When he could talk again, Maota said, "I am sorry, Mr. Earthgod. I've disgraced myself." "Don't be sorry." Michaelson helped him to his feet. "We fight for some reasons, cry for others. A priceless book is a good reason for either." "Not for that. For not winning. I should have killed you last night when I had the chance. The gods give us chances and if we don't take them we lose forever." "I told you before! We are on the same side. Negotiate. Have you never heard of negotiation?" "You are a god," Maota said. "One does not negotiate with gods. One either loves them, or kills them." "That's another thing. I am not a god. Can't you understand?" "Of course you are." Maota looked up, very sure. "Mortals cannot step from star to star like crossing a shallow brook." "No, no. I don't step from one star to another. An invention does that. Just an invention. I carry it with me. It's a tiny thing. No one would ever guess it has such power. So you see, I'm human, just like you. Hit me and I hurt. Cut me and I bleed. I love. I hate. I was born. Some day I'll die. See? I'm human. Just a human with a machine. No more than that." * * * * * Maota laughed, then sobered quickly. "You lie." "No." "If I had this machine, could I travel as you?" "Yes." "Then I'll kill you and take yours." "It would not work for you." "Why?" "Each machine is tailored for each person." The old man hung his head. He looked down into the black, charred hole. He walked all around the hole. He kicked at the sand, looking half-heartedly again for the book. "Look," Michaelson said. "I'm sure I've convinced you that I'm human. Why not have a try at negotiating our differences?" He looked up. His expressive eyes, deep, resigned, studied Michaelson's face. Finally he shook his head sadly. "When we first met I hoped we could think the ancient thoughts together. But our paths diverge. We have finished, you and I." He turned and started off, shoulders slumped dejectedly. Michaelson caught up to him. "Are you leaving the city?" "No." "Where are you going?" "Away. Far away." Maota looked off toward the hills, eyes distant. "Don't be stupid, old man. How can you go far away and not leave the city?" "There are many directions. You would not understand." "East. West. North. South. Up. Down." "No, no. There is another direction. Come, if you must see." Michaelson followed him far down the street. They came to a section of the city he had not seen before. Buildings were smaller, spires dwarfed against larger structures. Here a path was packed in the sand, leading to a particular building. Michaelson said, "This is where you live?" "Yes."