William R. Doede

“ When he used the cylinder, that was where he went, the place where Maota was now. It was a door of some kind, leading to a path of some kind where distance was non-existent. But the "clock" was a mechanism to transport only the mind to that place.
To be certain of it, he pressed the button again, with the same result as before. He saw his own body fall down. He felt Maota's presence.
"You devil!" Maota's thought-scream was a sword of hate and anger, irrational suddenly, like a person who knows his loss is irrevocable. "I said you were a god. I said you were a god. I said you were a god...!" ”

“ Why not mathematics or history? Why not tell how to make the metal of the book itself? Now there is a subject worthy of a book."
Maota shook his head. "One does not study a dead culture to learn how they made things, but how they thought. But we are wasting time. I must kill you now, so I can get some rest."
The old man raised the gun.
"Wait! You forget that I also have a weapon." He pointed to the spot behind his ear where the cylinder was buried. "I can move faster than you can fire the gun."
Maota nodded. "I have heard how you travel. It does not matter. I will kill you anyway." ”

“ One could only guess at the machines, the gadgets, the artistry already decayed and blown away to mix forever with the sand.
I must preserve it, he thought, whether Maota likes it or not. They say these people lived half a million years ago. A long time. Let's see, now. A man lives one hundred years on the average. Five thousand lifetimes.
And all you do is touch a book, and a voice jumps across all those years!
He started off toward the tall building he had examined upon discovery of the city. ”

“ And even if they did, spirits care nothing for old cities half covered with sand and dirt."
He walked away from the old man, heading for another building. The sun had already gone below the horizon, coloring the high clouds. He glanced backward. The webfoot was following.
"Mr. Earthgod!" the webfoot cried, so sharply that Michaelson stopped. "You must not touch, not walk upon, not handle. Your step may destroy the home of some ancient spirit. Your breath may cause one iota of change and a spirit may lose his way in the darkness. Go quickly now, or be killed." ”

“ Even the smell of age was in the air. Silver moonlight from the two moons filtered through clear air down upon the ruins. The city lay now in darkness, dead and still, waiting for morning so it could lie dead and still in the sun. ”

“ Michaelson decided he was sixty or seventy years old, at least.
"You've been here a long time. You are intelligent, and you must be educated, the way you talk. That gadget looks like a time-piece of some sort. What is it? What does it measure?"
"I insist that you go." The webfoot held something in his hand.
"No." Michaelson looked off down the street, trying to ignore the native, trying to feel the life of the city as it might have been.
"You are sensitive," the native said in his ear. "It takes a sensitive god to feel the spirits moving in the houses and walking in these old streets." ”

“ He came to the city every day. He spent long hours in the huge square building with the books. He learned the language by sheer bulldog determination. Then he searched the books for information about the instrument.
Finally after many weeks, long after the winds had obliterated all evidence of Maota's grave on the knoll, Michaelson made a decision. He had to know if the machine would work for him.
And so one afternoon when the ancient spires threw long shadows over the sand he walked down the long street and entered the old man's house. ”

“ The gun wavered. "I am not an unreasonable man," the webfoot said.
Michaelson stepped forward, extending his arm with the book.
"No, stay where you are. Throw it."
"This book is priceless. You just don't go throwing such valuable items around."
"It won't break. Throw it."
Michaelson threw the book. It landed at Maota's feet, spouting sand against his leg. He shifted the weapon, picked up the book and leafed through it, raising his head in a listening attitude, searching for a suitable passage. Michaelson heard the thin, metallic pages rustle softly. ”