Alien Contact (20 page)

“I regret to inform you that both the archaeologists and the Bosperi Scroll are currently in a museum on Deluros VIII.”

“Smart,” says the man. “They can protect it better on Deluros.”

“From who?” asks the woman.

“From anyone who wants to steal it, of course,” he says, as if explaining it to a child.

“But I mean, who would want to steal the key to a dead language?”

“Do you know what it would be worth to a collector?” answers the man. “Or a thief who wanted to ransom it?”

They discuss it further, but the simple truth is that it is on Deluros because it was small enough to carry, and for no other reason. When they are through arguing I tell her that it is because they have devices on Deluros that will bring back the faded script, and she nods her head thoughtfully.

We walk another 400 meters and come to the immense Palace of the Kings. It is made entirely of gold, and becomes so hot from the rays of the sun that one can touch the outer surface only at night. This was the building in which all the rulers of the 7th through the 12th Dynasties resided. It was from here that my race received the Nine Proclamations of Ascendancy, and the Charter of Universal Rights, and our most revered document, the Mabelian Declaration.

It was a wondrous time to have lived, when we had never tasted defeat and all problems were capable of solution, when stately caravans plied their trade across secure boundaries and monarchs were just and wise, when each day brought new triumphs and the future held infinite promise.

I point to the broken and defaced stone chair. “Once there were 246 jewels and precious stones embedded in the throne.”

The child walks over to the throne, then looks at me accusingly. “Where are they?” he demands.

“They were all stolen over the millennia,” I reply.

“By conquerors, of course,” offers the woman with absolute certainty.

“Yes,” I say, but again I am lying. They were stolen by my own people, who traded them to various occupying armies for food or the release of captive loved ones.

We spend a few more minutes examining the vanished glory of the Palace of the Kings, then walk out the door and approach the next crumbling structure. It is the Hall of the Thinkers, revered to this day by all Antareans, but I know they will not understand why a race would create such an edifice to scholarship, and I haven’t the energy to explain, so I tell them that it is the Palace of the Concubines, and of course they believe me. At one point the child, making no attempt to mask his disappointment, asks why there are no statues or carvings showing the concubines, and I think very quickly and explain that Lois Kiboko’s religious beliefs were offended by the sexual frankness of the artifacts and she had them all destroyed.

I feel guilty about this lie, for it is against the Code of Just Behavior to suggest that a visitor’s race may have offended in any way. Ironically, while the child voices his disappointment, I notice that none of the three seems to have a problem accepting that another human would destroy millennia-old artwork that upset his sensibilities. I decide that since they feel no guilt, this one time I shall feel none either. (But I still do. Tradition is a difficult thing to transcend.)

I see the man anxiously walking around, looking into corners and behind pedestals, and I ask him if something is wrong.

“Where’s the can?” he says.

“I beg your pardon?”

“The can. The bathroom. The lavatory.” He frowns. “Didn’t any of these goddamned concubines ever have to take a crap?”

I finally discern what he wants and direct him to a human facility that has been constructed just beyond the Western Door.

He returns a few minutes later, and I lead them all outside, past the towering Onyx Obelisk that marked the beginning of the almost-forgotten 4th Dynasty. We stop briefly at the Temple of the River of Light, which was constructed
over
the river, so that the sacred waters flow through the temple itself.

We leave and turn a corner, and suddenly a single structure completely dominates the landscape.

“What’s
that?”
asks the woman.

“That is the Spiral Ramp to Heaven,” I answer.

“What a fabulous name!” she enthuses. “I just know a fabulous story goes with it!” She turns to me expectantly.

“There was a time, before our scientists knew better, that people thought you could reach heaven if you simply built a tall enough ramp.”

The child guffaws.

“It is true,” I continue. “Construction was begun during the 2nd Dynasty, and continued for more than 700 years until midway through the 3rd. It looks as if you can see the top from here, but you actually are looking only at the bottom half of it. The rest is obscured by clouds.”

“How high does it go?” asked the woman.

“More than nine kilometers,” I say. “Three kilometers higher than our tallest mountain.”

“Amazing!” she exclaims.

“Perhaps you would like a closer look at it?” I suggest. “You might even wish to climb the first kilometer. It is a very gentle ascent until you reach the fifth kilometer.”

“Yes,” she replies happily. “I think I’d like that very much.”

