Exodus
by Scott Speck

	"The Entropes were correct in the final analysis, of course.  Their
calculations, considered ridiculously esoteric by most during the first century
of the Entropy Movement, were endorsed gradually over time.  Fellow scientists
began to examine the body of evidence critically, and they finally gained
the courage to admit what mankind had been denying for a thousand years.  The
megaliths their ancestors had built, via the pillaging of every ounce of raw
material in the Earth's crust, could be built no higher.  Even the moon had
been mined into a featureless, wasted oblivion.  The raw materials were
nowhere to be found, and the recycling of old building materials had created a
self-poisoning via toxic waste that was threatening life itself.  Mars was too
far away to serve as a viable new source of raw materials.
	By 5400, most thinkers of the day had resigned themselves to 
maintaining the existing city structures, without the possibility for growth.
That is when Population Control superceded the Vertical Caste System as the
most important social issue for the next six centuries."
	Barban Haines completed his reading from the history text and looked up
at his class.  Five boys and five girls, all dressed in clean gray uniforms,
stared solidly from their desks.  This was their favorite subject, and none
seemed to tire of hearing more -- of the homeworld in the early days, of
humanity's roots, origins.  It was the stuff of myth, yet the accurate
recording of history meant the myth was fact.  To these twelve-year olds,
history class was anything but boring.
	He dismissed his class and watched them file out the door in groups of
two and three, talking quietly amongst themselves until they reached the grass
playground, the trees in fall leaf, balls, mitts, and the music box, a small
black cube that could generate a holographic orchestra to play any song they
could name, sing, or think.
	The sun would be setting soon, and he didn't want to be late for 
dinner.  He packed up his book sack and slung it over his shoulder, closing 
the schoolroom behind himself.  The room darkened as he stepped upon the lawn,
curtains drawing across the tall, wide windows to conserve warmth for tomorrow.
	Fall was his favorite season, and October, in particular, his favorite
month.  The martian year was longer than the earth year.  Here, October lasted
almost twice the duration of the month on Earth.  Nature had adapted here, with
the help of Bioengineers, such that all the rhythms of the natural world fell
into harmony with the longer period of revolution of Mars about the Sun.
	He plucked a deep, red apple from a tree and polished it on his jacket.
The air was crisp, clear, the sky deepening from orange to red as he walked
toward the town square, his street and house just beyond in a stand of sugar
maples.  He had been teaching at this elementary school for the past ten years.
At first he had taken the position to fulfill his civil duties.  Then he had
really taken to teaching young children, with their eager, open minds and a
refreshingly vigorous curiosity.  Within two years, he planned to return to
the University and continue his professorship.  In the meantime, his research
on the Entropy Movement, as well as the Abandonment, went on during his tenure
at Pasteur Elementary.
	It was almost dark by the time he got home.  His mate, Lana, was 
relaxing on a holographic beach in the common room.  She was lying on a lounge
chair with her head thrown back, her long brown hair swaying in the artificial
breeze created by the sensory projector.  Tall, blue waves were breaking with
resounding thuds that were startling in their realism.  Though Mars had been
terraformed, there were no wide blue oceans as had existed on Earth thousands
of years ago.
	Barban kissed the top of her head, and she stirred, opening her round,
brown eyes and kissing him.  After a while, their lips parted.
	"There's a message for you," she said, clicking her finger to reduce
the volume.  Crashing surf seemed to penetrate one wall of the room and roll
toward them as banks of broken foam.
	"Who?  Lynette?"  He watched her reaction.  She wasn't particularly
fond of Lynette.  Lynette and Barban had been involved more than twenty years
ago, and Lana tended to be a little suspicious of her man's ex-lovers.  On
occasion, they still shared research data.
	"No.  Henson.  Said something about needing to talk with you about the
data from his latest field expedition."
	"Earth," Barban said, almost whispering.  She placed her hand behind
his head, still hovering above her, and eased his lips to hers a second time.
Then a third, and he knew she was in the mood.
	An hour later, they lay in the soft warmth of bed, a window open to
admit the autumn air.  Lana had laid her head upon his left shoulder, and
she was resting with her eyes closed, her cheeks still pink from their
lovemaking.  He adored the glow in her face during and after.
	For a while he listened to the rustling of trees in the yard, and
then his thoughts returned to Henson, who had recently been funded to take
part in a research mission to Earth.  Henson was great at sniffing out old
relics, forgotten books, data banks presumed to be dead and empty.  He had
been gone for nearly six months.  The rigors of travel on Earth, the
precautions due to the toxicity of the environment, meant that Henson had
never had the time to drop him a line.  But now he was back at the University.
	Barban slipped his shoulder gently from beneath Lana's head, then
got out of bed and went into the study.  This was one of his favorite
rooms in the house, ornately furnished in rich wood textures, a huge desk
at the center, surrounded on three walls by a real book collection.  With
a vocal "computer on" command, the empty wall of the study came to life,
displaying a list of unread messages.
