The Dig by Alan Dean Foster

As if further proof was needed, the silhouettes of two moons hung conveniently in the sky, proclaiming with lunar finality the alienness of their location.

That did not prevent them from seeking signs of familiarity. As to the atmosphere, if it contained anything poisonous or otherwise lethal, they would discover it soon enough. Their nearly airless suits offered a poor second choice. Besides, it smelled good; fresh, sweet and unpolluted, with a faint mix of natural fragrances Low was unable to identify.

Each of them wore a service belt equipped with a number of efficient, miniaturized devices, for use both onboard the shuttle and outside it in the event any of their suit units should malfunction. Removing the small subsidiary communicator, he switched it on. It was encouraging to see the tiny green indicator light respond, though when he spoke into the pickup, he was lacking both hope and enthusiasm in equal measure.

“Borden, this is Low. Come in, please. Ken, do you read?”

There was no response, not even static. Not that he had expected any. The unit emitted a faint, mournful echo of a whisper, barely enough to confirm that it was functioning normally. Alien sunlight filtered languidly through high, greasy clouds and warmed his neck and shoulders.

Just to be sure, he had Brink try on his own communicator. Requesting a response in English, German and Russian, the scientist received none. A tepid breeze rose from the silent sea to ruffle their hair.

At least they were out of the damn suits, Low thought. It was a great relief, after the strain and tension of the last few hours. It would have been nicer to have been out of their suits and onboard the Atlantis, or better still, striding down the landing ramp at the Cape.

Squinting skyward, he saw that the two visible moons differed in outline and mass. As he stared upward, a trio of narrow gliding shapes passed silently between his view and the moons. They had yard-long, membranous wings through which the sun shone brown, and angular, pointed skulls.

The spires that dominated the surrounding islets hinted at the presence of additional otherworldly revelations. Smooth of side, they pierced the silent alien sky like needles, mysterious messengers removed from their bottles. At this distance he could not tell whether they were solid or hollow. If hollow, he found himself wondering, what might they contain? Were they identical inside as well as out? He wondered if they might somehow be connected to one another, or even to the island on which they presently found themselves.

Behind him, the enormous metamorphosed mass of the unasteroid rested unassuming in its crater, or landing platform, or whatever the depression in the ground constituted. It was a gateway, a link, transportation to this world for whoever had the brains, wherewithal and misfortune to deduce that inserting the four metal plates into four empty receptacles might produce interesting consequences.

Couldn’t deny that what had happened to them was interesting, he decided. Now, if only there had been some way to control the process. He felt like a five-year-old who knew how to start his parents’ car but didn’t have a clue as to how to steer it. They’d turned the ignition key on the asteroid-ship and accelerated on down the road, only to fetch up here, unable to restart the vehicle or turn it around.

He doubted the alien version of an auto club was to be found anywhere in the immediate vicinity.

On another plane of existence, which occupied a region indescribable in human terms, the warm breeze and the meteorological mechanics that had generated it remained imperceptible. It was the same with the diffused sunlight and the sweet-smelling air. In their place, other realities, other perceptions held sway. Time and space fraternized in a flurry of vulgar mathematics, with the result that both became bastardized.

Amid this confusion of totality, a multiplicity of intelligences were present, riding the currents of a deformed actuality like so many moon doggies surfing a succession of predictable curls. This they did effortlessly, pushing themselves along with earnest thought-waves, interconnecting with lazy notions, rising and falling on the back of abstruse speculations.

They were not ignorant of real-time or real-space. It was visible to them as a parade of images viewed through thick glass. Much of the time they did not look. The memories had become too painful, and it was easier to ignore the falling of a leaf, the splash of a leaping fish on the surface of a real sea, than to deal with what might have been.

Within themselves, they were omnipotent. But they were not happy.

“Others have come,” declared the presence nearest the unexpected new disturbance. Initially perceived as a ripple in reality, on closer inspection the intrusion had resolved itself into a trio of intelligent physicalities. It was a surprise that engendered casual inspection but no hope.

“Again?” The response took the form of a voiceless chorus, a coordinated disturbance of subatomic particles that came together with the usual perfect, dreary unity.

“So it would seem.” Without eyes, the discoverer gazed speculatively upon the bipeds as they moved hesitantly through the tumid slipstream that was the real universe. “These are different from any who have come before.”

“As those who preceded them differed from their predecessors.” The new presence stank of the same resigned ennui that afflicted them all. “It is ever the same. They will be no more successful than any of the others.”

On this point there was universal agreement. It was not voiced, or felt. It simply was, and by virtue of being, became simultaneously known to any who had an interest. Of these there were few, boredom having largely obliterated all but the last traces of curiosity among those who were present.

The equivalent of thought-ideograms passed between individuals, the shape and style of each serving to identify those who generated them more accurately than any name. It was the mental equivalent of thinking in fully formed pictures, complete to coloristic shadings and fine detail. Communication as art, art as communication. It was very nearly the only aesthetic left to those who propounded it. As such, they clung to it, molded it, and refined it with care. They had forsaken all other forms of art, much to their eventual regret.

Realization had become tainted by despair, which had given way finally to resignation. All that remained to them of existence was overtones, shadings, smoke and suggestion. Rather than being prized, the bipedal interruption served only to remind them of what had been lost. It was painful to perceive.

Nevertheless, several persisted. Stubbornness, too, was a means for combating boredom.

“They don’t look like much,” remarked another presence as it hovered directly above the new arrivals.

Robbins frowned at Low. “Did you feel that?”

Low was eyeing the interior of the island. The plateau on which they were standing gave way to low but rugged peaks. Twisted vegetation clung to hollows and small canyons. Some of the growths were yellow and purple rather than green, while one spotted a multiple trunk that formed a single stem, as if it had been planted in reverse. Tiny, brightly colored arthropods skittered from rock to bush, crevice to tree, minimizing their exposure to the open sky. He remembered the flying creatures they had seen earlier.

“Feel what?”

“I don’t know,” she replied impatiently. “If I knew, I wouldn’t be asking you.”

“And if I’d felt anything, I’d have given you an answer.” He took a step forward. “Probably just a little wind. Looks like that little arroyo might be passable.”

The reporter blinked, then whirled sharply. There was nothing behind her, nothing close, not even an alien gnat. Yet the feeling of something watching her was one she had encountered and acted upon many times in the past.

Absurd, of course. There was nothing here to do the watching. If she persisted, she’d only end up irritating and probably amusing both of her companions. Was the sea watching her? The rocks, the sun? She couldn’t shake the feeling, but as she turned back to follow Low, she did her best to ignore it.

“They have awareness,” proclaimed another presence.

“No more so than many who have come before,” argued another.

“That is so.” This from the one who had made first notice. “But it behooves one to be optimistic.”

“To be foolish, you mean.” Thought-forms swirled about one another in a realm outside experience. “Optimism is an outmoded concept with no validity in the present. I ceased practicing it, even as a theory, about a thousand years ago.”

“More or less,” agreed another.

They were exempt from the ravages of senility, the organized thought-forms that composed their minds and their selves un-threatened by the slow disintegration that reduced to rubble creatures of flesh and blood. But they were not immune to argument, which they relished as one of the last vestiges of a fading commitment to reality.

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