Engines Of God

"I understand, John. But we can't really sail away and just leave this." Truscott's face glowed with excitement. "And I wouldn't miss it for anything." She looked at Carson. "I assume you would like to come?"

Hutch saw a shade of disapproval cross Carson's features. In view of the long history of accidental damage caused to artifacts by untrained perso

"Any others from your team?"

"I expect," said Carson, "everybody."

"Very good. We can manage it." She turned to Sill. "How about you, Harvey?"

"If you're going."

She swung back to Morris. "Seven for the shuttle, Captain."

Hutch went to her compartment to change. She was still uneasy. There was something that shouldn't be there. Or something missing. It was at the edge of vision, a memory that one can't quite grasp.

She switched on her monitor. The orbiter was coming into sunlight. Its twin wheels would once have rotated counter to each other. Now the entire artifact simply rolled slowly over as she watched.

What might its design reveal about its builders? It was the sort of question Richard would have asked. What do the esthetics tell us? There were symbols on the hull, black, angled strokes and tapered loops. Two groups of characters, she thought. Two words. What had they been?

Details appeared: blisters and ante

A long cable trailed behind the thing. And hatches were open.

She wrapped her arms around her knees and stared hard at the object, trying to imagine how it might have been when it was active, and exotic ships circled it. And the ante

How long ago?

She got up, padded across the floor, and into the washroom. She started the flow of water in the shower, adjusted the temperature of the stream, and stepped in. It was cool and brought a sting of pleasure.

Gravity was generated on all starships the same way: by rotating the living spaces, whether they were located within a permanent hull, as was the case on Perth, or within the ring-shaped modules of the Winckelma

And today, while she closed her eyes and let the cool spray wash over her, it occurred to her that the space station had also been designed to spin. To create the same effects.

And that was what was wrong.

She finished quickly, dried off, slipped into a Wink work uniform, and hurried up to the Academy observation lounge. Carson was still there, and Maggie. The others had gone, presumably to prepare for the boarding.

"Everything okay?" Carson asked as she burst into the room.

"Why was it built to rotate?" she demanded.

"Why was what built to rotate?"

"The space station, damn it."

Maggie stared at her, astonished at the question.

"Why is it so much like our stations, Frank? The Monument-Makers are supposed to have had anti-gravity. So we always assumed they had artificial gravity as well. But then why build rotating wheels?"

"Maybe we were wrong," said Maggie. "Either we still haven't found the Monument-Makers, or—"

Frank finished her statement. " — this was built before the Monument-Makers came to lapetus."

"That," said Maggie, "would mean this thing's been up here more than twenty thousand years. I don't think that's possible."

Carson did not want to talk about more complications. "Maybe it's a Monument from their early days. So they kept it in place. Let's not worry about it now."

"Another Monument?" Hutch didn't believe that for a minute. She opened a cha

"What do you need?" The CDO was a middle-aged, graying, no-nonsense woman.

"The space station," she said. "How stable is its orbit? How long would you say it's been here?"

The CDO looked uncomfortable. "We're navigators, Ms. Hutchins. You'd need a physicist to come up with that. I'd like to help, but we just don't have the expertise."

"Do what you can," said Hutch, using a tone that implied full confidence.

The CDO allowed herself a pleased smile. "We'll try."

John F. Morris, was a man with narrow shoulders, narrow tastes, and narrow vision. He had achieved the highest position to which he could aspire, and he had done it by unrelenting loyalty to the company, taking care not to offend the wrong people, and good old nose-to-the-grindstone attention to detail. He was not a man to be overwhelmed by other people's histrionics, but he could recognize a career danger. His great strength, and his great weakness, was an unblinking, clear view of the downside. He knew that Melanie Truscott was in difficulty, and that she was taking liberties with his ship. The fact that she had every right to do so (within certain specifically-provided-for parameters), that she had full authority to direct his movements, might not help him if someone decided to take offense at the misuse of company property. Or if something went seriously awry. It was for these reasons that the captain had remained aloof and cool during the approach to Beta Pac III. He was not prepared to defy Melanie Truscott, because he knew very well that one did not advance one's career by offending the powerful, even when the powerful were in trouble. People at her level had a way of resurrecting themselves. But he was not a good enough actor to conceal his displeasure.

He felt compromised, and he resented it. His resentment extended in no small way to the Academy refugees whom he'd pulled from their wreck. Especially Carson, who pretended to know everything.

Satisfied that the shuttle would be ready for its rendezvous with the station when promised, the captain went looking for Truscott. He found her in the forward lounge, deep in conversation with Sill. She looked up when he entered, noted his grave appearance, and smiled in her most reassuring ma

"I'm not comfortable about going any further with this," he said.

"Oh?" Truscott's gaze sharpened. "What is it that bothers you?"

"Several things." His voice shook. He did not like opposing a superior, even to the extent of adhering to his duty to provide sound advice. But now that he was fairly begun, he would maintain a steady course. "First, the transfer of perso