	"Henson," he said, and a young man with dark features, a square jaw,
wearing a red evening robe, appeared onscreen.  He was sitting at a desk
in his university office.  Barban recognized the place, especially the famous
Earth painting hanging behind him on the wall.  The piece was titled 
"Subduction", and it portrayed the destruction of a large area of megalithic
structures, in what was once called the "Pacific Rim" area on Earth.  During
the exodus from Earth, large areas were left to fend for themselves.  The
tectonic defense systems were allowed to fall apart.  This allowed the tectonic
plates on the Earth's surface to move, causing many buildings, over the
following centuries, to be pulled under the Pacific plate.  In the painting,
nearly a hundred megaliths were leaning steeply to one side.  Another had
toppled and was still smoldering from the fires of collapse, which could last
for decades.  The sky above was filled with smoke that blotted out the sun.
	"Hello, Barban," Henson said, in his purposely ornate voice.  He always
began his messages with a certain pomposity.  After a few more verbal posturings,
he leaned back in his chair and got down to business.  "The expedition was
marvelous.  I hope you can come with me on the next trip.  I've already secured
more funding, from a large investment project that matured during the last few
months of my absence.  The Camus Station has more than enough room for all of
us to work."
        Camus was a modern residence, large enough to house a dozen researchers,
located in the northwestern quadrant, in the vicinity of Manhattan.  The
present conditions on Earth were very harsh, and atmosphere suits with
self-contained breathing tanks had to be worn due to the atmosphere's toxicity.
The research station was well-equipped, with atmosphere suits, fully
automated food preparation, and comfortable rooms.
	"You might be wondering why I'm in such a hurry to get back, even 
before I've had a chance to catalog the most recent finds.  And, believe me,
there are a lot of interesting things I want you to pore over, first hand.
We have a first generation thought machine, several authentic religious 
artifacts from New Catholicism, and at least fifty more objects that'll leave
you drooling."  Henson was motioning with his hands, speaking quickly, getting
excited.  Barban sometimes became frustrated with Henson's obsession with 
artifacts.  Retrieval and sale of many of them, both to the wealthy and to
museums, had funded most of Henson's trips, as well as his huge estate.
Despite his mercenary attitude and propensity toward archaeology rather than
purely historical research, Barban found him to be an excellent scholar, with
an insatiable curiosity and a pre-occupation with maverick theories on Earth
history.
	"I've found some rather unusual things.  Places which haven't been
visited since my last visit, and yet there have been some changes.  Perhaps
even patterns placed there by someone who wants to be noticed.  Here, you'll
see what I mean."  There were still small pockets of refugees on Earth, even
though living there without government permission was forbidden.
	The screen displayed a photo of a huge chamber.  The walls were dark
gray, with a curved ceiling several hundred feet tall.  Barban recognized it
as the Cathedral of Divine Ascension, New Catholic and several thousand
years old.  New Catholicism had taken over large sections of megaliths,
particularly in the Manhattan region, and had constructed cathedrals, most of
them in the mid-levels, at heights of 2 to 2.5 miles.  Pointed windows, each
over a hundred feet tall and filled with brilliantly colored stained glass,
lined the walls.
	"This is what I photographed last year.  Note the bareness of the
floor, the walls.  Now look at this."
	The next photo showed the same chamber, with roughly the same lighting
conditions.  At first Barban didn't notice anything different from the last
photo.  He got up from his chair and approached the viewscreen.  Then he
saw something unusual, a smudging visible on the floor, a fuzzy series
of lines traced upon the featureless gray tile.  He backed up, keeping track
of the lines, trying to make some sense out of their pattern.  They appeared
to be outline a six-pointed star.
	"Do you see it?"  Henson asked.  Barban loved it when Henson posed
questions, forcing Barban to peer through some dark photograph and try to
make sense of what he was seeing.  "The Star of David?"
	The term "Star of David" rang a bell with Barban, but he couldn't quite
place it.  He ordered an explanation of the term from the computer, after pausing
Henson's message.  It was a jewish symbol, the six-pointed star.  His familiarity
with the Judeo-Christian tradition was mediocre at best.  He was much more
familiar with Neo-Catholicism, with roots in Christianity.  Barban resumed the
message.
	"I checked and rechecked the older photos, with maximum enhancement,
but the floor didn't contain that pattern.  I checked log records, and found
nothing mentioning the presence of another expedition to the Cathedral.
Therefore, I'm concluding that someone living there created that symbol,
hoping that an off-worlder would eventually notice it, especially its
religious significance."
	Barban listened to the remainder of the message, filled with tidbits
of the expedition, as well as details from Henson's personal life, including
his flowering romance with a woman faculty member who had accompanied him
and aided in photographing and classifying his most recent cache of relics.
At the message's conclusion, Barban leaned back in the chair and massaged his
chin with his fingers.
