The Dig by Alan Dean Foster

He decided to walk a complete circuit of the chamber, during which time he identified five high arches set into the meandering wall. They might have been works of art, or simple designs intended to break the monotony of the interior, but to his eye they more closely resembled doorways that had been tightly sealed. All five were uniform in appearance and construction.

The small tunnel he found was not blocked, and this he was able to explore. Pulling the compact flashlight from his utility belt, he gave the interior a quick once-over before returning to the main chamber. The darkness of space didn’t bother him, but tunnels and unexplored caves did.

On his way back out he stumbled. Catching himself, he looked down to see that he’d lost his balance because of a depression in the floor. Did it indicate the presence of another shaft going deeper still? A metal plate lay nearby, apparently designed to fit the depression. It’s discovery ought to have excited him. Instead, he felt only a mild elation. It was frustrating to know that you had tools in your hand in the form of the plates but not know how to use them.

Nevertheless, he carefully picked it up and snugged it under an arm. Four similar plates had activated the asteroid-ship. Whether four more would reactivate it and send it speeding back to Earth he had no way of knowing. But first he needed to find three more. At least now he had a goal, and it gave him something to do besides stumble about blindly in the hope that Providence would intervene on his behalf. If nothing else, the plate was heavy, solid and comfortingly real.

He intended to leave it near the base of the rubble pile, that being as convenient a rendezvous as any, but as he was starting back, he noticed a depression in one of the many consolelike bulges in the wall. Like the others he’d seen, it was also studded with slots and strange gouges. Its proximity to the plate, which had been lying loose on the tunnel floor, was too much of a coincidence to ignore.

“Truly problem solving they are,” avowed the first presence.

“I was certain the creature was going to continue past.” Though many of the others remained dubious, sparks of reluctant optimism began to evince themselves.

“Will it take the correct action?” wondered a dozen others. “Oftentimes the primitive will perform the unexpected.”

“But if it does the wrong thing…” The fifty who had spoken left the thought unfinished.

“Manifest yourself,” several urged the first. “Show the creature the way. Give it a sign.”

The first strained briefly before giving up. “I cannot. Not enough time has passed. The regeneration of personal energy takes time.”

Every presence paused to observe the biped’s actions. “If it acts wrongly, it will die like its companion. As have so many who have come before.”

The first presence might not have had enough strength left to manifest, but it was quite capable of continued argument. “Do not blame the creatures for the one death they have suffered thus far. There was no correct way to enter the chamber. Time has finally begun to destroy what we left behind. The opening would have crumbled no matter what approach the bipeds had taken. They could not have known that. If blame for their failure needs to be apportioned, then part of it lies with us as the builders.”

“If only it were possible to manifest more strongly,” several lamented. “We could save these creatures, and they in turn could help us.”

“If we could do that,” reminded a thousand others, “we would not need the assistance of stranded primitives. We could save ourselves. Alas, for all that we have accomplished, for all that we have learned, we cannot.”

All they could do, in fact, in their tens of thousands, was watch … and hope.

Loath to give up the plate, Low hesitated before the depression. What if it sank out of sight, absorbed by the substance that composed the wall? That’s what had happened to the plates onboard the asteroid-ship. He held his prize up to the depression. It would fit perfectly.

He would have consulted Maggie, but she had taken herself elsewhere, and Brink was no longer around to offer counsel. Reaching a decision, he slipped the plate into the concave receptacle. It fit flush with the wall.

A soft humming became audible, only occasionally interrupted by the grind of centuries passing. Or perhaps it was merely dust being blown in through the opening in the roof. Wary, he retreated a few steps.

His heart sank along with the plate as it melted into the material of the wall. From previous experience he knew it was now unrecoverable. Well, it had been worth the experiment, he decided, refusing to be discouraged. Any additional plates he found would go straight to the base of the rubble heap, to wait there until they could be carried back to the asteroid-ship.

The consolelike bulge into which the plate had vanished began to pulse with a glow unlike the light that emanated from the walls and floor. The grinding sound came not from the sinking of the plate into the depression nor from the presence of blowing sand but from a nearby section of floor. Low kept his distance until the passageway was completely revealed.

Approaching cautiously, he peered over and down. The same soft, pleasing refulgence that illuminated the big chamber also allowed him to see into the room below. Instead of arcane bulges and mysterious swellings, it was filled with an assortment of devices and artifacts, all in varying states of preservation or decrepitude.

Lifting his head, he turned and shouted. “Maggie! Hey, Robbins, get yourself over here! I’ve found something.” There was no reply. Where had she gone?

Well, he couldn’t wait on her, he decided anxiously.

There was a ladder, of sorts. A bizarre arrangement of bars and steps that resembled something lifted from a bombed-out school playground. Clambering down as best he could, he found himself standing in what reminded him more than anything else of an old janitorial storeroom. Nothing was stored carefully. The jumble of devices had the appearance of an afterthought, as though they had been dumped here at the last minute.

The last minute before what, he found himself wondering?

Careful to disturb nothing, he moved from one artifact to the next, inspecting but not touching. Was any of this alien junk still functional? And if so, how could he divine individual functions?

He halted before one that caught his attention. Not because it was unique of design or remarkable of appearance but because it seemed better preserved than anything else in the room. Dust and grime did not coat its every exposed surface, and there were faint suggestions of recent automatic lubrication. Had it been somehow employed by the vanished occupants of the other vessel they had found here? Or was it some kind of maintenance device, forgotten by its makers, left to perform whatever task it had been designed for until it collapsed or its power source finally ran down.

He let his fingers trail along the smooth, machined flanks. No circular metal plate bulged from the artifact’s middle or protruded from within. Therefore he was more than a little startled when a soft click sounded. He retreated hurriedly, ready to scramble up the alien ladder should the device exhibit hostile tendencies.

It did nothing of the sort. Instead, it continued to squat in the shadows and hum softly to itself.

“If you’re waiting for instructions,” the Commander announced, “you’ve got the wrong programmer.”

Or maybe not. In response to his words the device pivoted to face him, attentive and waiting. When Low took a step forward, the machine matched the movement.

He studied it closely. The front was studded with multiple projections that might have been tools. But tools for what? The squat device might be anything from floor cleaner to portable dentist. One thing was fairly evident: it had reacted to his presence and was continuing to do so.

It had been stored here, in this room below the grand chamber. That suggested its functions were tied to the chamber itself. Low had no special desire to see the floor polished, or have his teeth worked on, but might not the gizmo be able to serve more prosaic functions?

For example, could it open a sealed door?

Tilting back his head, he studied the ladder that led upward. “How am I going to get you up there?” he muttered aloud. The machine did not reply, merely continued to stand on its feet and wait patiently.

“The machine lives.”

A mental sigh passed through a hundred thousand watching Cocytans.

“See what one of them has accomplished already.” Supporters of the first were much encouraged.

But hardly convincing. “It means nothing,” declared a sizable concatenation of skeptics. “It stumbles about blindly. Luck favors the ignorant.”

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