Root shrugged, watched her as she circled the pond to a clump of feather-fronded cycads. She flung herself down, relaxed into a sulky lassitude, her back to a big gray-green trunk, and seemed intent on the antics of the natives-owlish leather-gray little creatures popping back and forth into holes in their mound.
This was a hillock a quarter-mile long, covered with spine-scrub and a rusty black creeper. With one exception it was the only eminence as far as the eye could reach, horizon to horizon, across the baked helpless expanse of the desert
The exception was the stepped pyramid, the mystery of which irked Root. It was built of massive granite blocks, set without mortar but cut so carefully that hardly a crack could be seen. Early on his arrival Root had climbed all over the pyramid, unsuccessfully seeking entrance.
When finally he brought out his atomite torch to melt a hole in the granite a sudden swarm of natives pushed him back and in the pidgin of Dicantropus gave him to understand that entrance was forbidden. Root desisted with reluctance, and had been consumed by curiosity ever since ...
Who had built the pyramid? In style it resembled the ziggurats of ancient Assyria. The granite had been set with a skill unknown, so far as Root could see, to the natives. But if not the natives-who? A thousand times Root had chased the question through his brain. Were the natives debased relics of a once-civilized race? If so, why were there no other ruins? And what was the purpose of the pyramid? A temple? A mausoleum? A treasure-house? Perhaps it was entered from below by a tunnel.
As Root stood on the shore of the lake, looking across the desert, the questions flicked automatically through his mind though without their usual pungency. At the moment the problem of soothing his wife lay heavy on his mind. He debated a few moments whether or not to join her; perhaps she had cooled off and might like some company. He circled the pond and stood looking down at her glossy black hair.
"I came over here to be alone," she said without accent and the indifference chilled him more than an insult.
"I thought-that maybe you might like to talk," said Root. "I'm very sorry, Barbara, that you're unhappy."
Still she said nothing, sitting with her head pressed back against the tree trunk.
"We'll go home on the next supply ship," Root said. "Let's see, there should be one-"
"Three months and three days," said Barbara flatly.
Root shifted his weight, watched her from the corner of his eye. This was a new manifestation. Tears, recriminations, anger-there had been plenty of these before.
"We'll try to keep amused till then," he said desperately. "Let's think up some games to play. Maybe badminton-or we could do more swimming."
Barbara snorted in sharp sarcastic laughter. "With things like that popping up around you?" She gestured to one of the Dicantrops who had lazily paddled close. She narrowed her eyes, leaned forward. "What's that he's got around his neck?"
Root peered. "Looks like a diamond necklace more than anything else."
"My Lord!" whispered Barbara.
Root walked down to the water's edge. "Hey, boy!" The Dicantrop turned his great velvety eyes in their sockets. "Come here!"
Barbara joined him as the native paddled close.
"Let's see what you've got there," said Root, leaning to the necklace.
"Why, those are beautiful breathed his wife.
Root chewed his lip thoughtfully. "They certainly look like diamonds. The setting might be platinum or indium. Hey, boy, where did you get these?"
The Dicantrop paddled backward. "We find."
"Where?"
The Dicantrop blew froth from his breath-holes but it seemed to Root as if his eyes had glanced momentarily toward the pyramid.
"You find in big pile of rock?"
"No," said the native and sank below the surface.
Barbara returned to her seat by the tree, frowned at the water. Root joined her. For a moment there was silence. Then Barbara said, "That pyramid must be full of things like that!"
Root made a deprecatory noise in his throat. "Oh-I suppose it's possible."
"Why don't you go out and see?"
"I'd like to-but you know it would make trouble."
"You could go out at night."
"No," said Root uncomfortably. "It's really not right. If they want to keep the thing closed up and secret it's their business. After all it belongs to them."
"How do you know it does?" his wife insisted, with a hard and sharp directness. "They didn't build it and probably never put those diamonds there." Scorn crept into her voice. "Are you afraid?"
"Yes," said Root I'm afraid. There's an awful lot of them and only two of us. That's one objection. But the other, most important-"
Barbara let herself slump back against the trunk. "I don't want to hear it"
Root, now angry himself, said nothing for a minute. Then, thinking of the three months and three days till the arrival of the supply ship, he said, "It's no use our being disagreeable. It just makes it harder on both of us, I made a mistake bringing you out here and I'm sorry. I thought you'd enjoy the experience, just the two of us alone on a strange planet-"
Barbara was not listening to him. Her mind was elsewhere.
"Barbara!"
"Shh!" she snapped. "Be still! Listen!" He jerked his head up. The air vibrated with a far thrum-m-m-m. Root sprang out into the sunlight, scanned the sky. The sound grew louder. There was no question about it, a ship was dropping down from space.
Root ran into the station, flipped open the communicator-but there were no signals coming in. He returned to the door and watched as the ship sank down to a bumpy rough landing two hundred yards from the station.
It was a small ship, the type rich men sometimes used as private yachts, but old and battered. It sat in a quiver of hot air, its tubes creaking and hissing as they cooled. Root approached.
The dogs on the port began to turn, the port swung open. A man stood in the opening. For a moment he teetered on loose legs, then fell headlong.
Root, springing forward, caught him before he struck ground. "Barbara!" Root called. His wife approached. "Take his feet we'll carry him inside. He's sick." They laid him on the couch and his eyes opened halfway. "What's the trouble?" asked Root "Where do you feel sick?"
"My legs are like ice," husked the man. "My shoulders ache. I can't breathe."
"Wait till I look in the book," muttered Root. He pulled out the Official Spaceman's Self-help Guide, traced down the symptoms. He looked across to the sick man. "You been anywhere near Alphard?" "Just came from there," panted the man. "Looks like you got a dose of Lyma's Virus. A shot of mycosetin should fix you up, according to the book."
He inserted an ampoule into the hypo-spray, pressed the tip to his patient's arm, pushed the plunger home. "That should do it-according to the Guide."
"Thanks," said his patient. "I feel better already." He closed his eyes. Root stood up, glanced at Barbara. She was scrutinizing the man with a peculiar calculation. Root looked down again, seeing the man for the first time. He was young, perhaps thirty, thin but strong with a tight, nervous muscularity. His face was lean, almost gaunt, his skin very bronzed. He had short black hair, heavy black eyebrows, a long jaw, a thin high nose.
Root turned away. Glancing at his wife he foresaw the future with a sick certainty.
He washed out the hypospray, returned the Guide to the rack, all with a sudden self-conscious awkwardness. When he turned around, Barbara was staring at him with wide thoughtful eyes. Root slowly left the room.