	Living on Earth, other than for those with designated government passes,
was illegal.  In addition to having a toxic atmosphere, a whole host of dormant
viruses suffused the environment, in microscopic crystals blown over great
distances in the atmosphere.  The viruses had been unleashed upon millions in
the final days, as the underclass strove to migrate to Mars.  The upper class
forbade them, wishing to maintain their power and their standard of living on
this dying world.  And so a group of underclass radicals had raided a research
lab and found just what they needed.  An incurable, pernicious virus revealed
its presence years later, after being spread countless times from person to
person.  The effects were devastating, and atomics had been used to sterilize
large regions, killing millions more.
	By their sheer mass, a megalith hardly noticed the effects of one
atomic device.  Numerous structures on the Earth's surface still showed nuclear
pock-marks, portions of building melted away into blackness within.  Earth
was a dangerously inhospitable wasteland.  The Mars government was still
struggling to outlaw all trips to Earth, and there was renewed support in the
senate in recent years, moving in that direction.  Within several years, 
research missions might be forbidden.
	Barban put his thoughts aside when Lana strode into the room, stark
naked and stretching her arms in the air.  Barban urged her toward him, and she
sat down on his lap, clasping her hands behind his head.
	"Anything interesting?" she asked.
	Barban didn't have the courage to tell her about Henson's invitation.
Yet he knew he couldn't pass up the opportunity.  He might be gone for six
months, and it was too dangerous to take her along.
	"I have some bad news."
	Her face turned to stone, and she shifted her eyes from his.
	"You're going, aren't you?"
	"Yes.  I'm sorry."

                                      * * *

	A light rain began to fall as they climbed out of the shuttle's
airlock and stepped onto a gangway connected to an opening on the side of
the structure, just behind the first of the cathedral's huge windows.  Drops
of brown water spattered on their suits and helmets.  Barban knew the water
was laced with a variety of toxins, ranging from dormant virus to sulphuric
acid, carbon dioxide.  Complex hydrocarbons filled the sky in such
concentrations as to render the atmosphere orange.
	"Amazing isn't it?" Barban said into the intercom.  "Before Mars was
terraformed, the sky looked a lot like this one -- orange from dawn to dusk.
But Mars was never poisonous."  He rubbed some of the water from his faceplate
with a gloved hand.  "It's oily."
	"This way," Henson said, and he led the way across the ten feet of 
gangplank.  Railings protected them on either side, but Barban couldn't resist
looking down into the canyons.  The megaliths, their flat four sided structures
packed near each other, were spaced between deep, black canyons.  Barban was
nearly two thirds of the way up this one, at an altitude of 30,000 feet.  On
Old Earth, there might have been blizzards at this altitude but never rain.
The heat output from the buildings, their downward pressure into the ground,
warmed the atmosphere enough to maintain liquid water above their current
level.
	Black stone faced them, covered with grime and soot, as though a
great fire had engulfed the building.  The wall continued upward, to a band
of somber, orange light that marked the sky.  Beneath them, a black chasm
yawned, swallowing glimmers of rain, smothering light through a toxic pall
hanging like mist between the megaliths.
	Barban followed Henson through the square opening in the wall.
This was an artificial entrance, created with a cutting torch many years ago,
to allow access of the cathedral to researchers.  Barban turned around and
glanced back at the shuttle.  The bulbous, black vehicle reminded him of a fat
tadpole.  The pilot waved at them from behind the windshield.  The shuttle
could hover for days, silently, using magnetic flotation.  They would only be
here for a few hours for today.  Barban waved back at the pilot and stepped
into the cathedral.
	"Our intensifiers will turn on," Henson said, his voice filled with 
urgency.  "Otherwise, you won't see your hand in front of your face in this
place."
	He was right.  The moment they entered the cathedral, they saw
a dim, false color representation of the interior.  Henson opened up a large
case he was carrying and removed four metal spheres, each several inches in
diameter.  He tossed each into the air.  Instead of falling, the spheres
hovered in mid-air, then moved silently through the interior, into the far
corners of the Cathedral.
	"Lights on," Henson said, and the spheres suddenly became blindingly
bright.  Their helmet-based intensifiers switched off, as they could now see
clearly throughout the cathedral.  They stood inside a huge rectangular
chamber, with a sharply arched ceiling.  Defunct lighting fixtures hung from
the ceiling in places, in others only dangling electrical cables remained.
The stained glass windows, once illuminated by artificial light sources from
outside the building, were black as night.
	"How did you take those pictures of the windows?" Barban said.  "In the
photos, they were brilliantly illuminated."
	"I figured you'd ask that," said Henson.  He was fiddling with a 
small button pad on his wrist.  After appearing to be satisfied with the 
settings, he removed four more spheres from the case and tossed them into the
air.  They followed one another, single file, through the opening whence they
entered the cathedral.
	"They're positioning themselves evenly around the structure," Henson
said.  As he finished his sentence, light beamed through the windows.
