One carnivore was not considered for the honor. It was no larger than a jack rabbit, had an oversize head, a big jaw, front legs larger than hind, and no tail. It was known as "dopy joe" from the silly golliwog expression it had and its clumsy, slow movements when disturbed. It was believed to live by waiting at burrows of field rodents for supper to come out. Its skin cured readily and made a good water bag. Grassy fields such as this savannah often were thick with them.
They camped in a grove of trees by the water. Rod said, "Shall I waste a match, or do it the hard way?"
"Suit yourself. I'll knock over something for dinner."
"Watch yourself. Don't go into the grass.
"I'll work the edges. Cautious Kilroy they call me, around the insurance companies.
Rod counted his three matches, hoping there would be four, then started making fire by friction. He had just succeeded, delayed by moss that was not as dry as it should have been, when Roy returned and dropped a small carcass. "The durnedest thing happened."
The kill was a dopy joe; Rod looked at it with distaste. "Was that the best you could do? They taste like kerosene."
"Wait till I tell you. I wasn't hunting him; he was hunting me."
"Don't kid me!"
"Truth. I had to kill him to keep him from snapping my ankles. So I brought him in.
Rod looked at the small creature. "Never heard the like. Must be insanity in his family."
"Probably." Roy started skinning it.
Next morning they reached the sea, a glassy body untouched by tide, unruffled by wind. It was extremely briny and its shore was crusted with salt They concluded that it was probably a dead sea, not a true ocean. But their attention was not held by the body of water. Stretching away along the shore apparently to the horizon were millions on heaping millions of whitened bones. Rod stared. "Where did they all come from?"
Roy whistled softly. "Search me. But if we could sell them at five pence a metric ton, we'd be millionaires."
"Billionaires, you mean.
"Let's not be fussy." They walked out along the beach, forgetting to be cautious, held by the amazing sight. There were ancient bones, cracked by sun and sea, new bones with gristle clinging, big bones of the giant antelope the colonists never hunted, tiny bones of little buck no larger than terriers, bones without number of all sorts. But there were no carcasses.
They inspected the shore for a couple of kilometers, awed by the mystery. When they turned they knew that they were turning back not just to camp but to head home. This was as far as they could go.
On the trip out they had not explored the caves. On their way back Rod decided that they should try to pick the best place for the colony, figuring game, water supply, and most importantly, shelter and ease of defense.
They were searching a series of arched galleries water-carved in sandstone cliff. The shelf of the lowest gallery was six or seven meters above the sloping stand of soil below. The canyon dropped rapidly here; Rod could visualize a flume from upstream, bringing running water right to the caves... not right away, but when they had time to devise tools and cope with the problems. Someday, someday- but in the meantime here was plenty of room for the colony in a spot which almost defended itself. Not to mention, he added, being in out of the rain. Roy was the better Alpinist; he inched up, flat to the rock, reached the shelf and threw down his line to Rod- snaked him up quickly. Rod got an arm over the edge, scrambled to his knees, stood up- and gasped, "What the deuce!"
"That," said Roy, "is why I kept quiet. I thought you would think I was crazy.
"I think we both are." Rod stared around. Filling the depth of the gallery, not seen from below, was terrace on terrace of cliff dwellings.
They were not inhabited, nor had they ever been by men. Openings which must have been doors were no higher than a man's knee, not wide enough for shoulders. But it was clear that they were dwellings, not merely formations carved by water. There were series of rooms arranged in half a dozen low stories from floor to ceiling of the gallery. The material was a concrete of dried mud, an adobe, used with wood.
But there was nothing to suggest what had built them.
Roy started to stick his head into an opening; Rod shouted, "Hey! Don't do that!"
"Why not? It's abandoned."
"You don't know what might be inside. Snakes, maybe."
"There are no snakes. Nobody's ever seen one.
"No... but take it easy."
"I wish I had a torch light."
"I wish I had eight beautiful dancing girls and a Cadillac copter. Be careful. I don't want to walk back alone."
They lunched in the gallery and considered the matter. "Of course they were intelligent," Roy declared. "We may find them elsewhere. Maybe really civilized now- these look like ancient ruins."
"Not necessarily intelligent," Rod argued. "Bees make more complicated homes."
"Bees don't combine mud and wood the way these people did. Look at that lintel."
"Birds do. I'll concede that they were bird-brained, no more.
"Rod, you won't look at the evidence."
"Where are their artifacts? Show me one ash tray marked 'Made in Jersey City.'"
"I might find some if you weren't so jumpy."
"All in time. Anyhow, the fact that they found it safe shows that we can live here."
"Maybe. What killed them? Or why did they go away?"
They searched two galleries after lunch, found more dwellings. The dwellers had apparently formed a very large community. The fourth gallery they explored was almost empty, containing a beginning of a hive in one corner. Rod looked it over. "We can use this. If may not
be the best, but we can move the gang in and then find the best at our leisure."
"We're heading back?"
"Uh, in the morning. This is a good place to sleep and tomorrow we'll travel from 'can' to 'can't'- I wonder what's up there?" Rod was looking at a secondary shelf inside the main arch.
Roy eyed it. "Ill let you know in a moment."
"Don't bother. It's almost straight up. We'll build ladders for spots like that."
"My mother was a human fly, my father was a mountain goat. Watch me.
The shelf was not much higher than his head. Roy had a hand over- when a piece of rock crumbled away. He did not fall far.
Rod ran to him. "You all right, boy?"
Roy grunted, "I guess so," then started to get up. He yelped.
"What's the matter?"
"My right leg. I think... ow! I think it's broken." Rod examined the break, then went down to cut splints. With a piece of the line Roy carried, used economically, for he needed most of it as a ladder, he bound the leg, padding it with leaves. It was a simple break of the tibia, with no danger of infection.
They argued the whole time. "Of course you will," Roy was saying. "Leave me a fresh kill and what salt meat there is. You can figure some way to leave water."
"Come back and find your chawed bones!"
"Not at all. Nothing can get at me. If you hustle, you can make it in three days."
"Four, or five more likely. Six days to lead a party back. Then you want to go back in a stretcher? How would you like to be helpless when a stobor jumps us?"
"But I wouldn't go back. The gang would be moving down here."
"Suppose they do? Eleven days, more likely twelve- Roy, you didn't just bang your shin; you banged your head, too."