“I’m not climbing anything,” says the man.

“Oh, come on,” she urges him. “It’ll be fun!”

“The air’s too thin and the gravity’s too heavy and it’s too damned much like work. One of these days
I’m
going to choose our itinerary, and I promise you it won’t involve so goddamned much walking.”

“Can we go back and watch the game?” asks the child eagerly.

The man takes one more look at the Spiral Ramp to Heaven. “Yeah,” he says. “I’ve seen enough. Let’s go back.”

“We really should finish the tour,” says the woman. “We’ll probably never be in this sector of the galaxy again.”

“So what? It’s just another backwater world,” replies the man. “Don’t tell your friends about the Stairway to the Stars or whatever the hell it’s called and they’ll never know you missed it.”

Then the woman comes up with what she imagines will be the clinching argument. “But you’ve already agreed to pay for the tour.”

“So we’ll cut it short and pay him half as much,” says the man. “Big deal.”

The man pulls a wad of credits out of his pocket and peels off three ten-credit notes. Then he pauses, looks at me, pockets them, and presses a fifty-credit note into my hand instead.

“Ah, hell, you kept your end of the bargain, Herman,” he says. Then he and the woman and child begin walking back to the hotel.

The first aliens ever to visit Antares were rude and ill-mannered barbarians, but Perganian II, the greatest Emperor of the 31st Dynasty, decreed that they must be treated with the utmost courtesy. When the day of their departure finally arrived, the aliens exchanged farewells with Perganian, and one of them thrust a large, flawless blue diamond into the Emperor’s hand in payment for his hospitality.

After the aliens left the courtyard, Perganian let the diamond drop to the ground, declaring that no Antarean could be purchased for any price.

The diamond lay where it had fallen for three generations, becoming a holy symbol of Antarean dignity and independence. It finally vanished during a dust storm and was never seen again.

t was all based on trust, wasn’t it? You join the Fleet, you train until it’s as natural to pilot your ship as to dance, as reflexive to fight with the ship’s weapons as to use your fists. Then you go where they send you, leaving behind your family and friends, knowing that relativistic travel ensures you’ll never see them again. To all intents and purposes, you’ve already given your life for your country—no, your species.

You can only trust that when you commit to battle near some far-off world, the commander they’ve assigned to you will actually win, will make it worth the sacrifice.

As to you, personally, does it matter whether you live or die? Sel Menach asked himself this question more than once during the two-year voyage to war. Sometimes he thought it really didn’t matter at all. All he cared about was victory.

But when they got to the Formic world, forty lightyears from Earth, and he and his warship hurtled from the transport and faced the enemy formation, he discovered that no matter what his mind decided, his body was determined to live.

It was a child’s voice he heard over his headset, giving commands to his squad. And another child giving commands to his commander. They had been warned; it had been explained to them. Mazer Rackham’s voice came over the ansible, acquainting them with how these children had been screened, trained, tested, and now the finest military minds among the human race, the most relentlessly competitive, with the fastest reflexes, would give them their orders.

“They don’t know the test they’re taking is real,” said Rackham. “To them, it’s all about winning. I can assure you that the supreme commander, Ender Wiggin, does not waste his resources. He will be as careful of your lives as if he knew you were there.”

We’re trusting our lives to children?

But what choice did they have?

In some ways, the actual battle was not too different from what the children must be experiencing on their simulators. Inside Sel’s fighter, there was no sound except the voices of commanders and fellow pilots, and the Dvorak and Smetana he always played to help keep him calm and focused. When a fellow pilot was killed, all Sel heard was the soft voice of the computer saying “Connection broken with” and the fighter’s i.d. If the killed ship had been maneuvering fairly nearby, there would be a blink of light on the simulator.

An hour after they poured out of the transport it was over. Total victory. Not a Formic ship in the sky. And their losses had been, all else being equal, light.

Mazer’s promise about the child commanders turned out to be true. When the surviving fighters returned to the transport and sat together to watch the replay of the battle on the large simulator, no one could find a single decision to criticize.

Each of the individual children had done well; but on the third viewing Sel began to grasp the genius of Ender Wiggin’s overall strategy. He had maneuvered the enemy into an untenable position, forcing the enemy to expose himself, the enemy to be aggressive, the enemy to sustain the losses. Wiggin had been careful of lives that he didn’t even know where involved.