Brilliant shades of blue and red filled the chamber.  They stood awestruck in
the display of light and pattern.  Barban unslung a camera, sealed in a
protective layer of plastic, and began to snap one photo after another.
	The Cathedral of Divine Ascension was a quarter square mile in area,
with a ceiling height of four hundred feet.  The scale of the volume in which
they stood was unbelievable.  Barban had taken virtual tours of Old Earth's
great cathedrals, like Notre Dame, St. Peters, St. Patricks.  It was the
featurelessness of the interior which struck him most powerfully.  The relics,
the central altar and over a hundred side altars had been removed.  A fabled
ceiling painting he had only seen in photographs was lost beneath the black
smudge of pollution over the centuries.  Two rows of massive stone pillars,
floor to ceiling, extended from east to west.
	"Do you see it?" Henson said.  He was pointing to the center of the
floor, alive with the colored light streaming through the windows.  Barban
could see it, the faintly etched six pointed star he had discerned in the
photograph.  They approached one of the points cautiously.
	"Why aren't the windows covered in the same crud that's everywhere
else around here?" Barban said.  "I'd have thought they'd be blacked over,
like the rest of the megalith."
	"You can thank solvent technology for that," Henson said.  "We
outfitted the shuttle with a spray gun, and hosed down the windows.  Within
another few years, you won't be able to see through them.  Such was the case
when I first came here."
	Barban shivered at the thought of this place with no illumination --
peaked window arches that swallowed, not transmitted light.  He was trembling
just to be here, at the seat of power of New Catholicism.  Unlike the Old
Catholic Church, this was a faith with only female pontiffs.  Motherhood was
the act of holiness, in an age when birth was controlled by the state, through
forced sterilization and criminal punishment for those who tried to alter
their innate biologies.  Genetic manipulation had produced only sterile babies.
Through careful eugenic screening, money, and societal influence, a select
few received drugs which counteracted genetic sterility and allowed
childbearing.
	Elizabeth the Fertile was born of the underclass, in a genetic fluke
that occurred only once a century.  Her parents had been born sterile and
had supposedly not received fertility drugs.  Yet somehow they had conceived
her, she who bore her own children, all of whom were fertile at birth.  The
government sought them out, to destroy them, as the rallying cry of the masses
held them up to the world as gods and goddesses.  The incestuous relationships
required to continue the bloodline of fertility came to an end when a high
government official fell in love with Elizabeth herself.  He joined their
cause and fought with the government to abolish forced sterility.  Barban
trembled while recalling the history of his trial, conviction, a fatal hunger
strike.  The First Martyr of New Catholicism.
	"Help me out here," Henson said, and Barban came back to the present.
Henson was kneeling on the floor, trying to scrape up a sample of the dark
smudge at the nearest point of the star.  Barban knelt down beside him and
held a transparent vial as Henson scraped the stone floor with a metal blade.
The smudge was about a foot wide and proceeded with surprising straightness
across the floor.  Then Barban saw a recognizable shape in the midst of the
line.  A footprint, as if made by a boot scraping across the floor.  He jumped
to his feet and moved above it, switching on his headlamp and aiming it at
the floor.  The footprint was clearly outlined, the size produced by a large
foot.
	"What?" Henson said when he saw Barban scramble across the floor.
Henson drew up beside him and sucked in a breath.  "That's how the lines were
made," Henson said.  "Imagine coating the soles of your shoes with paint and
shuffling across the floor."  Other prints were visible, further along the
floor, overlapping footprints of various sizes.
	Barban had a strange sensation, an anxiety that gnawed in his stomach.
He felt as though he were being watched.  Jerking his gaze up from the floor,
he swung his head from side to side, his heart freezing when he saw someone
standing in front of a window, only a few hundred feet behind him.
	"Who's there?" he said, and it was a struggle to speak as he stood
trembling, frozen with fear.  He had heard stories of bands of survivors,
those who had been trapped or imprisoned during the exodus from Earth, or
those too fanatical to leave behind the first world of mankind, the birthplace.
Then a second figure, a third, drew up beside the first, three silhouettes,
equally tall, their heads covered in hoods, and what appeared to be capes
draped about their shoulders.
	Henson was the first to run for the shuttle, then Barban followed.
They ran as quickly as they could toward the wall, then stopped when they
saw a group of at least a dozen others, blocking their exit.
	"Kincaid," Henson shouted into his intercom.  "Kincaid, do you
read?"  The shuttle pilot, Barban realized.  There was no reply, and his
heart sank.  He feared the worst for the pilot, the shuttle, and he nearly
collapsed onto his knees in terror.  Worse yet, they were unarmed.
	"Where are they coming from?" Barban said.  His faceplate was fogging
up, so he swallowed hard and tried to slow his breathing.  "There," he said,
when he saw the wide, arched entrance door, nearly a half mile away, at
the opposite end of the Cathedral.  Numerous glints of light, as of reflections
from faceplates, flickered in the shadowy darkness near the door.  The glints
spread out on either side of the door.
