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puts the writing on the wall for those who would like to treat it. There may be a plethora of more or less effective psychological techniques for repair, but the ultimate aim of any medical philosophy, that of prevention rather than cure, is in this case clearly beyond the wit of humanity to implement.
    To me it comes as no surprise that we’re still flailing around with Neanderthal spanners in the elegant wreckage of Martian civilization without really having a clue how all that ancient culture used to operate. After all, you wouldn’t expect a butcher of farm livestock to understand or be able to take over from a team of neurosurgeons. There’s no telling how much irreparable damage we may have already caused to the body of knowledge and technology the Martians have unwisely left lying around for us to discover. In the end, we’re not much more than a pack of jackals, nosing through the broken bodies and wreckage of a plane crash.
    â€œComing up on the coast,” Schneider’s voice said over the intercom. “You want to get up here?”
    I lifted my face away from the holographic datadisplay, flattened the datamotes to the base, and looked across at Wardani. She had shifted her head slightly at the sound of Schneider’s voice, but the eyes that found the speaker set in the roof were still dulled with emotional shielding. It hadn’t taken me very long to extract from Schneider the previous circumstances of his relationship with this woman, but I still wasn’t sure how that would affect things now. On his own admission it had been a limited thing, abruptly terminated by the outbreak of war almost two years ago, and there was no reason to suppose it could cause problems. My own worst-case scenario was that the whole starship story was an elaborate con on Schneider’s part for no other purpose than to secure the archaeologue’s release and get the two of them offworld. There had been a previous attempt to liberate Wardani, if the camp commandant was to be believed, and part of me wondered if those mysteriously well-equipped commandos hadn’t been Schneider’s last set of dupes in the bid to reunite him with his partner. If that turned out to be the case, I was going to be angry.
    Inside me, at the level where it really mattered, I didn’t give the idea much credence; too many details had checked out in the time since we’d left the hospital. Dates and names were correct—there had been an archaeological dig on the coast northwest of Sauberville, and Tanya Wardani was registered as site regulator. The haulage liaison was listed as Guild Pilot Ian Mendel, but it was Schneider’s face, and the hardware manifest began with the serial number and flight records of a cumbersome Mowai Ten Series suborbital. Even if Schneider had tried to get Wardani out before, it was for far more material reasons than simple affection.
    And if he hadn’t, then somewhere along the line someone else had been dealt into this game.
    Whatever happened, Schneider would bear watching.
    I closed down the datadisplay and got up, just as the shuttle banked seaward. Steadying myself with a hand on the overhead lockers, I looked down at the archaeologue.
    â€œI’d fasten my seat belt if I were you. The next few minutes are likely to be a little rough.”
    She made no response, but her hands moved in her lap. I made my way forward to the cockpit.
    Schneider looked up as I entered, hands easy on the arms of the manual flight chair. He nodded at a digital display that he’d maximized near the top of the instrument projection space.
    â€œDepth counter’s still at less than five meters. Bottom shelves out for kilometers before we hit deep water. You sure those fuckers don’t come in this close?”
    â€œIf they were in this close, you’d see them sticking out of the water,” I said, taking the copilot’s seat. “Smart mine’s not much smaller than