The technique of dropping Greenwater Objects in hyperspace to boost velocity lacked a correspondingly elegant method to shed velocity. Returning from a state of high acceleration consumed substantial time and resources.
As departure neared, Mogambo resisted being taken off the chindi, even though Sylvia Virgil assured him that the Academy would return to the artifact better equipped for a more comprehensive inspection. Had food and water been available, Hutch suspected he might have insisted on waiting.
At least part of his reluctance to leave was generated by his awareness that the costs of a return would be immense. It would, he judged, not happen until a vehicle capable of reaching the necessary velocities on its own had been developed. Furthermore, the Academy’s willingness to invest the necessary sums would be undermined by the fact that a decent sampling of the chindi’s treasures had already been obtained. The Academy, or some other agency, would unquestionably one day return, but he would be an unlikely participant. So there was an emotional scene in the shuttle when Hutch rode over to take him and his colleagues off for the last time. They had by then erected a plaque by the exit hatch, on the outside, informing all and sundry that the chindi had been visited, on this day and year of the Common Era, by Maurice Mogambo and so forth and so on.
They hauled a ton of samples on board the shuttle. Mogambo made a short speech as they pulled away, and, to her amazement, his eyes grew damp. He shook hands solemnly with Teri and Antonio, congratulated them on their work, and took time to thank Hutch. “I know you don’t care much for me,” he said, surprising her because she thought she’d kept her feelings pretty well hidden, “but I’m grateful for everything you’ve done. If I can return the favor, don’t hesitate to ask.”
So, in their various ways, they said farewell to the chindi, climbed aboard the Mac, and Brownstein began the long voyage home by using the fuel they’d gotten from the rescue mission to begin the process of braking back down to standard velocities. The rescue platform, carrying still more fuel, followed along.
The chindi drew rapidly ahead and vanished. Hutch suspected that, when it arrived off the Venture’s beam in the twenty-fifth century, somebody would be there to welcome it. “But certainly not me,” she told Tor.
BROWNSTEIN PASSED HER a transmission for Mogambo, information copy to Hutch. It was from Virgil. “Got a surprise for you, Maurice,” she said. They were refueling from another pod, at their third stage down. “You’ll recall that we discovered stealth satellites here. Orbiting Earth. Apparently they’re older than we expected.”
She paused, giving them time to reflect on the implications. “They don’t work anymore. We’ve taken a close look at them. They’re designed to shut down if the target world reaches a level of development that would lead to their discovery. But they’ll reactivate if the local radio envelope disappears. Which is to say, if something happens to the civilization they’re watching.
“Nevertheless, they’re part of the network you’ve seen. It is, by the way, a more extensive and complex network than we’d believed. We haven’t begun to map it. The chindi must be at least a quarter-million years old.
“There’s one segment of the transmission, in the attached package, which we thought you’d be especially interested in seeing. We intercepted it in the Mendel system, eleven hundred light-years from Earth, but almost three thousand light-years out on the net.”
“Has Mogambo seen this yet?” Hutch asked Brownstein.
“A few minutes ago. He’s waiting for us in the holotank.”
They crowded in. Tor was munching a sandwich, one of Mogambo’s team was carrying a mint driver. The great man himself was so excited he could barely settle comfortably into a chair. When they were ready Brownstein directed Jennifer to proceed.
The lights dimmed. A desert appeared, scorched by a noonday sun. Sand running on forever. Hutch blinked and shielded her eyes from the sudden glare.
Then the viewpoint began to move. The desert accelerated beneath, and she squirmed, recalling her desperate flight across the chindi. A few hills rose, rippled beneath, and vanished. Off to the right, she saw movement.
A camel-like creature.
In fact, a camel!
They swept past, and she saw more of the animals. And then, in the distance, white-and-gray specks that grew rapidly into horses with white-clad riders. And lines of men on foot. Archers. There appeared to be thousands of them.
“Looks like Pharaoh’s army,” said one of Mogambo’s people, not entirely joking.
Arrayed against the riders was a second force, even larger, with armed chariots, more horsemen, and hordes of infantry. The cavalry wore purple and white, not quite the colors Byron had cited somewhere.
“It is Earth, no question,” said Mogambo. “Do you realize what this means? These are live pictures.”
“Do we have a date on this?” asked Tor.
Brownstein passed the question to Jennifer.
“The transcript says early twelfth century, B.C.”
“Armageddon?” asked Claymoor.
Hutch shrugged. “Don’t know. Could be any of a thousand engagements, I suppose.”
The opposing forces were lining up, getting ready to move against each other.
“We can pass over this if you prefer not to watch the bloodshed,” said Jennifer.
“No!” Mogambo waved at Brownstein. “Leave it. Tell her no.”
They watched from a perspective behind the smaller force. Jennifer adjusted the view so they were about forty meters above the desert floor. The sides feinted and jabbed at each other, infantry units clashed, and finally the left wing of the bigger force rolled forward. Reluctantly, Hutch sat through it all, chariot charges, volleys of arrows, engagements between squadrons of spearmen. Blood and dust and writhing bodies were everywhere, and although she wanted to get away from it she could not stop watching.
She wasn’t sure how long it took—the carnage seemed endless—but the upper hand swayed back and forth. In the end, the purple force—Assyrians? — held the field, but the killing had been so general it was hard to award either side a victory.
The dying were everywhere. Men walked among them, stabbing everyone, as though they were all enemies.
And finally it blinked off.
They sat unmoving. It wasn’t like the VR epics, played out to heroism and sweeping symphonies. It was the first time Hutch had seen anything like it. And she wondered that her own species could be so implacably cruel. And stupid.
Tor was sitting beside her, and he asked gently whether she wanted to leave.
The system reactivated, and they were over another desert in, she thought, another time. They moved rapidly above the dunes, which gave way to palms and shrubs. A shoreline glimmered in the distance. They passed over herds of horses and other animals Hutch didn’t recognize. Dromedaries of one kind or another.
A walled city appeared and began to spread out across the plain. When they got close enough that she could make out people and pack animals she began to appreciate the size of the place. It seemed more fortress than town, surrounded by triple walls, each higher toward the inside. Towers rose at frequent intervals. It was, in all, a daunting structure, completely enclosing the city, save where it allowed the diagonal passage of a river.
“The Euphrates,” said Jennifer.
If the far side of the city, which she could not see, was as extensive, the walls had to be between eighteen and twenty kilometers around. There was a roadway atop the innermost wall and, as she watched, two chariots, each pulled by a pair of horses, easily passed each other.