Fawkes tried to be philosophic about it. “It’s been over a century.
What do you expect? There’s a lot more left of them than I honestly thought there would be. Their buildings were mostly prefab. They’ve tumbled and vegetation has forced its way over and through them. The fact that the climate of Junior is glacial is what’s preserved it. The trees—or the objects that rather look like trees—are small and obviously very slow-growing.
“Even so, the clearing is gone. From the air, the only way you could tell there had once been a settlement in that spot was that the new growth had a slightly different color and… and, well, texture, than the surrounding forests.”
He pointed at a particular photograph. “This is just a slag heap. Maybe it was machinery once. I think those are burial mounds.”
Novee said, “Any actual remains? Bones?”
Fawkes shook his head.
Novee said, “The last survivors didn’t bury themselves, did they?”
Fawkes said, “Animals, I suppose.” He walked away, his back to the group. “It was raining when I poked my way through. It went splat, splat on the flat leaves above me and the ground was soggy and spongy underneath. It was dark, gloomy—There was a cold wind. The pictures I took don’t get it across. I felt as though there were a thousand ghosts, waiting—”
The mood was contagious.
Cimon said, savagely, “Stop that!”