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?" He chuckled. "In a way, yes. What is your name?" "Maota." "You must help me, Maota. These things must be preserved. We'll build a museum, right here in the street. No, over there on the hill just outside the city. We'll collect all the old writings and perhaps we may decipher them. Think of it, Maota! To read pages written so long ago and think their thoughts. We'll put everything under glass. Build and evacuate chambers to stop the decay. Catalogue, itemize...." Michaelson was warming up to his subject, but Maota shook his head like a waving palm frond and stamped his feet. "You will leave now." "Can't you see? Look at the decay. These things are priceless. They must be preserved. Future generations will thank us."