[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Galaxy Magazine October 1962.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The city was sacred, but not to its gods.
Michaelson was a god--but far from sacred!
Crouched in the ancient doorway like an animal peering out from his
burrow, Mr. Michaelson saw the native.
At first he was startled, thinking it might be someone else from the
Earth settlement who had discovered the old city before him. Then he
saw the glint of sun against the metallic skirt, and relaxed.
He chuckled to himself, wondering with amusement what a webfooted man
was doing in an old dead city so far from his people. Some facts were
known about the people of Alpha Centaurus II. They were not actually
natives, he recalled. They were a colony from the fifth planet of
the system. They were a curious people. Some were highly intelligent,
though uneducated.
He decided to ignore the man for the moment. He was far down the
ancient street, a mere speck against the sand. There would be plenty of
time to wonder about him.
He gazed out from his position at the complex variety of buildings
before him. Some were small, obviously homes. Others were huge
with tall, frail spires standing against the pale blue sky. Square
buildings, ellipsoid, spheroid. Beautiful, dream-stuff bridges
connected tall, conical towers, bridges that still swung in the wind
after half a million years. Late afternoon sunlight shone against ebony
surfaces. The sands of many centuries had blown down the wide streets
and filled the doorways. Desert plants grew from roofs of smaller
buildings.
Ignoring the native, Mr. Michaelson poked about among the ruins
happily, exclaiming to himself about some particular artifact,
marveling at its state of preservation, holding it this way and that to
catch the late afternoon sun, smiling, clucking gleefully. He crawled
over the rubble through old doorways half filled with the accumulation
of ages. He dug experimentally in the sand with his hands, like a dog,
under a roof that had weathered half a million years of rain and sun.
Then he crawled out again, covered with dust and cobwebs.
* * * * *
The native stood in the street less than a hundred feet away, waving
his arms madly. "Mr. Earthgod," he cried. "It is sacred ground where
you are trespassing!"
The archeologist smiled, watching the man hurry closer. He was short,
even for a native. Long gray hair hung to his shoulders, bobbing up
and down as he walked. He wore no shoes. The toes of his webbed feet
dragged in the sand, making a deep trail behind him. He was an old man.
"You never told us about this old dead city," Michaelson said,
chidingly. "Shame on you. But never mind. I've found it now. Isn't it
beautiful?"
"Yes, beautiful. You will leave now."
"Leave?" Michaelson asked, acting surprised as if the man were a
child. "I just got here a few hours ago."
"You must go."
"Why? Who are you?"
"I am keeper of the city."
"You?" Michaelson laughed. Then, seeing how serious the native was,
said, "What makes you think a dead city needs a keeper?"
"The spirits may return."
Michaelson crawled out of the doorway and stood up. He brushed his
trousers. He pointed. "See that wall? Built of some metal, I'd say,
some alloy impervious to rust and wear."
"The spirits are angry."
"Notice the inscriptions? Wind has blown sand against them for eons,
and rain and sleet. But their story is there, once we decipher it."
"Leave!"
The native's lined, weathered old face was working around the mouth in
anger. Michaelson was almost sorry he had mocked him. He was deadly
serious.
"Look," he said. "No spirits are ever coming back here. Don't you know
that? 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."
* * * * *
He turned and walked off, not looking back.
Michaelson stood in the ancient street, tall, gaunt, feet planted wide,
hands in pockets, watching the webfoot until he was out of sight beyond
a huge circular building. There was a man to watch. There was one of
the intelligent ones. One look into the alert old eyes had told him
that.
Michaelson shook his head, and went about satisfying his curiosity.
He entered buildings without thought of roofs falling in, or decayed
floors dropping from under his weight. He began to collect small items,
making a pile of them in the street. An ancient bowl, metal untouched
by the ages. A statue of a man, one foot high, correct to the minutest
detail, showing how identical they had been to Earthmen. He found books
still standing on ancient shelves but was afraid to touch them without
tools.
Darkness came swiftly and he was forced out into the street.
He stood there alone feeling the age of the place. 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.
There was no hurry to be going home, although he was alone, although
this was Alpha Centaurus II with many unknowns, many dangers ...
although home was a very great distance away. There was no one back
there to worry about him.
His wife had died many years ago back on Earth. No children. His
friends in the settlement would not look for him for another day at
least. Anyway, the tiny cylinder, buried in flesh behind his ear, a
thing of mystery and immense power, could take him home instantly,
without effort save a flicker of thought.
"You did not leave, as I asked you."
Michaelson whirled around at the sound of the native's voice. Then he
relaxed. He said, "You shouldn't sneak up on a man like that."
"You must leave, or I will be forced to kill you. I do not want to kill
you, but if I must...." He made a clucking sound deep in the throat.
"The spirits are angry."
"Nonsense. Superstition! But never mind. You have been here longer
than I. Tell me, what are those instruments in the rooms? It looks like
a clock but I'm certain it had some other function."
"What rooms?"
"Oh, come now. The small rooms back there. Look like they were
bedrooms."
"I do not know." The webfoot drew closer. 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."
"Say it any way you want to. This is the most fascinating thing
I've ever seen. The Inca's treasure, the ruins of Pompeii, Egyptian
tombs--none can hold a candle to this."
"Mr. Earthgod...."
"Don't call me that. I'm not a god, and you know it."
The old man shrugged. "It is not an item worthy of dispute. Those names
you mention, are they the names of gods?"