They were a hundred paces from the base of the limestone crag, obscure in the dimness of its early morning shadow. The crag was perhaps another hundred paces high and at the top, where the three tallest columns of Balata 'kai stood, piercing the sky for half the height of the crag or more, a figure was marching. "Police," whispered Haazahri. "Has he seen us?" "No," said Matlin. "It's dark down here. We're all right, I think." "There is treasure in the ruins," Haazahri told him. "It's what the tourists come to see mostly. But since the quake, the ruins are off-limits. Thieves have been out here in the dark of night, defiling the temples and...." "Defiling?" "Defiling, if one believes." "Do you believe, Haazahri?" "You're a strange man, Matlin. We're down on our bellies in the sand, hiding from the police, and yet you ask a question like that. I--I don't know if I believe or not. I believe a people need something, some faith...." "Do you believe in reincarnation? Do you believe that every poor craven lowborn, if he leads a meek, servile life, will be rewarded in a fresh incarnation by moving up a rung in the social ladder? Do you believe?" * * * * * Slowly, Haazahri shook her head. "No," she said, confusion in her eyes. "I never could admit it to myself before, Matlin. But you have a way ... you put it so simply. No, Matlin. I don't believe that." "Good, because otherwise we would have been defilers." "I don't understand." "I'm not sure I do, either. But we're going up there. We can work our way up among the rocks, when the guard is out of sight. We can--" "It will be dangerous." "I have to chance it. You don't." "I'll go with you. I already said so, Matlin. But why will we be defilers?" "Because there's something up there. Oh, I don't know what. Something, though. Waiting for me. My head, Haazahri! My memory! As if I've been sundered, disembodied, and part of me is up there. I--I had it once, this thing. I had it, and lost it. No ... wait. _I had it, then hid it._ It was something--dynamite, Haazahri. Something so explosive that I didn't know what to do with it but knew I must do something. Like playing with fire, the memory says." "What kind of fire?" "Fire for the Kedaki. Cultural fire. Idol-breaking, iconoclastic...." "But you don't remember what?" "No." "And the way you speak of us, The Kedaki. As if you, as if you're--alien." Matlin said nothing. His head ached with the half-thoughts, the dream-thoughts. The wind had died down and he breathed deeply of the clear hot morning air. When he looked up and saw the ruins of Balata 'kai silhouetted against the brightening sky, he could see nothing of the guard.