater layer, which extends for at least a kilometer, and beneath that is plastic mantle. The spire has buried itself some four hundred kilometers from here, deep into the groundwater layer. Beyond that, at its midpoint, it has broken through this layer and struck mantle. But of primary interest is where it has lodged in the mountains. The mountains, contrary to what we've learned of geology on Earth, did not form because of drifting continents, of which Hegira has none. The mountains have always been here. Where the spire has fallen across mountains, it has broken through four layers and found a fifth. This fifth is not another extension of mantle, but something quite different. It's porous like a honeycomb, made from what we now think is primary vulcanism — which could only have happened at Hegira's formation. Some of the pores are big enough for a man to step into.”

Kirl and Barthel listened attentively, but Bar-Woten was mulling something over, his bearded chin resting in his hand. His eye was closed.

“If we wish to uncover the spire completely we must dig away all these layers where they cover the sides. We may never know all of the text on the underside, but fortunately the spire is unlike the Wall, and each side supports its own text instead of a continuation from side to side.”

Bar-Woten opened his eye and thought of the honeycomb material, pores big enough to hold a man. That seemed very important, because it reminded him of the rind of a fruit

they had eaten in Golumbine, called sati. It had a thin, tough outer shell under which was an equally tough but spongy and resilient white layer, like tree rubber. The white layer had been porous and dry.

Orshist went into detail about the excavations and produced a chart that showed where the first readings would be made.

“We have a pretty good idea of the history of the Firstborn to the middle of the twentieth centure anno Domini,” he said, pointing to the end of the Obelisk. “Information here could already give us a lifetime of study and development, since we come across complicated philosophies, whole new brands of physical science, and vast, important literatures. But now we need to know how we are related to the First-born and what sort of world Hegira is. With this knowledge we might begin to find some meaning in our existence.”

Bar-Woten, like a weather vane, showed by the set of his mouth and the angle of his eyelid what he thought of Orshist's words. He didn't move a muscle otherwise. He reminded Kiril of a cat intent on its spring.

"So we'll begin in areas we can interpret. That will put us at this point, two hundred kilometers from the base. We'll also record at the very top of the spire, near the dormant sun source, but we won't begin direct interpretation. The language appears to be incomprehensible, even in the standard phonetic script of the spire. Numbers play a large part in the language toward that end. In short, we are about to study the entire history and accomplishment of the Firstborn, perhaps up to the time they performed that unknown act, or had an unknown act performed upon them, and produced ourselves, the Second-born.

“Work crews will assemble tomorrow morning. Committees and working unions for the distribution of supplies and living quarters will meet and organize at each camp. Factories will be set up along the coast for the construction of roads, the rebuilding of cities, the manufacture of digging machines, and the processing of raw materials. We begin a job worthy of any civilization on Hegira!”

Kiril fidgeted. He could hardly remember what Elena looked like now, and yet he was still obligated — almost against his will — to push on with Bar-Woten and Barthel. He would rather have stayed and helped in the interpretation, in the learning and deciphering and recording, for the spirit of the thing was in his blood, and future adventure in unknown lands seemed far less attractive. His fists clenched, and he couldn't separate the confused strings of thought in his head.

“Kiril! Wake up!”

The Mediwevan fought out of his slumber and had the familiar sensation of not remembering where he was. The tent canvas overhead and the thin-padded cot, which had become as unyielding as stone during the night, had been forgotten in sleep, and now he didn't know what they were. Barthel came into the tent through the flap, stumbled over a roll of clothing, and grabbed him by the shoulder. Kiril rubbed his sleep-smeared eyes and asked what was going on.

“They arrested the Bey!”

“Who?” he asked, still foggy.

“The Bey! They've put Bar-Woten in jail!”

“Why would they do that?” he asked peevishly.

“I think,” Barthel began, then lowered his voice, for others in the tent were waking, “I think he asked a woman to make love to him — solicitation, is that the word here? He was reported to some officials of the People of the Wall, and they put him in jail.”

