Hal Clement: Fossil

“It was four hundred eighty-one meters below the surface. The ice hasn’t been kind enough to form definite layers, so we’ve had to use other methods of dating. The carbon 14 limit on this planet is about a hundred and sixty thousand Common Years — longer than on most worlds, because you have no magnetic field to speak of and Fafnir flares fairly often, so you have a higher C 14 percentage than usual — and all I can say is the wing is older than that.”

“In our years, that’s…”

Both Erthumoi engaged in hasty mental arithmetic. Hugh keyed first. “A little over two and half million minimum.”

“Then we needn’t worry about notifying relatives,” the Habra said with no obvious trace of humor. “But I’d have guessed that such an age would have brought the fossil deeper into the ice.”

“So would I,” admitted Janice, “but remember the ice is moving too, probably in as complex patterns as your atmosphere and ocean. Even under this gravity, five hundred kilometers’ water depth gives you something like ten thousand atmospheres, which is plenty for most of the water-ice phase changes even without complications from radioactive heating from underneath. Things happen in solids, too, just a lot slower; and at this point I wouldn’t dare swear it was all solid. That’s something I’d really like to know in detail. It’s the most promising way I can think of for actually dating whatever we find buried here. Nice, unambiguous, straightforward — which is the last thing they’ll be — time-and-distance glacial flow problems.”

“It must be fun to go into the Pits and find things yourself,” Ted remarked thoughtfully. “I wonder when we’ll manage to modify one of our regular diving suits. The pressure is no problem, of course. We have diving fluid, too. Temperature, though— we’re trying to learn more about your insulating materials. You and the other aliens who work here have been telling our chemists about the stuff you use. It should be good enough; as nearly as I can see, you need even more protection from cold than we do.”

“That’s no problem,” Janice keyed, “but you’ll have to redesign your armor to protect your wings, too. I hope you manage it soon. It will be good to have you down there; your electrical senses might be very helpful. Looking for microfossils by sending laser beams from one hole in the ice to another works all right, but you might be a lot faster.”

“But you find larger fossils, too. The wings I was asking about haven’t been the only remains.”

“No. The ice is full of plant roots. We can some-limes trace them for a dozen meters or more. It looks as though a particular plant anchors itself and grows, maybe for years, maybe for centuries, until something drastic kills it — maybe it gets buried by an advancing dune, or something like that. While it lives, it affects the landscape around it, holding snow in place instead of letting it blow away— forget about decent stratigraphy!”

“I don’t know that last word,” Ted admitted, “but at least some plants let go of their roots and allow themselves to be blown away when dunes threaten to cover them. I couldn’t tell you which kinds, off jaw.”

“We’ll have to find out from someone who does,” replied Janice. “Somehow I’m going to get a decent dating scale for this world. But I’m tired, Hugh.

Let’s go…”

They went, but not to their quarters to rest. A modulated horn blast which drowned out the roar of an approaching squall took care of that.

There is a difference between having fast reflexes and being easily startled. Rekchellet insisted afterward that he was responding properly and reasonably when the shriek echoed through the monitor hull and he dropped from his observation bar with wings spread. After all, if even a ground slug is in danger one is better able to help it from the air. So he claimed, firmly and permanently.

S’Nash, coiled in front of the speakers, knew that the sound must have come from one of the Pits and merely twitched before extending a fringe to flip from one visual monitor to another in search of a more precise datum. By rights it/he should have been more disturbed than the Crotonite, since the screaming voice was clearly Naxian and even more plainly, to S’Nash, carried genuine terror, surprise, and pain.

But it was not the voice of a personal acquaintance, so the sentry was able to maintain its/his calm and even to stay tactful. If he refrained even from looking up until the Crotonite was clearly back to his perch and the burst of emotion startled from him was under control. Only then did the serpentine watch officer speak.

“Rek, do any of your screens tell where that came from? None of mine shows any Naxians in trouble.” It/he heard the brief courtesy syllable indicating that the translator had done its job but got no real answer for several seconds.

“You’re sure it was a Naxian?” the winged sentry asked at last. “I see fourteen on different screens, in various parts of the Pits. I can’t tell in detail what any of them may be doing except for one who’s polishing a new window, but none seems to be in trouble. Why don’t we have more information yet? I see no one hurt or helpless.”

With an effort, S’Nash refrained from taking the question as the personal criticism which it/he knew was both in order and intended. It/he should have called back instantly to ask what was wrong. While Crotonites tended to be reflexively supercilious toward everyone without wings there was some excuse this time — though, one could hope, the readable critical feeling might refer to the screamer for not being more specific. The Naxian initiated routine.

“‘What’s wrong’.’” it/he sibilated into the microphone feeding the Pit transducers. It would be best, just yet, not to alarm any non-Naxians in the area. Depending on what circuits had carried the fear-laden sound to the monitor hall, these might not even have heard it and almost certainly would not have read the emotion it carried, so it/he broadcast the question directly into the liquid mixture of nitrogen and oxygen which kept the Pits” water-ice walls from creeping shut on researchers and equipment.

The answer was as wordless, as emotion-laden, and as information-free as before. It came this time as a series of ticking, hissing whispers. The source was still plainly one of S’Nash’s own people, but something had to be wrong with the sufferer’s vocal apparatus.

“We can’t understand you,” the sentry responded patiently. “If you’re in monitored space, turn vertical.” Rekchcllet’s translator got this message clearly enough, and it was the Crotonite who observed the response.

“There!” he whistled. “Screen seven! It’s still trying to carry that case, but it’s turned tail down. What’s wrong? It looks normal to me.”

“And to me,” answered S’Nash tersely, “but it can’t talk. Get its location! I’ll check depth. We’ll find out who’s working closest and get help there.” As it/he spoke, the Naxian keyed an alarm switch. The instant and most obvious result was a piercing howl of wordless sound. It was audible throughout Pitville and broken into a repeating sequence of long and short bursts which should have needed no translation to tell anyone that a Pit worker was in trouble, details unknown. Hugh Cedar, the Erthumoi safety chief, hearing it at the ski slope two kilometers away, would not have bet any large sum that more than half the staff could read it that completely, however.

The key also initiated other lines of activity. The pumps which fed the trickle of liquid air needed to keep the Pits filled shut off immediately. A set of floodlights flashed on, fully illuminating every liter of the two one-hundred-meter square, half-kilometer deep holes in Habranha’s glacial night hemisphere. Each of the one hundred seventy-five members of the staff currently at the site immediately checked the whereabouts and status of its, her, or his assigned partner or partners, except the one who was now trying to maintain its serpentine body in the vertical attitude S’Nash had ordered. A neutrino transmitter passed the emergency signal to the Diplomacy Guild office at Pwanpwan on Habranha’s ring continent, nearly three thousand kilometers away.