“If you are receiving this message, I am already dead.”
How I wish that I could begin this recording with that old cliche! But in all likelihood I am very much alive by the time you hear this. Though it would doubtless be better for all if it weren’t the case.

You remember, don’t you, how this all started? Ah, maybe not. Maybe many years have passed. No matter. I remember it as clearly as if it were painted on the wall before me as I record this message, instead of these obscure and crude images. It began, for me, with the journey to Malocus on the Carter. It was an old ship, full of its own kind of creaks and groans that no other ship had.
My friend Sita was writing fervently in her journal when the announcement came that our ferry was dropping through the outer atmosphere of the planet. For my part, I was studying what little information we had been given by our sponsors in preparation for joining the archaeological dig by the Golden Ridge.
The dry and dusty land extended for miles below us as we watched from the observation deck. On the horizon the blue glow of the planet’s first city, Davidson, cast its light into the sky like a second sunset.
“It’s beautiful,” Sita said. I nodded, my mind elsewhere. I was still thinking about the structures that I had seen on the hazy pic-snaps in my book, arcing, flowing things like frozen waterfalls. I had seen planets from this height before. I had never seen construction like that in any of my travels. But then, Sita was young, fresh out of grad school out round Elbert Moon. She wasn’t hardened to it like I was.
“Have you been looking at the prep material?” I asked. She shook her head, and her short dark bob swung like a Newton’s cradle.
“Hardly anything for me in there anyway. They’ll show me the goods when we land. Besides, I couldn’t miss this,” she said, spreading an arm wide to indicate the broad expanse of sandy red-brown desert dotted with dry, bristling clumps of vegetation over hidden pockets of moisture. She was a xenolinguist by calling, where my specialisation ran more in the direction of canopic jars and ritual statuary. And she was right, the fuzzy snaps in the materials we had looked over together at the start of the journey didn’t have much for her to go on. That was part of the reason for this trip. Along with the fifteen of us – assorted radiologists, archaeologists, xenozoologists and so on – the ferry was carrying nearly fifty tons of heavy equipment in ultra-secure containers that would make recording every aspect of the dig site as simple as the press of a button. At least in theory. Sita must have noticed my lack of enthusiasm. “Donna?” she asked. “Is everything okay?”
“Fine and dandy,” I said. “I was just thinking of how long it’s been since I stayed in one place. Had a home, you know?”
“Oh,” said Sita. She had a home. Had a nice job lined up for her at her family’s company. A fiancee waiting for her. This was glorified extra credit. I think I resented her for that. But not too much. I could never hold it against her. Maybe it just made me feel too old. I nearly married once, you know. Didn’t work out.

Eventually, as all things that go up do, we came down within walking distance of the village of tents and prefabs that housed the dig crew that were already there. Our own quarters were packed up tight with us on the ferry, and the first order of business was for us, assisted by a skeleton crew of workmen, to unpack and organise everything for assembly. The heavier equipment was paradoxically easier, as it was mostly remote-operated, where the lighter gear had to be lifted by four men and haltingly borne down to the designated area, where it was set down with a puff of sand and much huffing from the men.
“Here comes the welcome wagon,” said a stocky man with a thick moustache who I recognised as a photographer of widely-praised actuality films. George something I believe. He was referring to the rangy figure approaching us from the nearest prefab, dressed in dusty white linens. I recognised from our prep materials the aspect of Prof. Dan Cheung, his intent eyes flitting from face to face in the crowd as if he was trying to memorise us all before bothering with introductions. When he arrived at the crowd, however, he seemed to relax.
“Alright then,” he said. “Everybody have a nice trip?” Without waiting for any answer he ploughed on. “As you ought to know, I’m Professor Cheung. I don’t believe I’ve met most of you before, but I’m looking forward to it. I’m sure you’re all hungry after your long journey, so if you follow the white markers-” he pointed to a succession of posts stuck in the sand “- you’ll find that a rather substantial meal has been prepared for you in the canteen. Hm. We’ll have a meeting after that, take care of introductions then.” He beamed and ushered the first few of us towards the posts. As Sita and I were passing him, though, he stepped forwards. The two of us stopped together.
“Oh, no, do carry on,” he said to Sita. “I have something I wanted to discuss with… Dr. Ryder?” He knew my name. I wasn’t sure whether to be flattered or frightened. I nodded.
“That’s me,” I said. “Call me Donna.” I offered my hand.
“Of course,” he said, shaking it. Sita nodded a farewell to us and skipped off in the direction of the canteen. She must have been hungry. Suddenly I realised I was as well, gnawingly so. Why had I let myself get sidetracked by this gangly figure, wrapped up in thin layers like a walking mummy?
“First of all,” said Cheung. “It really is an honour to have you here. All of you, of course, but you especially, Dr. Ryder. I’m a big fan of your work, you know. The work you did on that ritual site on Cthon was – inspiring.” He gave a broad grin. “I read the paper, and I just had to have you here.” “What’s so important,” I said (quite rudely, in hindsight), as we began walking through the compound, diverting away from the path marked by the white posts, “that I simply have to see it before I get a chance to eat?”