“Kristos,” Kiril said, rolling his legs off the cot and plopping his bare feet onto the hard-packed dirt floor. It was cold. He searched hurriedly for his shoes.

“We should go to the captain,” Barthel said. “He is our representative until the new union leaders are voted for.”

“I don't know,” Kiril murmured, tying up his laces. He saw then that he didn't have his pants on, and it took him twice as long to slip the legs over his shoes and buckle the catch. He searched in the early morning grayness for his shirt and found it in the dirt, where Barthel's feet had kicked it off the roll.

The morning air was foggy and dismal. They walked across the rocky ground to the Administration Tent. No one was there yet, and the empty fold-out tables and chairs mocked them. The tent canvas flapped softly in the breeze. “Where's the jail?” Kiril asked. Barthel nodded and walked ahead of him across the fresh tarmac to the opposite end of the airfield, near the beach.

The jail was a wooden compound, which until now had been virtually empty. It was built of driftwood, scrap lumber, and tar paper and wasn't exceptionally strong, but its symbolism was still impressive. It was an ugly hodge-podge of a building.

There was only one guard. He looked them over sleepily and then let them in. Bar-Woten was in a tiny cell faced with heavy iron-barred doors. He was wide awake and apparently hadn't slept all night. His face was an empty mask.

Kiril walked back and forth in front of the bars for a minute, fuming. “How in hell did you manage this?” he finally asked. Bar-Woten shook his head.

“I don't know,” he said. “They're of your kind, not mine, I suspect. I had no idea a compliment to a woman was a crime.”

“What an asinine thing to —” But Kiril cut himself off, looking at the jailer, and sat down on a small stool. Barthel remained standing, shifting from one foot to another. “What are we going to do?”

“Well,” said Bar-Woten, switching abruptly from Teutan to Mediwevan, “we could take this as a warning and get the hell out of here, head north.”

“What a mess that would land us in. How could we survive in this country?”

“You seemed anxious to try it a few weeks ago. It's either that or stand trial for something I'm obviously guilty of, with witnesses” — Kiril groaned — “and that would probably get me a year or so in prison. That's what this fine gentleman says,” Bar-Woten grumbled, pointing to the jailer.

Kiril stood and told Bar-Woten they'd talk to Prekari. The Ibisian wasn't encouraged. “Listen,” he said. “I sounded these people pretty carefully last night while I was being arrested. They have one fault, and it's similar to your own — they're self-righteous and highly moral on affairs of the flesh. They're peaceful and prosperous. They're also convinced they can fairly apply their law to all. Try overcoming that with the captain.”

Kiril and Barthel left the jail and walked across the tarmac to the administration tent. There was activity inside — two young boys from the Trident stood by the awning entrance with arms folded, radiating dignity, guardians of the ship's mates and the captain talking at a table within. Kiril and Barthel challenged the boys' bluff by walking by quickly and not saying a word until they were at the table. The captain stood up, tired and worn, and asked them what they wanted. Kiril told him what had happened.

“Serves the man right. Doesn't he have enough sense to be discreet?”

“I do not think discretion has much to do with it, sir,” Barthel said. “I could have fallen into the same trouble. Any of your crew. Can we let him stand trial for a law we didn't know about?”

“It's a difficult problem,” said a woman's voice from across the tent. It was Avra, sitting in a corner near the entrance with stacks of paper on a table before her. A shaft of light from a chink in the roof played about her hands, moving with the rippling of the tent fabric. Her face was dark and ghostly. She reminded Kiril of a Nora, and he felt a chill.

“What can we do about it?” he asked.

“Probably nothing. It's a minor charge and won't net him much of a sentence. He'll probably be taken to the settlement at the fifty-kilometer mark on the Obelisk, stand trial, and spend two or three months clearing dirt with the labor gangs. He can stand it.”

Barthel spoke up, his voice surprisingly sharp, considering he was addressing Avra. “The Bey will not be locked up.”

“He'll have to face it,” Avra said tersely.

“You don't understand. He will kill somebody before that happens.”