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. His left eyelid began to twitch and he laid his forefinger against the eye, pressing until it stopped. Then he stooped and entered the building. He laid the book down and tried to take the "clock" off the wall. It was dark in the building and his fingers felt along the wall, looking for it. Then he touched it. His fingers moved over its smooth surface. Then suddenly he jerked his hand back with an exclamation of amazement. Fear ran up his spine. _The clock was warm._ He felt like running, like flicking back to the settlement where there were people and familiar voices, for here was a thing that should not be. Half a million years--and here was warmth! He touched it again, curiosity overwhelming his fear. It was warm. No mistake. And there was a faint vibration, a suggestion of power. He stood there in the darkness staring off into the darkness, trembling. Fear built up in him until it was a monstrous thing, drowning reason. He forgot the power of the cylinder behind his ear. He scrambled through the doorway. He got up and ran down the ancient sandy street until he came to the edge of the city. Here he stopped, gasping for air, feeling the pain throb in his head. Common sense said that he should go home, that nothing worthwhile could be accomplished at night, that he was tired, that he was weak from loss of blood and fright and running. But when Michaelson was on the trail of important discoveries he had no common sense. He sat down in the darkness, meaning to rest a moment. * * * * * When he awoke dawn was red against thin clouds in the east. Old Maota stood in the street with webbed feet planted far apart in the sand, a weapon in the crook of his arm. It was a long tube affair, familiar to Michaelson. Michaelson asked, "Did you sleep well?" "No." "I'm sorry to hear that." "How do you feel?" "Fine, but my head aches a little." "Sorry," Maota said. "For what?" "For hitting you. Pain is not for gods like you." Michaelson relaxed somewhat. "What kind of man are you? First you try to break my skull, then you apologize." "I abhor pain. I should have killed you outright." He thought about that for a moment, eyeing the weapon. It looked in good working order. Slim and shiny and innocent, it looked like a glorified African blowgun. But he was not deceived by its appearance. It was a deadly weapon. "Well," he said, "before you kill me, tell me about the book." He held it up for Maota to see. "What about the book?" "What kind of book is it?"