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didn't so much as quiver."
"They seem to have progressed from neon
to nuclear annihilation in record time," Second
Secretary Retief commented. "But I think we
have a good chance of bettering their track
record."
"Think of it, gentlemen," Pennyfool called,
pausing at the base of a capless pylon and
rubbing his hands together with a sound like a
cicada grooming its wing cases. "An entire city
in pristine condition nay, more, a whole
continent, a complete planet! It's an
archaeologist's dream come true! Picture the
treasures to be found: the stone axes and telly
sets, the implements of bone and plastic, the
artifacts of home, school, and office, the tin cans,
the beer bottles, the bones oh, my, the bones,
gentlemen! Emerging into the light of day after
all these centuries to tell us their tales of the life
and demise of a culture!"
"If they've been dead for twenty thousand
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years, what's the point in digging around in
their garbage dumps?" an Assistant Military
Attache inquired sotto voce. "I say Corps funds
would be-better spent running a little nose-to-
ground reconnaissance of Boge, or keeping an
eye on the Groaci."
"Tsk, Major," Magnan said. "Such comments
merely serve to reinforce the popular stereotype
of the crassness of the military mind."
"Who's so crass about keeping abreast of the
opposition?" the officer protested. "It might be a
nice change if we hit them first, for once, instead
of getting clobbered on the ground."
"Sir" Magnan tugged at the iridium-
braided lapels of his liver-colored informal field
coverall "would you fly in the face of six
hundred years of tradition?"
"Now, gentlemen," Pennyfool was saying,
"we're not here to carry out a full-scale dig, of
course, merely to conduct a preliminary survey.
But I see no reason why we shouldn't wet a line,
so to speak. Magnan, suppose you just take one
of these spades and we'll poke about a bit. But
carefully, mind you. We wouldn't want to
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damage an irreplaceable art treasure."
"Heavens, I'd love to," Magnan said as his
superior offered him the shovel. "What perfectly
vile luck that I happen to have a rare joint
condition known as motorman's arm "
"A diplomat who can't bend his elbow?" the
other replied briskly. "Nonsense." He thrust the
implement at Magnan.
"Outrageous," the latter muttered as his
superior moved out of earshot, scanning the
area for a likely spot to commence. "I thought I
was volunteering for a relaxing junket, not being
dragooned to serve as a navvy."
"Your experience in digging through
Central Files should serve you in good stead,
sir," Second Secretary Retief said. "Let's just
pretend we're after evidence of a political
prediction that didn't pan out by someone just
above you on the promotion list."
"I resent the implication that I would stoop
to such tactics," Magnan said loftily, "in any
case, only an idiot would go on record with
guesswork." He eyed Retief obliquely. "I, ah,
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don't suppose you know of any such idiot?"
"I did," Retief said. "But he just made
Ambassador."
"Aha!" Pennyfool caroled from a heavily
silted doorway flanked by a pair of glassless
openings. "A well-nigh intact structure, quite
possibly a museum. Suppose we just take a
peek." The diplomats trailed their enthusiastic
leader as he scrambled through into a roofless
chamber with an uneven, dirt-drifted floor and
bare walls from which the plaster had long since
disappeared. Along one side of the room a flat-
topped ridge projected a foot above the ground.
Pennyfool poked a finger at a small mound atop
it, exposing a lumpy object.
"Eureka!" he cried, brushing dirt away from
his find. "You see, gentlemen? I've already
turned up a masterpiece of the Late
Meretricious!"
"I say, sir," a plump Third Secretary
addressed the expedition's leader, "since
Verdigris is a virgin world, and we're the first
beings to set foot here since its discovery, how
does it happen the era already has a name?"
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"Simple, my boy," Pennyfool snapped. "I
just named it."
"Look here, sir," an eager Information
Agency man who had been poking at the find
said, "I think there's been an error. This place
isn't a museum; it's a lunch counter. And the
masterpiece is a plate of petrified mashed
potatoes and mummified peas."
"By Jove, I think you've got something
there, Quagmire," a portly Admin Officer said.
"Looks just like the stuff they served at the
Testimonial Dinner for Ambassador
Clawhammer "
"He's right," Magnan announced from his
position farther down the line. "Here's a side
order of French fries "
"Dunderheads!" Pennyfool snapped. "I'm
not in need of uninformed conjectures by
amateurs in order to properly classify priceless
antiquities. Kindly leave such matters to experts.
Now, come along. There seems to be an
adjoining room with an intact roof a room
unvisited for twenty centuries! I'll wager my
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figleaf cluster to my Grand Cordon of the
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