The Tomb is only partially excavated on the exterior, but the inside is estimated to be forty percent cleared. It was found by a wildcat prospector intrigued by the unusual vibrations he read on his sonar. Carnegie institute and Interplanetary Projects both were involved in the dig and the only visually significant find, the Starstone, is on exhibition at the Modern.
But it was not treasure or even archaeological knowledge that brought me, in the chilly Martian morning, to stand within the great vault. I wanted
to
experience
everything I could
about
Mars.
Here—perhaps—the ancient kings had been laid to rest. But the place could easily have been the equivalent of a monastery or a Hall of Fame or a prison cemetery. Perhaps we would never know.
But ancient hands, inhuman hands, had built this vault. A groined roof, one of the few left—or discovered—arched overhead. Every footstep was echoed; even my breathing seemed loud. Instinctively I tried to make no noise, although I would have been delighted to raise the dead.
Most of the crypts that were visible were opened, their sealing slabs labeled and set aside. I peered into one of the arched vaults, my torch quickly scanning it. I don’t know what I expected. Rats. Moldering bones. Staring eyes. A shrouded figure rising. But there was nothing. Literally and actually nothing but dust. Not much of that. The next one was the same, and the five after that. Not even bones. The cold dry air must have kept them mummified for centuries upon centuries, but if only a small percentage dried up and disappeared each century there had been so many centuries that nothing was left. Were the experts right? Had Mars once been a garden? Waters flowing
from
the
polar
caps,
watering
verdant
forests
of—what?—red-leaved trees? Were there any experts on Mars?
I walked to the center of the vast vault. Arches were everywhere, branching into more and more passages, more vaults, a giant cemetery of alien dreams.
“Hello!”
My shout echoed and echoed, but did not even raise dust. I ran my light over the ceiling. Unadorned, except for its structural beauty. No Michaelangelo here. No six-fingered hand holding brushes with paint dripping into its tentacles. No royal commissions, no patron, not even a WPA assignment. A place to house the beloved dead, not a pleasure palace.
I went back out and climbed on the cat. I could be back in time for the noon meal and then—on to Bradbury!
We went straight up the Ceraunius, cut west a bit at Lacus Ascraeus then back to north, across the Tracus Albus, through Lux, detoured into Thaumasia to drop off some supplies to a lone miner there, then into the highlands of Lacus Silis and Bradbury.
That’s what it said on the log and on the latest Martian Commission Official Map, Sector 5-100. The way Wootten told it was,
“We roll up the Cerry until we hit Sandcat Tower, ding a dot westerly over the Crashstrip, through Luxy, then drop off some bits with Old Ed Amendola. We’ll break a beaker of top-pop, then tear-ass up the high country and snap it off at Bradbury.”
There is a lot that never appears on any “official” map, whether it be Mars or Michigan.
I was very excited now. Not only was I approaching Nova; I was also going through some of the prettiest country on Mars. I remembered my father telling me how desolate and phony the moon had seemed to him when man first took the giant step. He said it was much the same with the first Martian flybys, and even after the first landing at Touchdown, which is a pretty dreary spot. Not until man came down out of the sky and walked around on Mars did he find out how pretty it was. It takes getting used to, there’s no doubt of that. It’s featureless most of the time, but there are unexpected marvels in the rills, and where the rocks are still showing through the battered, cratered, weathered surface, you can see extraordinary beauty. I’m not the first Mars enthusiast who’s been told that the “great marvels” of Mars could easily go unnoticed in the American Southwest. I won’t even deny it. But these were Martian rocks, Martian plains, Martian desolation. I loved it. I was still feeling the effects of Amendola’s private-label top-pop when we sighted the first of the farms around Bradbury. Few of the towns had extensive farming areas. Burroughs, Wells, Bradbury, Grandcanal City, a scattering between Grabrock and Northaxe, but for the most part these few thousand acres supplied the bulk of food for the whole population.
The Alfonso VI Hacienda was on our right, and someone waved from the bubble of a tractor ripping a virgin field. We turned at the stone pylon marking the corner of a green field of potatoes, and I felt cramped. We could no longer just go where we pleased. I came down out of the observation dome and helped the others tidy up the interior. Bradbury is the most prosperous “city” on Mars, mainly because of the water, which makes the farmland possible. There are mines eastward, along the long track to Burroughs, but they are not so important here. The magnificent Star Palace is way out beyond the perimeter, but it contributes little to the economy, except for the money and supplies brought by the archaeologists.
We rolled to a stop at the main warehouse, a series of zomes nesting against the westernmost dome. I helped store my seedlings and other cargo in a rented space, then went on with Wootten into his Guild’s wayhouse to wash up.
I stepped out of the sonics feeling refreshed and dug into my pack.
“By the ten thousand tortures of Ares” (Wootten liked synthetic curses), “What kind of outfit is that?”
I looked at the snowsilk blouse, the grained black tights, and the neoteric leather boots and saw them as Wootten did. I grinned and said,
“My cleanboot fancy adventurer’s outfit. I left the cape with the blazen symbol back on Earth.”
Wootten plumped down on the bed and fingered the snowsilk.
“Hot flaming damn.” He paused, then said carefully, “Look, do you mind if I give you a few pointers?”
“Go ahead.” I hadn’t felt like a neo at anything since I tried to ski fifteen years before.
“Uno, this stuff is mighty fine and fancy, but it marks you not only as a cleanboot but as a rich cleanboot.” He squinted thoughtfully at me for a moment, then shrugged almost imperceptibly and said, “You have enough troubles with Nova. Dos, you’ll stand out like a vapor trail at a time I think you might like to be inconspicuous. Tres, you’ll look like one of them honorary degrees.”
I grinned ruefully and nodded my head. I knew that an “honorary degree” was used as an insult, for these nuvomartians were eminently pragmatic and while most of them had degrees it was because they really needed them to do the job they had.