"How about that one large island? That's where we've landed, I suppose?"
"Correct. Native flora and fauna nonexistent. All lifeforms typical of Late Terran Pleistocene."
"How late, Fess?"
"Human historical."
Rod nodded. "In other words, a bunch of colonists came in, picked themselves an island, wiped out the native life, and seeded the land with Terran stock. Any idea why they chose this island?"
"Large enough to support a good-sized population, small enough to minimize problems of ecological revision. Then too, the island is situated in a polar ocean current, which lowers the local temperature to slightly below Terran normal."
"Very handy; saves them the bother of climate control. Any remains of what might have been Galactic Union cities?"
"None, Rod."
"None!" Rod's eyes widened in surprise. "That doesn't fit the pattern. You sure, Fess?"
The developmental pattern of a lost, or retrograde, colony—one that had been out of touch with Galactic civilization for a millennium or more—fell into three well-defined stages: first, the establishment of the colony, centered around a modern city with an advanced technology; second, the failure of communications with Galactic culture, followed by an overpopulation of the city, which led to mass migrations to the countryside and a consequent shift to an agrarian, self-sufficient economy; and, third, the loss of technological knowledge, accompanied by a rising level of superstition, symbolized by the abandonment and eventual tabooing of a coal-and-steam technology; social relationships calcified, and a caste system appeared. Styles of dress and architecture were usually burlesques of Galactic Union forms: for example, a small hemispherical" wooden hut, built in imitation of the vaulting Galactic geodesic domes.
But always there were the ruins of the city, acting as a constant symbol and a basis for mythology. Always.
"You're sure, Fess? You're really, really sure there isn't a city?"
"I am always certain, Rod."
"That's true." Rod pulled at his lower lip. "Sometimes mistaken, but never in doubt. Well, shelve the matter of the city for the time being; maybe it sank in a tidal wave. Let's just make a final check on the life-forms' being Terran."
Rod dove head-first through the three foot circle of the lock, landed in a forward roll, rose to his knees. He undipped the guerilla knife from his belt— a knife carefully designed so that it could not be attributed to any one known culture—and drew the dagger from its sheath.
The sheath was a slender cone of white metal, with a small knob at the apex. Rod plucked several blades of grass, dropped them into the sheath, and turned the knob. The miniature transceiver built into the sides of the sheath probed the grass with sonics to analyze its molecular structure, then broadcast the data to Fess, who determined if any of the molecules were incompatible with human metabolism. If the grass had been poisonous to Rod, Fess would have beamed a signal back to the sheath, whereupon the white metal would have turned purple.
But in this particular case, the sheath stayed silver.
"That ties it," said Rod. "This is Terran grass, presumably planted by Terrans, and this is a Terran colony. But where's the city?"
"There is a large town—perhaps thirty thousand souls— in the foothills of a mountain range to the north, Rod."
"Well…" Rod rubbed his chin. "That's not exactly what I had in mind, but it's better than nothing. What's it look like?"
"Situated on the lower slopes of a large hill, at the summit of which is a large stone structure, strongly reminiscent of a Medieval Terran castle."
"Medieval!" Rod scowled.
"The town itself consists of half-timbered and stuccoed buildings, with second stories overhanging the narrow streets—alleys would be a better term— along which they are situated."
"Half-timbered!" Rod rose to his feet. "Wait a minute,wait a minute ! Fess, does that architecture remind you of anything?"
The robot was silent a moment, then replied, "Northern European Renaissance."
"That," said Rod, "isnotthe typical style of a retrograde colony. How closely do those buildings resemble Terran Renaissance, Fess?"
"The resemblance is complete to the last detail, Rod."
"It's deliberate then. How about that castle? Is that Renaissance too?"
The robot paused, then said, "No, Rod. It would appear to be a direct copy from the German style of the 13th Century A.D."
Rod nodded eagerly. "How about styles of dress?"
"We are currently on the night side of the planet, and were upon landing. There is a good deal of illumination from the planet's three satellites, but relatively few people abroad… There is, however, a small party of soldiers, riding Terran horses. Their uniforms are—uh—copies of English Beefeaters'."
"Very good! Anyone else in the streets?"
"Um… a couple of cloaked men—uh—doublet and hose, I belive and… yes, a small party of peasants, wearing smocks and cross-gartered buskins.
"That's enough." Rod cut him off. "It's a hodgepodge, a conglomeration of styles. Somebody has tried to set up his idea of the ideal world, Fess. Ever hear of the Emigres?"
The robot was silent a moment, mulling through his memory banks. Then he began to recite:
"Malcontents abounded toward the end of the 22nd Century A.D. Bored with their 'lives of quiet desperation,' people turned primarily to mysticism, secondarily to escapist literature and entertainment. Gradually the pseudo-Medieval became the dominant entertainment form.
"Finally, a group of wealthy men pooled their funds to buy an outmoded FTL liner and announced to the world that they were the Romantic Emigres, that they intended to reestablish the glory of the Medieval way of life on a previously-uncolonized planet, and that they would accept a limited number of emigrants in the capacities of serfs and tradesmen.
"There were, of course, many more applicants than could be accommodated. Emigrants were selected 'for the poeticness of their souls'—whatever that may mean."
"It means they loved to listen to ghost stories," said Rod. "What happened?"
"The passenger list was swiftly completed. The thirteen tycoons who had organized the expedition announced that they thereby rejected their surnames and adopted instead the family names of great Medieval aristocrats—Bourbon, di Medici, and so forth.
"Then the ship departed, with its destination care-fully unspecified, so that there would be 'no contamination from the materialist world.' Nothing more was ever heard of them."
Rod smiled grimly. "Well, I think we've just found them. How'sthatset with your diodes?"
"Quite well, Rod.