	"There must be hundreds," Henson said, and, for the first time in his
life, Barban heard fear in Henson's voice.  His pompous attitude had vanished
in the face of the gathering numbers.  They were approaching slowly now, from
all sides, the clicking of their boots on the floor echoing throughout the
massive chamber.
	Barban had studied the travel records of other explorers, before his
first and only previous trip to Earth.  Civilizations in miniature still
persisted within the megaliths, usually near the tops, where they attempted
to harness wind and solar energy to power their food synthesizers, heating
and cooling systems.  Because of the harsh conditions here, everyone was a
warrior, a survivalist battling viruses, the scarcity of food and other
resources.  Life was hell for them.  Some reacted violently upon finding
off-world explorers, killing them on the spot, or torturing them, raping 
women.  Others hid from prying eyes, afraid the higher powers from the sky
would decimate their fragile, expertly balanced societies.
	Henson, appearing to have gathered his composure, switched on the
external speaker on his suit.  He raised his right hand.  "We come here in
peace," he said.
	"How could they have survived here?" Barban said.  "And in such 
numbers.  This was one of the hardest hit areas during the Abandonment.  Those
who didn't succumb to the virus perished in the radiation from the atomics."
The nearest black-robed figure was close enough to see more detail.  The
figure was tall, shuffling across the floor with a limp, a mirrored, oval
face plate obscuring whoever stared from behind it.  He or she didn't appear
to be armed.
	Barban felt like kicking himself.  Their very presence here, without
first notifying the government about Henson's findings of possible human
presence at the cathedral, was illegal, a violation that would have ended
Henson's career.  Barban's anger shifted to Henson, for taking this entire
situation into his own hands.  His obsession with beating everyone else to the
punch, for making the most dramatic discoveries and then downplaying the
significance at conferences to put forth a facade of humility, was disgusting.
	Yet he should have been smart enough to see through Henson's ways
and realize the potential danger of coming here.  Barban had come here freely,
knowing the lack of wisdom in it.  The front group of three halted, and only
the tallest, the middle one, continued forward.  Barban spun around on his
feet, noting that a ring of black-garbed figures had surrounded them.  He
stood at the circle's center as the stranger drew closer.
	"This is a good sign," Barban said.  "If they planned on harming us,
they would have closed in on us quickly to deliver the blow.  Besides, they
don't know whether or not we're armed."
	"Perhaps this one came close to figure out if we're armed," Henson
said.  His pessimism annoyed Barban, struck a new sense of fear within him.
He wished them back to Mars, to the safety of a new and better world.  The
dark one raised a hand, mimicing Henson's earlier gesture.
	"I am Melshon, son of David.  We bid you peace."
	"What happened to our pilot?" Henson said.  Barban was taken aback
at Henson's response to this apparently good-hearted greeting.  Melshon
turned around and waved another man forward, one who had stood at his side
moments ago.  He approached and pulled back his hood.
	"Kincaid?" Henson said.
	Barban was as shocked as Henson, but he was still mulling over
Melshon's title, "Son of David".  It was a direct reference to the Jewish
race.  The six-pointed star had been an appropriate symbol.
	"His help in finding you is invaluable," Melshon said.  "His true
name among us is not Kincaid, but this will suffice for now.  We have been
working toward meeting with you for some time now."
	"How have you survived here?" Barban said.  "Have you lived here since
before the Abandonment?  What of the virus?"
	"Our race had dwelled on this world for over ten thousand years.  But
we have had help from your world, Mars, over the centuries.  We could not
leave this world.  We are God's children, the chosen race.  This was our
Promised Land, ordained throughout the ages.  To leave our heritage would have
been unthinkable, a rejection of God's plan.  But we are dying.  Our genetic
structure is degrading with each generation."
	"Are you fertile?" Barban said.  Then he realized his questions were
running ahead of his politeness.  "I'm very sorry.  Forgive my question."
	"We will answer all your questions, Barban Haines.  For only by knowing
us can you help us.  You are the one."
	"Wait a minute," Henson said.  He stepped between Barban and Melshon.
"I thought I was the one you had to see."
	"You were instrumental in bringing Barban Haines to us.  We are
grateful."
	Henson spun around and glared at Barban.
	"Is there something I don't know here?  Have you two already been in
contact?"  His voice was angry.  Barban recognized Henson's envy, rearing
its ugly head at such an inopportune time.
	"Calm down," Barban said.  "I have no idea why I'm the one they seek,
and how they learned of my existence.  Kincaid obviously alerted them about
my presence here."
	"Well?"  Henson said.  He turned around to face Kincaid and Melshon.
"Why all the mystery?  Why do you need Barban's help?"
	"We cannot speak in Henson's presence.  He is too angry.  We need
understanding and peace for discussion."  Melshon asked that only Barban
follow him, to meet and discuss things further.  Henson was pacing the floor,
clenching his jaw tightly.
