Durniak was thoughtful. “Could they have visited us? Were they once a starfaring civilization?”
Caine nodded, impressed by the rapid flexibility of her mind. “That’s one possible mechanism to explain their prior knowledge of us. But the data argues against it.”
“Why?”
“Lack of gross physical evidence. Let’s use ourselves as an example. If Earth reverted to a primeval state, and never rose up from that again, later visitors would still be able to infer some of our contemporary technological capabilities from the alterations we made to the surface of our planet.”
“Such as?”
“Such as mountain passes and roadways that have been blasted out of solid granite, the plumb-straight line of canals, perfectly level roadbeds, old quarries, tunnels. The probability that the locals on Dee Pee Three could have reached Earth via supraluminal travel without having first gone through an industrial era is extremely unlikely. On the other hand, there is strong evidence that we were present on their planet. Long ago.”
Gaspard scoffed. Sukhinin-eyes narrowed, nodding-asked: “Such as?”
“Such as the main ruin.” Caine picked up his palmtop, switched it over to remote control mode, called up the first image on the room’s display screen: a view of the stairs leading up to the humble remains of the micro-Acropolis.
Gaspard sneered. “And how is it that their ruin proves our presence?”
“Because this is not their ruin; it’s ours.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
ODYSSEUS
Again, absolute silence. Then Ching leaned forward and spoke: “Please continue, Mr. Riordan.”
Caine wasn’t sure whether his claim, or Ching’s unprecedented decision to participate, made the greater impression on the rest of the delegates. “Thank you, Mr. Ching. Allow me to first suggest something that should be common sense: creatures tend to build what is comfortable and convenient to their own physiognomy. We place our windows at heights convenient to our heads and arms. We shape doorways so that they accommodate our dimensions as we walk.
“So, before we turn to the specifics of the two ruins on Dee Pee Three, let’s look at the creatures we think might have built them. Here is a rough anatomical study of the Pavonians.” Caine called up another image, superimposed on the mini-Acropolis: a “Da Vinci’s man” representation of Mr. Local. “In particular, I want to call your attention to the arrangement of the Pavonian legs and feet. They are, as you can see, splay-footed, and while usually plantigrade, they come up into a digitigrade stance when they run. Their foot also has a long, bifurcated back toe, evidently evolved both for stabilization and as a climbing aid, since they remain very arboreal. So the length of an adult Pavonian’s foot, from the tip of their front toes to the end of their rear one, is about forty-five centimeters, or roughly eighteen inches.
“However, at the main ruin, each riser of the stairs averages about thirty-six centimeters in width, or about fourteen inches. That’s much less than the length of a Pavonian’s foot. So if a Pavonian tried walking up these stairs using his leisurely plantigrade stance, three to four inches of the back of his foot would always be hanging over the edge of each riser, making this design not only stupid, but painful. Each step would be, in human terms, the equivalent of pounding one’s sole down on a narrow, hard transverse bar. The only way for Pavonians to avoid this discomfort would be to rise up on the ball of their foot, but without adopting the long, loping stride for which they employ that stance. In short, that would be like trying to tiptoe up a stone staircase in snow shoes.
“So, unless the locals are innately masochistic, the stairs on the main ruin were not made for the Pavonian foot. However, consider these stairs.” Caine summoned an image of the hidden amphitheatre.
“Here, each riser is fifty to fifty-one centimeters wide, but only ten centimeters high. With a width of fifty to fifty-one centimeters, these steps handily accommodate the length of the Pavonian foot. But why only ten centimeters high?”
He had meant it rhetorically, but Durniak, like an overeager student, supplied the answer: “Because they are reverse-kneed.”
“Exactly. Watch a dog going up stairs; the reversed-knee design of its leg is optimized for running and springing, but not for the close up-down movement of climbing stairs. The dog’s leg has to bend, pull back a bit, lift up, thrust forward, and then plant on the new surface. The more elevated the new surface is above the prior level, the more awkward this action becomes. It would be even worse for a biped with such legs, lacking the stabilizing contact of the two front limbs-but these problems are all eliminated by the stairs at the amphitheatre. They are, in fact, perfect for the Pavonians’ unusual leg and foot arrangement.”
The next image was of the alcoves and scalloped risers at the back of the arena. “Observe the tendency to avoid straight lines and right angles; everything is rounded, sweeping. Perhaps that motif reflects how a creature whose limbs are flexible, whose digits are prehensile, and who swings through the trees, experiences and sees the world: not as a rigid grid, but as a seamless dance of curves and arcs.
“And lastly, let’s consider the nature of the construction: hewn from the rock of the mountain itself. It has no architectural elements that would have necessitated cranes, hoists, pulleys. It is so profoundly preindustrial that it is tempting to call it a highly advanced Paleolithic structure.
“Now let’s go back to the mini-Acropolis.” He brought its images to the foreground. “The risers here match the dimensions of those we usually provide for the human foot: fourteen to fifteen inches. A bit wide, but we are not talking about a staircase in your house; these steps lead up to the entry of an imposing, columned structure of some kind. Each rises up about eight inches: again, a comfortable human standard.
“Taken as a whole, this building’s design emphasizes lines over curves, and it is a composite structure built from pre-cut pieces that had to be moved to the point of assembly, lifted or rolled into place, and trimmed to fit. Furthermore-and this is an important point-it only mimics an ancient construct, since its base is actually reinforced concrete.”
“So you conclude that this ruin-the main ruin-was built by humans?” Demirel’s voice rose to an almost adolescent pitch.
“Mr. Demirel, we can’t know who built it. But it clearly doesn’t fit the Pavonian physiology. Conversely, it’s clearly a good fit for ours. Now, expand this analysis to include the incident where the Pavonian identified me with our home star. Taken altogether, these facts lead to only one reasonable conclusion: that humans were present on Dee Pee Three long ago. That’s why the Pavonians already know about us. That’s why the main ruin is not only ancient, but perfectly designed for humans.”
Gaspard’s fuse had burned down. “Yes, but how could this be? Your deduction follows the rules of logic impeccably-but posits an answer that is preposterous: that humanity somehow developed rebar-and interstellar travel-even as our Neolithic ancestors were hunting the last of the wooly mammoths.”
“No, Mr. Gaspard: that is not the only conclusion that is possible.”
Gaspard rolled his eyes. “Please, Mr. Riordan: do spare us the idiocies of the Lost Wonders of Atlantis myths, or the equally ludicrous Tenth Planet fabulations.”
“You won’t hear them from me, Mr. Gaspard”-you snide bastard-“because all the evidence is conclusively against such a theory. Where on Earth are the mines, the cities, the terrain modifications that such a culture would have left behind? Where are their artifacts-advanced or rudimentary-and why would they have had contemporaries who were still trying to master the creation of fire and painting homage to elk spirits in caves?”