“Eight dead worlds in succession,” he grumbled. “Why do we never find life?”
“Because we work for the Cartographical Service,” Surgenor told him, shifting to a more comfortable position in the module’s other seat. “If this was an inhabited world we wouldn’t be allowed to buzz all over it like this.”
“I know that, but I’d like to feel there was some chance of making contact with somebody. Anybody.”
“I would suggest,” Surgenor said peacefully, “that you join the Diplomatic Service.” He closed his eyes, with every appearance of a man about to drift into a contented after-dinner sleep.
“What are the qualifications? All I know is survey work and a bit of astronomy.”
“You’ve got the main one—the ability to talk for a long time without saying much.”
“Thanks.” Targett glanced resentfully at the older man’s relaxed profile. He had a growing respect for Surgenor and his lengthy experience in the Service, but at the same time he was not sure if he wanted to emulate Surgenor’s career. It took a special kind of mind to withstand an endless succession of treks across bleak alien globes, and Targett was almost sure he did not have it. The thought of growing old in the Service filled him with a cool dismay that strengthened his resolve to make some money quickly and get out while he was young enough to enjoy spending it. He had even decided where he would have his big fling.
Next furlough he was going to visit Earth and try his luck on some of the legendary race courses there. A gambler had no trouble finding gaming facilities on any of the Federation’s inhabited worlds, but horse racing was a different matter—and actually to stand on the historic turf of Santa Anita or Ascot…’
“Dave,” he said wistfully, “weren’t you in the Service in the old days when they used to allow the modules to break the search pattern and race back to the ship for the last five hundred kilometres?”
Surgenor’s eyes flickered. “The old days? That was only a couple of years ago.”
“That’s the old days in this business.”
“We used to race back to the ship, but it led to trouble once and they introduced a regulation specifically forbidding it.” Surgenor spoke amiably enough, but it was obvious that he wanted to concentrate on going to sleep.
“Did you make any money out of it?” Targett persisted.
“How?”
“By laying odds on the winner.”
“It wouldn’t have worked.” Surgenor yawned theatrically, making his point about not wanting to talk. “Every module had exactly the same chance—one in six.”
“Not exactly the same chance,” Targett said warming to his subject. “I happen to know that Aesop tolerates a dispersion of up to thirty kilometres when he’s setting the Sarafand down at a pole—and if it worked out right at both ends one module could have a sixty-kilometre advantage over its opposite number. All you would have to do to set up a profitable book would be…’
“Mike,” Surgenor interrupted tiredly, “did you ever stop to consider that if you poured all that ingenuity into a legitimate business enterprise you’d be so rich you wouldn’t need to gamble?”
Targett was appalled. “What has being rich or not being rich got to do with gambling?”
“I thought that was why you did it—to make money.”
“Go back to sleep, Dave—I’m sorry I disturbed you.” Targett rolled his eyes skyward and settled down to scowling at the forward screen again. A range of low hills had appeared about ten kilometres to the right, but otherwise the brown deserts of Horta VII were as featureless as ever. He had been slumped in his seat for a quarter of an hour when the module’s computer—which was actually a subunit of Aesop—made an announcement. “Receiving atypical data,” it droned. “Receiving atypical data.”
“Computer Five, give details,” Targett said, nudging Surgenor and finding that the big man had already wakened as though by instinct.
“At a bearing of two-six and a range of eight-two kilometres there are a number of metallic objects on the planetary surface. They are approximately seven metres in length. First estimate of number of objects is three-six-three. Concentration and consistency of metallic elements indicate refining. Analysis of reflected radiation indicates machine-finished exteriors.”
Targett’s heart began a slow, steady pounding. “Did you hear that, Dave? What do you think it means?”
“It sounds to me as though you’ve got your wish—those can’t be anything but artifacts.” Surgenor’s voice betrayed no excitement but Targett noticed he was now sitting upright as he made a bearing check. “According to the reading they must be in those hills over there on the right.”
Targett scanned the slowly unfolding slopes which trembled in the heat haze created by Horta. “It looks pretty dead over there.”
“The whole planet is dead—otherwise Aesop would have noticed something during the preliminary orbital survey.”
“Well, let’s go over and take a look.”
Surgenor shook his head. “Aesop won’t agree to our breaking the search pattern unless there’s an emergency. It distorts his world map, and as far as a CS ship is concerned the map is the most important factor in nearly any situation.”
“What?” Targett wriggled impatiently in his seat. “I don’t give a damn about the world map. Are we supposed to ride straight on and ignore a real archaeological find? I tell you, Dave, if you or Aesop or anybody else thinks that I’m going to…’ He stopped speaking as he noticed Surgenor’s smile. “You got me going again, didn’t you?”
“I guess so—it’s hard to resist it with you,” Surgenor said looking complacent. “Don’t worry about us passing up a find. We aren’t meant to be archaeologists, but there’s a provision in survey regulations for this kind of thing. As soon as we get back to the Sarafand Captain Aesop will send a couple of modules out again for a closer look.”
“A couple of modules? Everybody won’t be in on it?”
“If Aesop thinks it’s important he might bring the ship down here.”
“But this has got to be important.” Targett gestured helplessly towards the hills drifting by on his right. “Hundreds of machine-finished articles just lying on the surface. What could they be?”
“Who knows? My guess is that a ship put down here, possibly for repairs, and dumped a load of unwanted canisters.”
“Oh?” Such a prosiac explanation had not occurred to Targett, and he fought to conceal his disappointment. “Recently?”
“Depends on what you mean by recent. The Sarafand was the first Federation ship to enter the Horta system—and it’s been seven thousand years or more since the old White Empire withdrew from this region, so…’
“Seven thousand years!”
Targett experienced a brief headiness strangely reminiscent of that sensation which had only once before come over him—the time he had brought off an eight-throw antimartingale on the gaming tables of Parador. This was a new and more satisfactory form of gambling—one in which a man staked lonely hours of boredom as he skimmed across the surfaces of dead worlds, and the prize was a sudden clear look at reality, a handshake from the ghost of an alien being who had been computing his way across the graviton tides of space before the pyramids were planned. Unexpectedly, and for the first time, Targett was glad he had signed on with the Cartographical Service—but a new worry was making itself felt. Suppose he was not among the group Aesop was going to send back to investigate the find?
“Dave,” he said carefully, “how will Aesop select the modules he wants to come back here?”