Leigh Kimmel says:

“Many, many treasures,” the local had told us. “Wonderful things of the old times, the times Before.”

Although the rest of the team was enthusiastic, I remained skeptical. Then again, my grandmother had been on one of the last rockets to launch. She’d seen the rioters trying to breach the security fences, either not understanding or not caring that those fences were for their protection as well as that of the rocket.

According to the story Grandma told, the crowds finally broke down the fence and came pouring onto the launch complex just as the countdown reached zero and the huge engines of the first stage ignited. It was already too late to stop the launch process, so the rioters ended up running straight into the exhaust pouring out of the flame trench and were turned into human candles, then crisped to ash.

Most likely it was a story that had grown in the telling. Everything I’d read about Kennedy Space Center made it clear the security fences were several kilometers away from the actual launch pad, and much of the exiting flames were doused quickly with massive deluges of water, again as much to protect the rocket from the sonic effects as out of consideration for the surroundings.

But it showed just how insanely fanatical people had become in those last decades before the ties were severed between Earthmen and spacemen. A fanaticism that likely would not have spared anything from the industrial civilization they so fiercely despised and condemned.

Quite honestly, we’d been having our best luck with the old sanitary landfills. The care the people of that era had taken to keep runoff out of their water sources had also protected many things from decay — and the artifacts from the depredations of locals who would see only bright shiny bits to be made into ornaments, or iron and steel to be melted down and reforged.

But I needed to be seen as collegial, especially when we were so far from home and at the bottom of a gravity well that would require help from orbit to climb out of. So I kept my reservations to myself and joined the rest of our team in walking to what looked like a hill — until we saw the door hidden under an overhang.

Down the stairs we went — if there’d been elevators, they’d have no power, not to mention no maintenance for the past centuries. At least you could see where a metal stairway had accumulated rust and might be apt to fail. Our local guide was carrying a flickering lamp, but we supplemented it with more powerful hand lanterns.

And then we reached the bottom and we truly understood the expression “breathtaking.” There in front of us were over a dozen classic cars, many of makes and models we knew only from passing references in histories, or at most a few photographs. And all in astonishing degrees of preservation — an engineer would disagree, to be honest, for not a one of them could be brought into an operable condition without massive restoration work. But from an archeologist’s point of view, the fact that every one of them was in one piece and recognizable was astonishing after months of finding a mirror here, a hood ornament there. The rotting rubber and disintegrating fabric could be replaced, if we were to go about restoring one of these treasures.

Navig8r says:

“Artificial: not real. Intelligence: smart. Artificial Intelligence: Not real smart.”

“Waxing philosophical?”

“Noting a close match for the natural stupidity of the crew trying to set up this Craig’s List mugging.”

“Huh?”

“Read the ad. ‘Rare 1949 classic. Some rust, tattered upholstery, taped up tail light. Cash only and be prepared to negotiate.’ Check the pic. Tattered upholstery morphed onto the hood, tail light morphed on to the right front fender. Think they were bright enough to notice or that they figure no one else would?. Should be an easy bust for the cops. You want to make the call?”