* * *
Clad in a light-duty surface suit, Kieran stood with Dennis and Juanita on the edge of the open area next to the huddle of shacks and vehicles. Trevany and Jean Graas were nearby with Hamil. All heads behind the helmet visors were gazing upward at the “Mule” transporter circling now after interrupting its descent, presumably on seeing the signs of occupation. It was a dark metallic gray, with a boxlike, square-sectioned body, high tail assembly with triple fins, and stubby wings situated amidships carrying large engine nacelles at their ends—a standard model used for hauling people and freight all over Mars. A voice came through in Kieran’s helmet on the local air-traffic channel that they were all tuned to. His wrist-screen showed the smooth-skinned face of a man in his mid to late thirties, hair light yellow, with the neck ring of a flight EV suit visible below his chin. He hadn’t introduced himself.
“This area has been retained under the terms of a use registration certificate filed by Zorken Consolidated. You are in violation of the generally acknowledged code. Identify yourselves and state your purpose here.”
Hamil answered. “This is Hamil Hashikar speaking, professor of archeology. We are an independent archeological research expedition supported by a diversity of private and academic interests. Your activity here has been suspended. The pilot diggings that were left offered an invaluable opportunity of a kind that science doesn’t get very often.” All typical of the way he could imagine Hamil working, Kieran thought to himself. Easygoing and genial, never stopping to doubt as he sauntered through life that the things that mattered to him wouldn’t automatically hold the same significance for everyone else. Unless he absolutely had to, Hamil wouldn’t sacrifice available field time getting approvals from inflated bureaucrats or bogging down under pedantic and irritating procedures.
“You’ve got the rest of the planet to go exploring in,” the voice on the channel said. “This area has been declared a retained territory. We’re here to prepare for the resumption of work by Zorken. You will be required to vacate.”
“I have a feeling that might change if we could talk to you,” Hamil replied. “But it’s not exactly convenient at this distance.”
The Mule banked into a turn and came lower, straightening out to make a slow pass over the camp—low enough for Kieran to feel the pulsations of its engines and make out the white-on-orange ZC logos painted on the tail fins. The occupants were no doubt checking for signs of weapons or anything out of order in the surroundings. “Very well,” the yellow-haired man answered finally. “Keep clear of the landing area.”
The craft slowed into a vertical descent immediately in front of the camp, its engine note rising, though still sounding distant in the rarified air, and settled amid swirls of dust and sand. The sound and the flurries died. There was a short pause. Then the Mule’s access steps hinged down with a section of the hull, and three suited figures emerged. They stopped at the bottom of the steps to look around and assess the party waiting for them, and then came over. The yellow-haired man was in the center, leading. With him were a thin-lipped, pallid-faced woman with straight, gray-streaked hair cropped short, and an Asian with a short, pointed Charlie Chan beard. Hamil, looking characteristically jovial, extended a gloved hand.
“Hamil Hashikar.”
The yellow-haired man ignored it and remained unsmiling. “I don’t think such displays would be appropriate to the circumstances. My name is Banks. I represent Zorken Consolidated. My exact capacity doesn’t matter. As I have already informed you, these workings are certified under a use registration. Under the adopted Martian codes, you have no claim here. There is nothing more to discuss.”
Hamil made a placatory gesture. Kieran had already written off any attempt to reason at this stage as pointless, but Hamil was missing that fact. He went on, “But you don’t understand, Mr. Banks. What we have found here could rank among the most important archeological discoveries of the century. We need to get in touch with whoever has ultimate responsibility for your project here.”
Banks closed his eyes and sighed. “I think it’s you who doesn’t understand. A whole new space complex is going up here. Do you think someone’s going to stop that so you can dig up rocks to argue about?”