	Barban had lost his fear of these people.  Obviously, if they had
meant them any harm, they could have done whatever they pleased, especially
with Kincaid at their disposal.  Curiosity possessed him now, and a million
questions about how they survived, seemingly intact, on this hostile world
were racing through his mind.  He didn't know where to start.  Melshon walked
toward the direction of the shuttle, not the door through which he had
entered the cathedral.  Barban drew up beside Melshon, and Kincaid spead ahead
of them, ushering them into the shuttle where they strapped themselves in.
	The shuttle undocked from the megalith and began a slow ascent.  Soon,
they had cleared the tops of the city and flew between the black towers, the
sharp spires atop the megaliths where the rich and powerful had
once lived.  All of this was gone -- the splendor, the power of a life
above a world beyond the clouds.  The wealthy had amassed their fortunes
here, in the cold, rare air.  They were the only people to enjoy direct views
of the sun, moon, and stars.  In the later eras, pollution had occulted the
sky.
	Barban recalled the art of the time, when this was a glorious empire
ruled from the upper strata.  The megaliths were still growing back then,
boosting the cloudminders ever higher until they lorded so far above the
ground as to require their homes to be pressurized, due to the thinness of
the air.
	The daylight was waning, and the oily rain had subsided, a thick veil
of uniform gray clouding sliding across the spires.  The shuttle rose
through the layer and poked above it.  Here the sky was much brighter, the
sun a hazy patch of orange in a ruddy sky.
	Up here, only the highest building tops reached above the clouds.
They approached one, a massive conical tower topped with a dome, once
transparent, now hazed over with residue and patched in numerous spots with
metal panels.  The shuttle descended while the occupants sat in silence.
They docked beside the dome, and Kincaid deployed the gangway.  As they
passed into the dome, Barban marveled at the scale of all of this.  This was
what amazed him most about Old Earth -- the notion that scale was synonymous
with goodness, with power.  Mars was sparsely populated, dotted with homes
in mostly rural settings.  But Earth was massive, blunt, smashed from the
sides and weighted from above with terratons of metal and plastic.  Humanity
had covered the Earth with structure, drained the oceans and built some 
structures as tall as 60,000 feet.
	Melshon led Barban into a decontamination chamber.  Upon exiting,
they removed their protective suits and faced each other more directly.
Melshon held out his hand.  Barban took it, noting the spidery thinness
of his fingers, the coolness of his touch, the translucent, pale skin.
	"I'm sure you have more questions for me than I for you," Melshon said.
Barban followed him into a large meeting room.  "Beginning, perhaps, with how
we've survived here for so long?"  The ceiling and walls of the meeting room
were transparent, providing illumination from the sky.  The summits of
megaliths loomed in the orange haze, their slender spires poking above the
clouds.
	The room was large enough to accomodate hundreds, but only a small table
and two chairs sat in the middle of the floor.  Melshon sat down, and Barban
joined him at the table.  "My guess is that you've had help from outside,"
Barban said, "from Mars".  Melshon smiled, his lips spreading to reveal yellow
teeth.  His skin was pale, pasty from the lack of natural sunlight.  Two
sparkling, dark eyes regarded Barban from beneath a thickly haired brow ridge.
His face was gaunt, patches of baldness revealed between short tufts of black
hair.  He looked to be in his forties, perhaps fifties.
	"Forgive my appearance," Melshon said.  "Our survival here has been
difficult, and the virus has been degrading our genetic vitality for
centuries.  We are now faced with extinction, and that is why we are here."
	"Why now?" said Barban.  "Is it certain extinction that has brought you
to this point, of contacting the new world?"
	Melshon described a brief history of the Jewish race, from the
beginning of the megalith era, through the Great Abandonment, to the present.
Most Jews left Earth for Mars during the Abandonment.  The most orthodox sect
remained, believing that, until commanded by God, leaving would be abandoning
the world that God had provided, a rejection of a divine gift.  Ties, through
a carefully established, covert underground, enabled supplies and information
to flow from the Jews on Mars to those on Earth.  The Jewish race had, in
essence, gone into hiding, not because they feared persecution on Mars, but
because calling attention to themselves on Mars might have led someone to learn
of the ties to Earth, the trafficking of supplies, the existence of the Orthodox
followers.
	Kincaid was a Jew from Mars, and higher powers had maneuvered him into
the position of shuttle pilot, to facilitate their meeting.  Melshon explained
that they had been searching for decades, to find a worthy emissary.  He had
to be a gentile, to allow an objective view of both sides of the argument --
the Mars government, who forbade permanent dwelling on Earth, and the Orthodox
Jews.  He had to exert influence, through knowledge, not brute force.  A
thorough knowledge of Earth history was required, as well as a sensitivity and
appreciation for the complexity of richness of human culture, past and present.