The pit was twenty feet across and so deep the bottom was as black as an interstellar void. Standing back from the edge, it felt as if it had its own evil gravity, beckoning one in. I knew that was fanciful, the inevitable human response to the unknown, but still I felt uneasy being so close to it, to oblivion.
“Quite a thing, isn’t it?” said Cheung, quite unaffected by it. “Discovered it by perfect accident. Lucky nobody fell in at the time!” He smiled at me.
“So this is what all that equipment is about?” I asked. Cheung nodded enthusiastically. He held one hand out at about waist-height.
“This is the tombs of the pharaohs,” he said. “And this is the potential of this big hole in the ground.” He raised his other hand high in the air, which, as he was quite tall, was probably about seven and a half feet up. “We just need the right people to analyse it. Which is where you come in. I want you to be my number-two-woman, Donna. The pit crew report to you, you report to me. Get it?”
I nodded, not seeing what was so special about this that it couldn’t have waited until after dinner.

When I sat down to eat, my tray laden with rejected frozen vegetables that were all that was left, I found Sita waiting for me. She had fought off a few academics, plus George the documentarian, to keep my seat free, which I appreciated.
“So? What’s so important our gracious host had to steal you away in secret?” she said, smirking behind a forkful of meat loaf.
“He wanted me to look at a hole in the ground,” I said. I must have sounded more bitter than I felt, because Sita looked at me pityingly.
“Here, have some loaf,” she said, and cut me a slice from her own supply. “Besides, isn’t hole in the ground sort of what we’re here for?”
“Something special about this one,” I said. I glanced over my shoulder at the sound of raised voices behind me, a couple of tables over. I couldn’t make out the details of what the two men were saying, but it seemed like they were very serious about it. Indeed, I got a lesson in just how serious when, a few moments later, one of the two stood up, grabbed his opposite number with one hand, and jabbed what I assumed to be his finger forwards into his chest. It was only when the other howled in horror and turned that I saw that the motion had actually been made with a fork. It was quite absurd from that distance, the bushy-bearded man yelling at the sliver of protruding stainless steel.
He pulled the fork from his chest and leapt across the table in a sudden display of athleticism, his thumbs pressing on the younger man’s throat. A second later, the room seemed to realise what was happening and there was another explosion of violence, this time to protect the two of them from each other. They were dragged apart.
“Gordons!” shouted Prof. Cheung. “Anthony! What is this?” His tone was more appropriate to schoolboys writing rude notes in class than to grown men attempting to murder one another. “Go to the security station at once!”
To my enormous surprise, both men sheepishly got up and shuffled off in what I assumed was the direction of the security station.
“That was impressive,” I later commented to him.
“Ah, well, you have to be firm with them, or they’ll never change,” said Cheung self-effacingly.