“No,” said Jonnie. “But look. This line goes exactly across the exit from the pass from the lower plains. They're exactly spaced. They're in an exact straight line.”

“But with no tanks-' said the parson.

“They never exploded!” said Jonnie. “Time has just made them fall apart.”

“How did you guess this?” said the historian.

Jonnie smiled. It was a little bit hard to speak. He indicated the sketch to cover his surge of emotion. After a moment he said, “That pass leads up from the western plain to the meadow. And behind that meadow there is a canyon that goes up into the mountains, and way up that canyon is the primary defense base of the ancient government of man!” He filled in the rest of the sketch.

Other groups had sensed something was happening. They began drifting over.

Jonnie felt like crying. He swallowed hard.

“I wondered where they sent all the uranium they'd mined. I knew it must be somewhere....”

The parson touched his arm, not wanting him to run into a future failure with a crash. “They would not have it in the base, laddie.”

“But the base records will tell us where it is!” said Jonnie. “It would have maps, wires of communication...I know we'll crack this there!”

Angus had been staring at the sketch. "Ooh!" he was saying to himself. “Land mines! And I was just going to burrow in!”

Robert the Fox was already gathering up those in charge to begin their expedition to the tomb.

The historian was diving for references that would tell them the perils of entering tombs.

“Don't fret, laddie," said the parson to Jonnie, who was just sitting there staring. “Dawning will tell us if it's true.”

The doors were cracked open, just as he had left them so many years ago. Lying there, crusted with snow but just where he had dropped it, was the iron bar he had used to open the doors. The smell might or might not be there, for he was now wearing an air mask.

They had left just as soon as they could see to fly, and Jonnie had spotted them down accurately just before the door. Behind him in the canyon the Scots were unloading gear. The plane would have to leave and they would have to obliterate all tracks with snow before the recon drone came over on its daily round.

The calm voice of Robert the Fox was directing them: “Have you got the lamps? Check out the spare air bottles. Where is Daniel? Easy with those explosives....”

A Scot came up with a sledge hammer to open the door wider and Angus rushed over and pushed him aside. “No. No. No. 'Tis just wanting a bit of penetrating oil.” Angus was popping the bottle of an oilcan. His voice sounded muffled through the air mask.

They were all getting air masks on. The historian had found it was very unhealthy to enter tombs. Something called “spores” sometimes came off bone dust of the long dead and made a man cough his lungs out.

“Mind if I slip in first, Jonnie?" said Angus. Jonnie took his shoulder pack so Angus could slide through. The mine lamp played on the interior. "Och! Enough dead men!” His oilcan was popping on hinges. “Try it, Jonnie.”

Jonnie put his shoulder to the doors and they swung back, shooting a blast of light down the stairs. Angus had stepped out of the way and was now wading on littered corpses, puffs of bone dust rising around his boots.

They all stood for a moment, looking down the steps, awed.

On this graveyard of a planet, they were no strangers to dead remains. They lay in structures and basements in abundance wherever there was any protection from wild animals or the weather, corpses more than a thousand years dead.

But reaching down this long flight of stairs were the remains of several hundred men. Protected from the air until a dozen years ago, their clothing, arms, and equipment were somewhat preserved, but the bones had gone to powder.

“They fell forward,” said Robert the Fox. “Must have been a regiment marching in. See? These two fellows at the top of the steps must have been closing the doors.”

“The gas,” said Jonnie. “They opened the doors to let the regiment in, looks like, and the gas hit them from the canyon.”

“Wiped the place out,” said Robert the Fox. “Listen, all of you. Don't go in there without a tight air mask.”

“We ought to bury these men,” said the parson. “They each have little tags on them,” he picked one up. " 'Knowlins, Peter, Private USMC No. 35473524. Blood Type B.' "

“Marines,” said the historian. “We've got a military base here all right.”

“Do you suppose,” said the parson to Jonnie, “that village of yours could once have been a marine base? It is different than other towns.”

“The village has been rebuilt a dozen times,” said Jonnie. “Robert, let's go in.”

“Remember your priorities,” said Robert to the group. “Inventory only. Don't touch records until they're identified. This is a big place. Don't stray or get lost.”

“We ought to bury these bodies,” said the parson.

“We will, we will,” said Robert. “All in good time. Gunners forward. Flush out and destroy any animals.”

Five Scots carrying submachine guns raced down the steps, alert for bears or snakes in hibernation or stray wolves.

“Ventilation team, stand by,” said Robert, and glanced over his shoulder to make sure the three assigned to carry the heavy mine ventilation fans were there and ready.

There was an uneven burst of fire below. The sub-Thompson ammunition was dud two rounds out of five, and to get a sustained burst one had to recock the bolt in mid-fire.

Robert's small limited-range radio crackled. “Rattlesnakes. Four. All dead. End com.”

“Aye,” said Robert the Fox into the mike.

There was another ragged burst of fire.

The radio crackled. “Brown bear. Hibernating. Dead. End com.”

“Aye,” said Robert.

“Second set of doors, tight locked.”

“Explosives team,” Robert called over his shoulder.

"Naw, naw!" said Angus. “We may need those doors!”

“Go ahead,” said Robert. “Belay explosives team, but stand by.” Into the mike, “Mechanic en route.”

They waited. The radio crackled. “Doors open.” A pause. “Area beyond seems airtight. Probably no hostile animals beyond. End com.”

“Ventilation team. Forward,” said Robert.

The last man on that team was carrying a cage of rats.

Presently a current of air began to come out of the tomb.

The radio crackled: “Rats still alive. End com.”

“There you are, MacTyler," said

Robert.

Jonnie checked his face mask and walked down through the dust of the stairs. He heard Robert firing the rest of the teams behind him and then giving orders to clean up the outside area and dust all traces with snow when the planes left. The orders sounded way off and thin in the booming caverns of the primary defense base of a long-dead nation.