	"You have been maneuvered here, slowly, over a period of years," Melshon
said.  "We knew of your work with Henson, and so we had to find a way to
attract you here, a sign, sent obscurely through a photograph."
	Barban was thunderstruck, realizing suddenly that he was their
"chosen one".
	"We need a new Moses," Melshon said.  "To lead us from a dying promised
land to a permanent one.  Your government would punish us for living here for
so long, and they will punish thousands on Mars, for aiding our survival here
without revealing our presence as the laws requires.  You are to be our
emissary, our liaison with the government.  We need reconciliation, reunion
with our lost brothers and sisters.  Will you help us?"
	Barban had studied history for over forty years, and had never dreamt
he would be asked to take on such a crucial task.  He felt inept at negotiating
with politicians to accomplish this.  This would be huge, a world-changing
event that would affect the entire mindset on Mars.  The lost children of
Israel were seeking exodus from the Promised Land.
	"This is my duty," Barban said.  "How could I refuse to help you?"
His hands were shaking, and he lowered his face into them.
	"You are the one," Melshon said, and he laid on his hand on Barban's
shoulder.  "Let us rejoin the others."
	They returned to the shuttle, then to the cathedral.  Henson was
waiting there for in silence, his hands on his hips.  He pulled Barban aside
by the arm, his grip strong and trembling.
	"What did he say?  Do you think they intend to harm us?"
	Barban explained in brief what he had discussed with Melshon, to inform
him as well as put him at ease.
	"You're nuts," Henson said.  His face was inches from Barban's, his
jaw tightly clenched, his voice quivering.  "We'll all be prosecuted.  The
police won't believe we didn't know anything about this.  And I'll be their
scapegoat, the one who brought you here.  Damn, I even asked for Kincaid as
our shuttle pilot.  And he's one of them?  No, I insist that we leave here
now and rid ourselves of the whole mess."
	"We can't do that.  This is a turning point in history, the saving of
an ancient religion, an ancient culture.  The Jews have been forced into one
exile after another for thousands of years, from long before the Age of
Megaliths."
	"Listen, I'm thinking of you, too.  The moment you reveal all of this,
we'll both be put on trial.  Our lives, not only our careers, will be doomed.
I enjoy my life, and I don't want to spend the rest of it in prison."
	Barban tried to pull away when Melshon called him, but Henson kept him
close.  "I'm the head of this expedition.  I'm in charge here.  Do you
understand me?  I don't believe this Melshon.  He and his people are
radioactive virus victims looking for a free ride to Mars.  How do you know
they're from this lost race?  I'd rather die than help him."
	"This is bigger than either of us.  We're going through with this.  I'll
explain you knew nothing from the start.  This is more than just a few
stragglers.  These people are the torchbearers for an entire race, supposedly
extinct for over a thousand years.  Our government will want reconciliation,
not punishment."
	Barban slipped free and approached Melshon.
	"Henson doesn't agree to any of this," he said.
	"I anticipated this," Melshon said.  "I have the utmost confidence in
you, but perhaps I was short-sighted in involving Henson."
	Henson approached both of them, his arms crossed.  "Barban, we have to
go."
	"Please, help us," Melshon said.
	"I don't believe you," Henson said.  "Prove to me you're the leader of
the Jews."
	"I can understand your doubt," Melshon said.  He motioned to his
followers, and Barban and Henson turned in the direction he was signalling 
Four large men were carrying a rectangular pallet on their shoulders, one at
each corner.  A large container of some sort, shrouded in a white cloth, sat
atop the pallet.  Drafts wafted through the cathedral and rustled the shroud.
The cloth's pristine whiteness was in sharp contrast to the black-robed Jews,
the grime which had caked the cathedral walls for centuries.  After lowering
the pallet to the floor, the men gently lifted the white shroud.
	"I can't believe it," Barban said.  He approached a brilliantly
reflective box, covered in gold.  Elaborate engravings adorned the sides and
lid.  Henson rushed to Barban's side, then stood mesmerized.
	"What is it?" Henson said.  Barban turned to Henson who was trembling
not in anger but with excitement, the beam from his helmet lamp illuminating
the box, causing richly colored jewels to glisten along the edges.
	"This, my friend, is the Ark of the Covenant.  Supposedly, it holds
the tablets containing the Ten Commandments, issued by God to Moses on Mount
Sinai, over nine thousand years ago.  Now do you believe Melshon?"
	Bargan shifted his gaze from the box and stared at Henson.  Henson's
eyes were wide, glazed.  He appeared to be staring right through the box.
His brow was furrowed, sweat shining on his face.  Barban had never seen
Henson this way.
	Henson turned and walked to Melshon's side, at the same time reaching
into a bag slung over his shoulder.  He removed a large black pistol, and in
an instant leaped upon Melshon, wrapping his forearm around his neck, pulling
the frail leader against him.  Henson placed the pistol against Melshon's
neck.  Melshon was struggling to free himself.
