"Yes."
Maota went inside. Michaelson stood in the entrance and looked around.
The room was clean, furnished with hand made chairs and a bed. Who is
this old man, he thought, far from his people, living alone, choosing
a life of solitude among ancient ruins but not touching them? Above
the bed a "clock" was fastened to the wall, Michaelson remembered his
fright--thinking of the warmth where warmth should not be.
Maota pointed to it.
"You asked about this machine," he said. "Now I will tell you." He laid
his hand against it. "Here is power to follow another direction."
* * * * *
Michaelson tested one of the chairs to see if it would hold his weight,
then sat down. His curiosity about the instrument was colossal, but he
forced a short laugh. "Maota, you _are_ complex. Why not stop all this
mystery nonsense and tell me about it? You know more about it than I."
"Of course." Maota smiled a toothless, superior smile. "What do you
suppose happened to this race?"
"You tell me."
"They took the unknown direction. The books speak of it. I don't know
how the instrument works, but one thing is certain. The race did not
die out, as a species becomes extinct."
Michaelson was amused, but interested. "Something like a fourth
dimension?"
"I don't know. I only know that with this instrument there is no death.
I have read the books that speak of this race, this wonderful people
who conquered all disease, who explored all the mysteries of science,
who devised this machine to cheat death. See this button here on the
face of the instrument? Press the button, and...."
"And what?"
"I don't know, exactly. But I have lived many years. I have walked the
streets of this city and wondered, and wanted to press the button. Now
I will do so."
Quickly the old man, still smiling, pressed the button. A high-pitched
whine filled the air, just within audio range. Steady for a moment, it
then rose in pitch passing beyond hearing quickly.
The old man's knees buckled. He sank down, fell over the bed, lay
still. Michaelson touched him cautiously, then examined him more
carefully. No question about it.
The old man was dead.
* * * * *
Feeling depressed and alone, Michaelson found a desert knoll outside
the city overlooking the tall spires that shone in the sunlight and
gleamed in the moonlight. He made a stretcher, rolled the old man's
body on to it and dragged it down the long ancient street and up the
knoll.
Here he buried him.
But it seemed a waste of time. Somehow he knew beyond any doubt that
the old native and his body were completely disassociated in some sense
more complete than death.
In the days that followed he gave much thought to the "clock." 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. He stood before the instrument, trembling, afraid, but
determined. He pinched his eyes shut tight like a child and pressed the
button.
The high-pitched whine started.
Complete, utter silence. Void. Darkness. Awareness and memory, yes;
nothing else. Then Maota's chuckle came. No sound, an impression only
like the voice from the ancient book. Where was he? There was no left
or right, up or down. Maota was everywhere, nowhere.
"Look!" Maota's thought was directed at him in this place of no
direction. "Think of the city and you will see it."
Michaelson did, and he saw the city beyond, as if he were looking
through a window. And yet he was in the city looking at his own body.
Maota's chuckle again. "The city will remain as it is. You did not win
after all."
"Neither did you."
"But this existence has compensations," Maota said. "You can be
anywhere, see anywhere on this planet. Even on your Earth."
Michaelson felt a great sadness, seeing his body lying across the
old, home made bed. He looked closer. He sensed a vibration or life
force--he didn't stop to define it--in his body. Why was his dead body
different from Old Maota's? Could it be that there was some thread
stretching from the reality of his body to his present state?
"I don't like your thoughts," Maota said. "No one can go back. I tried.
I have discussed it with many who are not presently in communication
with you. No one can go back."
Michaelson decided he try.
* * * * *
"No!" Maota's thought was prickled with fear and anger.
Michaelson did not know how to try, but he remembered the cylinder and
gathered all the force of his mind in spite of Maota's protests, and
gave his most violent command.
At first he thought it didn't work. He got up and looked around, then
it struck him. _He was standing up!_
The cylinder. He knew it was the cylinder. That was the difference
between himself and Maota. 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...!_"