Chapter IV

The Committee took over the dining area when the general left for his tour of inspection. While the steward’s department was preparing coffee for the interviewees, now assembling in the corridor, the four members of the Committee arranged themselves at the larger of the tables. Notepaper lay before them.

Mr. Tucker lighted a cigar and fingered it. “A rather good meal,” he said.

The others nodded.

“I may as well start off, while we’re waiting,” Mr. Wallace said. “I’ll summarize my somewhat contradictory observations.

“Superficially, the cultural level of the natives appeared quite primitive. The absence of tools would normally be indicative. On the other hand, the city was carved from rock in a way so as to suggest a very sophisticated technology. And writing, while apparently not practiced to any considerable extent, was known--or, if not writing as we understand it, some advanced decorative technique. We’ve found two lines of it, at least.

“Again superficially, the city would suggest a nomadic tradition, but for its craftsmanship. It seems independent of any obvious supply of food and their equivalent of water, if any. Nor were any provisions in evidence for the disposal of waste products. Yet the city had the appearance of age and continual usage. If you notice, the floor of the recess was worn unevenly toward the center by what I should guess to be the traffic of several centuries.

“The thought naturally occurs that the aliens were the rather decadent relics of a highly developed technological civilization existing on the planet in the not too distant past. Yet Miracastle offers no evidence for the existence of a prior technology--no ruins, no residual radioactivity from atomic operations. In short, the city has no apparent genesis in the past.

“The alternative arises: perhaps the natives were not natives at all, but immigrants or colonists like ourselves. Yet the age of the city contradicts this.

“Perhaps there is a simple explanation, although it does not occur to me. But I do have this feeling. The city was utilitarian. To me, it calls to mind one of those exquisite etchings of Picasso. The severe economy of line suggests simplicity. Yet, on further inspection, you see that each line contributes to a rather bewildering variety of perspectives. I strongly suspect that the city and the people of Miracastle will remain one of the great, unsolved mysteries of the universe.”

Mr. Wallace was finished with his remarks.

Mr. Ryan nodded. “Perhaps I’m deficient in sensibilities, but I find that the most ... agonizing ... thing of all is not ever to be able to know what these people were like. It’s almost as if some part of us had been lopped off, isn’t it? What did the people of Miracastle think about? What was their philosophy of life? What was their social organization? What was their ultimate goals? When you realize how much we learned of ourselves from an examination of our own primitive cultures, the sense of loss really comes home. Think how much more we could have learned of ourselves by acquiring the perspective of a truly alien culture. It’s almost as if we could really understand ourselves at last if we could only understand a totally alien culture...”

“Well, that’s gone,” Mr. Tucker said. The words were brittle and discrete. They hung in memory and the listeners waited as though for an echo of something shouted into a canyon. The echo did not come.

They were silent. Grief is the final knowledge of time. When one first learns that it can never be turned backward upon itself to permit the correction of past sins and the rightings of wrongs transfixed and forever unalterable. Grief is the frantic, futile beating of hands against a barrier without substance, both obscenely unreal and yet the only reality. Grief is the knowledge that we cannot step backwards before the death of loved ones and see those precious half-forgotten dream faces once again. Grief is the knowledge that time is immutable.

Outside the Richardson Dome, the wind was changing. It could now neither support the life that was nor the life that would be, and it howled in melancholy and insensate anguish its loneliness and longing to the eternal and ever-changing pattern of the stars.

The Committee concluded their interviews with an old-line corporal. He had just short of thirty years service and had several times traveled the two-way escalator of non-commissioned rank from master sergeant to private. He was perhaps typical of many of the older soldiers. His love of the Corps was expressed by his loyalty to it; his hatred of the Corps was expressed by his inability to abide by its regulations.

“You knew Sergeant Schuster very well?” Mr. Tucker asked.

“He was a new man,” the corporal said. “He got on just before lift-off. A week, two weeks, something like that. I knew him, I guess. He was one of them kind that was always thinking. And like you know, sir, thinking ain’t too good for a soldier. I’ve known a lot of guys like that in my time. You know what I mean? They’re not cut out for the Corps.”

“He talked to you quite a bit?”

The corporal turned to face Mr. Ryan. “He was always talking, sir. He was a regular nut. I thought for a while he was queer. He had all those crazy ideas.”

“Like what, Corporal?”

“Oh, like--well, you know.” The corporal hesitated and rummaged his memory without conspicuous success. “Sunsets,” he said rather emphatically. “Talked about sunsets. Talked about just anything. Called me out back on Earth to look at a sunset once, I remember.”

“What did he think about killing the natives?” Mr. Wallace asked.

The question alerted the mechanism which produced the almost-Pavlovian loyalty response.

“We didn’t kill no natives,” the corporal said. “They just died when we changed the air. Tough.”