Dear Proctor Chappalar,

I trust it is not improper to ask for help from the Vigil — as an offworlder, I do not know what is considered appropriate on Demoth — but I am having trouble with one of your local officials, and I understand you act as a kind of ombudsman who can cut through red tape.

I am an archaeologist from Mirabile and am trying to launch an excavation in the interior of Great St. Caspian. The area contains abandoned mines dating back more than two thousand years before the Oolom colonization, and I should very much like to determine which race or races were active on Demoth at that time.

Unfortunately, my intended excavation site is owned by a company named Rustico Nickel… and while company officials are not opposed to my work, they say they cannot grant permission for me to dig unless I get an official archaeology permit.

(No surprise. Any digging on mine-owned land had to satisfy a slew of safety regulations — like requiring the company to install industrial-grade emergency equipment and establish a comprehensive risk-management program. If Rustico let Maya stick a single shovel in the soil, they’d have to pay for all those things to keep the Mines Commission happy. Very expensive. Rustico could only dodge the safety costs if Maya’s dig was an officially recognized archaeology project; and that meant a license from the Heritage Board.)

Unfortunately, my request for an excavation permit has fallen on deaf ears in Demoth’s Archaeology Liaison Bureau. The man there says he cannot issue licenses himself — that is a matter for the Technocracy’s Heritage Board. But the Heritage Board will not issue a license until it receives something called a Statement of Non-Opposition from the Demoth government… which the Archaeology Liaison Officer says he cannot give without some ridiculous background check that I am expected to pay for out of my own pocket.

Help! Is there anything you can do to make an underfunded scientist’s life easier?

Yours in hope

Maya Cuttack, Ph.D.

c/o The Henry Smallwood Guest Home

Sallysweet River

"Ouch," I said. "Have you ever had that feeling of someone walking on your grave?" The Henry Smallwood Guest Home was a manor lodge built on the old muddy site of the Circus — a place to house the worshipfully respectful Oolom tourists who flocked to pay tribute to Dads’s memory. If you looked at it one way, I shouldn’t be surprised an offplanet archaeologist had set up residence at the guest home; it was the closest thing to a hotel in the whole underpopulated interior of Great St. Caspian.

Still. This Maya Cuttack, possibly a robot, possibly a murderer… staying nearly on top of my old bedroom in Sallysweet River. It made the hairs curl on the back of my neck.

"You’ve found something?" Master Tic asked.

"An archaeologist named Maya Cuttack — an offworlder, which is why she didn’t show up when you scanned the census database. She wrote to Chappalar…" The date of the letter appeared in my mind. "She wrote to him four weeks ago." More details from the file kept popping into my head. "He investigated the situation, then met with her to explain what was going on… which obviously started their acquaintance."

"Where is this Maya now?"

"Sallysweet River."

Tic went very quiet. Every Oolom on Demoth knew the name of the town. Most of them thought of it as a place of salvation, but for Tic… anything associated with the plague probably hit him like a hammerfist to the head.

"Sallysweet River," he said. His voice was level, but he enunciated every syllable precisely. "What could possibly interest an archaeologist around that place?"

"The usual ruins," I replied. "Householes. Some ancient mines." I couldn’t help picturing the tunnel we’d used as a mass grave. The one where we regularly touched off explosions from the fumes of decay. Oh yes, there was a place archaeologists could find some eye-catching artifacts.

Tic was silent a moment, brooding. Then he drew a sharp breath, and said, "Fine. The world-soul confirms that Maya Cuttack applied to excavate several sites around Sallysweet River. The archaeology bureau conducted the usual elementary validation check on her credentials — doctorate from Pune University on Mirabile, participation in digs on Caproche, Muta, the Divian Free Republic…"

His voice trailed off. As if it meant something that Maya had connections with the republic. After his time scrutinizing the trade talks, maybe Tic had developed some unkind opinions about the Freeps. Or maybe, like most Ooloms, he just loathed Freeps on general principles.

I said, "If Maya’s got a history going back some time, she probably isn’t an android."

"Unless the real Maya was replaced," Tic replied. "Perhaps on that Free Republic dig…"

I rolled my eyes. "Don’t start. Our first duty is to contact her. Has she… no. Damn." I was going to ask if she’d registered her comm number with the Demoth world-soul; that way we could just beep her. But I suddenly knew with absolute certainty that Maya had never signed into the public directory. (The world-soul planting things in my head again.) And her comm number didn’t show up in Chappalar’s file. Either Maya hadn’t gotten a standard wrist-implant — one of those people who refused to adulterate her body on religious/medical/aesthetic grounds — or else she’d deliberately avoided revealing her number.

Tic must have accessed the world-soul for the same information. "The best we can do," he said, "is leave a message where she’s staying. Nothing explicit. Just have her call us as soon as possible." He waved in my direction, not looking at me. "You do it. This is your scrutiny, not mine."

His voice full of gruff. No question that this stuck in his craw, how Sallysweet River had suddenly come into the equation. My craw was turning fair sticky too, considering I had to make a call and hear someone chirp, "Henry Smallwood Guest Home," on the other end of the line. But I went to the phone screen beside Chappalar’s desk and reached toward the control pad.

Before my finger touched a single button, the screen flashed on and displayed the words CALLING… HENRY SMALLWOOD GUEST HOME, SALLYSWEET RIVER.

"Lord weeping Jesus," I groaned. "Even the phone can read my mind."

"Say thank you," Tic whispered.

"Thanks generously, phone," I said through gritted teeth. Since that didn’t sound so gracious, I gave the display box a pat, the gingerish way you do when you’re introduced to someone’s new pet and it turns out to be an alien organism with spikes.

The screen bloomed to show a fresh-faced Homo sap man and Oolom woman smiling side by side — a dandified establishment like the HSGH wanted callers to see instantly that it welcomed both species. Not that either species was actually present on-screen; the man and woman were likely computer mock-ups, psychometrically designed to appeal to the most desirable demographics. "Henry Smallwood Guest Home," the man said with a voice so honestly charming, I couldn’t help but mistrust it. "How may we help you?"

"I’m with the Vigil," I said, "and I’d like to leave an urgent message for Maya Cuttack. I understand she’s staying with you?"

"We’d be happy to take your message," the Oolom woman replied, "but if it’s urgent, we can’t guarantee when Dr. Cuttack will receive it."

"Why?"

"Our guests come and go," the man said. "We never know when they might pick up their messages."

"Are you saying Dr. Cuttack isn’t in residence right now?"

"We can’t give out such information on our guests," the woman answered, her face brimming with regret that she couldn’t satisfy my every whim.

Behind the display box, out of sight from the screen, Tic mouthed, Just leave a note. I did, asking Maya "to call Faye Smallwood as soon as possible for an urgent message." Something gave me the waries about leaving my personal number; so I rhymed off the code for the Vigil instead. Our phone system was smart enough to forward the call to me if I wasn’t in the office.