"See?" he said. "The spirits read. They must have been great readers, these people. They drink the book, as if it were an elixir. See how gentle! They lap at the pages like a new kitten tasting milk." Michaelson laughed. "You certainly have an imagination." "What difference does it make?" Maota cried, suddenly angry. "You want to close up all these things in boxes for a posterity who may have no slightest feeling or appreciation. I want to leave the city as it is, for spirits whose existence I cannot prove." The old man's eyes were furious now, deadly. The gun came down directly in line with the Earthman's chest. The gnarled finger moved. Michaelson, using the power of the cylinder behind his ear, jumped behind the old webfoot. To Maota it seemed that he had flicked out of existence like a match blown out. The next instant Michaelson spun him around and hit him. It was an inexpert fist, belonging to an archeologist, not a fighter. But Maota was an old man. He dropped in the sand, momentarily stunned. Michaelson bent over to pick up the gun and the old man, feeling it slip from his fingers, hung on and was pulled to his feet. They struggled for possession of the gun, silently, gasping, kicking sand. Faces grew red. Lips drew back over Michaelson's white teeth, over Maota's pink, toothless gums. The dead city's fragile spires threw impersonal shadows down where they fought. Then quite suddenly a finger or hand--neither knew whose finger or hand--touched the firing stud. There was a hollow, whooshing sound. Both stopped still, realizing the total destruction they might have caused. "It only hit the ground," Michaelson said. A black, charred hole, two feet in diameter and--they could not see how deep--stared at them. Maota let go and sprawled in the sand. "The book!" he cried. "The book is gone!" "No! We probably covered it with sand while we fought." * * * * * Both men began scooping sand in their cupped hands, digging frantically for the book. Saliva dripped from Maota's mouth, but he didn't know or care. Finally they stopped, exhausted. They had covered a substantial area around the hole. They had covered the complete area where they had been. "We killed it," the old man moaned. "It was just a book. Not alive, you know." "How do you know?" The old man's pale eyes were filled with tears. "It talked and it sang. In a way, it had a soul. Sometimes on long nights I used to imagine it loved me, for taking care of it." "There are other books. We'll get another." Maota shook his head. "There are no more." "But I've seen them. Down there in the square building." "Not poetry. Books, yes, but not poetry. That was the only book with songs." "I'm sorry." "_You_ killed it!" Maota suddenly sprang for the weapon, lying forgotten in the sand. Michaelson put his foot on it and Maota was too weak to tear it loose. He could only weep out his rage.