Martin Devere shook his head. "Their language, their whole frame of reference, was fundamentally different from ours. It's something like higher mathematics, you'd have to learn the language to understand it. But I suppose you might say that this is a poem.... Yes, an epic poem."
The tall man laughed. He shoved an ammunition clip into his weapon, pumped a round into the chamber, slipped the gun back into its holster. He got up and began pacing the floor of the igloo. The floor was cluttered with dozens of artifacts.
He stopped and nudged one specimen with his toe.
"What's this thing, Pop? An ancient Martian meatgrinder?"
"I hardly think so. They were vegetarians." He squinted at the object. "I'm afraid I have no idea what it is. It's some sort of machine, but I'm no engineer, I can't imagine what its function was. They—don't build many machines, you know."
The man with the gun turned to stare at Martin Devere.
"You mean didn't build, don't you?"
"Yes, of course.... Past tense." And Devere turned again to peer at the million-year-old poem before him.
"Damn it to hell. This might hold us up a week." The bald man flung the shatterproof helmet of his suit against the igloo wall. His tone of voice was matter-of-fact emotionless. Even the way he threw the helmet betrayed no real emotion. Still wearing the rest of his suit he sat down at Martin Devere's work bench and clenched his fists. His face was smooth, blank.