	"Anyone make's a move, and I'll kill him."  Melshon was choking for
breath, his struggles sounding over the intercom speaker on his airsuit.
Henson's voice was high-pitched and quivering.
        "What are you trying to do?" Barban said.  He thought of trying to rescue
Melshon, but he was unarmed.  Henson had never mentioned a firearm.  The
regulations on research forbade the carrying of weapons to Earth.  They had
gone through a thorough inspection before leaving Mars.  Somehow, Henson had
managed to smuggle the weapon past the inspectors.
	"I want the Ark loaded into the shuttle.  Kincaid, get in the cockpit."
	Melshon's followers stood their ground.  Barban realized that none of
them had moved a muscle since Henson made his move.  Not a word from any of
them.
	"Do as he says," Melshon said from behind his fogged faceplate.  "Please,
don't harm me," he said.  The four pallet bears carefully lifted the Ark and
proceeded toward the shuttle.  Henson dragged Melshon behind them, the pistol
still jammed against his neck.
	"You can't do this," Barban said, following closely behind him.
	"Everyone, get around here where I can see you.  If anyone makes a
single move, I'll splatter his head.  This weapon is monitoring my vital signs.
Unless I signal otherwise, the moment the gun comes free of my hand, it will
explode and kill everyone."
	Barban increased his pace and came around Henson's side, walking beside
the Ark to remain in Henson's view.  The others, nearly a hundred of them,
remained behind, obeying Henson's orders.
	"Please stop," Barban said.  "What can you gain through this?"
	"Shut the fuck up," Henson said.  "I have what I need.  The most
incredible find in history, and I don't intend on giving you the glory.  You
can stay here and rot with this sorry, forgotten race."
	"You won't get away with it," Barban said.  "Think about it.  When I
don't return, don't you think they'll investigate?"
	"I'll destroy the outpost.  Blow up one of the shuttle fuel tanks once
I'm in orbit.  The shuttle is programmed to go there automatically if the
outpost is disabled, to signal for help from orbit.  I'll be the only one
onboard.  With the Ark, of course.  I'll explain that you were unfortunate
enough to have died in the blast."
	"They'll come here to find out the truth," Barban said.
	"Who the hell do you think you are?  I know the government.  They're
discouraging all travel to Earth, and this unfortunate accident will be the
nail in the coffin.  They'll have no reason to disbelieve me, and no one will
come here to sift through the wreckage."
	"What of Melshon, and Kincaid?" Barban said.  They were very close to
the exit.  The shuttle was visible just outside the door, hovering beside
the Cathedral.
	"None of your concern," Henson said.  The four had stowed the Ark in
the shuttle, and they entered the cathedral and stood to the side.  Kincaid
went ahead of Henson, and a humming sound marked the powering up of the
shuttle's engines.  Barban was frantic, but there was nothing he could do to
stop him, without risking killing everyone.  He watched through the open
doorway as Henson kicked and shoved Melshon into the shuttle, closing the door.
The gangway withdrew from the Cathedral wall.  Kincaid was visible in the glow
of the shuttle control panel.  Henson appeared beside him, sitting in the
copilot seat.  Melshon was kneeling between them, the pistol against his head.
	The shuttle moved gracefully away from the building and hung momentarily
in mid-air.  Then the hum of the propulsion system died, and the vehicle
dropped instantly from view.  Barban ran to the door and stared down, watching
the shuttle plummet silently into the dark canyon below.  A rush of warm wind
blew past him, and he braced himself in the doorway.  He wondered how he would
ever return to Mars to help Melshon, now lost with Henson, Kincaid, the Ark.
	A warm, gloved hand rested on his shoulder, pulling him gently back
into the Cathedral.  Barban stood facing an elderly man with whisps of white
hair.  The glowing spheres, dispersed earlier to illuminate the Cathedral,
were losing power, and the headlamp on Barban's helmet provided only scant
illumination.
	"Are you still with us?" the man said.  His voice was soft and
confident.  Barban nodded slowly, weeping at the same time for this tragedy.
	"Melshon is not lost," the man said.  "I am he."
	"What are you talking about?"
	"The other was a decoy.  I had to learn everyone's intentions.  Yours
and Henson's.  And now I know the truth."
	"What happened to the shuttle?"
	"A sacrifice," Melshon said, as he lead Barban further into the
Cathedral.  "The man you called Kincaid knew the risks, and he did what he
had to do."
	"You mean he caused the shuttle to fall from the sky?"
	"Yes.  He and the others are gone now, lying somewhere miles below us."
	"What of the Ark?"
	"It is still safe with us," Melshon said.  "The Underground will be
sending a shuttle very soon, to take a handful of us, including you, to orbit.
From there we can proceed to Mars, and continue on with the Exodus."
	Barban walked at Melshon's side, across the Cathedral floor, a hundred
followers drawing up silently behind them.  Outside, night fell upon the
towering ruins.