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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e08f2d6 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #50802 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/50802) diff --git a/old/50802-h.zip b/old/50802-h.zip Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 5884244..0000000 --- a/old/50802-h.zip +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/50802-h/50802-h.htm b/old/50802-h/50802-h.htm deleted file mode 100644 index 71b03d7..0000000 --- a/old/50802-h/50802-h.htm +++ /dev/null @@ -1,1270 +0,0 @@ -<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" - "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> -<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> - <head> - <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=us-ascii" /> - <meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> - <title> - The Project Gutenberg eBook of A City Near Centaurus, by Bill Doede. - </title> - - <link rel="coverpage" href="images/cover.jpg" /> - - <style type="text/css"> - -body { - margin-left: 10%; - margin-right: 10%; -} - - h1,h2 { - text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ - clear: both; -} - -p { - margin-top: .51em; - text-align: justify; - margin-bottom: .49em; -} - -hr { - width: 33%; - margin-top: 2em; - margin-bottom: 2em; - margin-left: 33.5%; - margin-right: 33.5%; - clear: both; -} - -hr.chap {width: 65%; margin-left: 17.5%; margin-right: 17.5%;} -hr.tb {width: 45%; margin-left: 27.5%; margin-right: 27.5%;} - -.center {text-align: center;} - -.right {text-align: right;} - -.caption {font-weight: bold;} - -/* Images */ -.figcenter { - margin: auto; - text-align: center; -} - -div.titlepage { - text-align: center; - page-break-before: always; - page-break-after: always; -} - -div.titlepage p { - text-align: center; - text-indent: 0em; - font-weight: bold; - line-height: 1.5; - margin-top: 3em; -} - -.ph1, .ph2, .ph3, .ph4 { text-align: center; text-indent: 0em; font-weight: bold; } -.ph1 { font-size: xx-large; margin: .67em auto; } -.ph2 { font-size: x-large; margin: .75em auto; } -.ph3 { font-size: large; margin: .83em auto; } -.ph4 { font-size: medium; margin: 1.12em auto; } - - - </style> - </head> -<body> - - -<pre> - -The Project Gutenberg EBook of A City Near Centaurus, by Bill Doede - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - -Title: A City Near Centaurus - -Author: Bill Doede - -Release Date: December 31, 2015 [EBook #50802] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ASCII - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A CITY NEAR CENTAURUS *** - - - - -Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net - - - - - - -</pre> - - -<div class="figcenter"> - <img src="images/cover.jpg" width="396" height="500" alt=""/> -</div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="titlepage"> - -<h1>A CITY NEAR CENTAURUS</h1> - -<p>By BILL DOEDE</p> - -<p>Illustrated by WEST</p> - -<p>[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from<br /> -Galaxy Magazine October 1962.<br /> -Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that<br /> -the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]</p> - -</div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p class="ph3"><i>The city was sacred, but not to its gods.<br /> -Michaelson was a god—but far from sacred!</i></p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p>Crouched in the ancient doorway like an animal peering out from his -burrow, Mr. Michaelson saw the native.</p> - -<p>At first he was startled, thinking it might be someone else from the -Earth settlement who had discovered the old city before him. Then he -saw the glint of sun against the metallic skirt, and relaxed.</p> - -<p>He chuckled to himself, wondering with amusement what a webfooted man -was doing in an old dead city so far from his people. Some facts were -known about the people of Alpha Centaurus II. They were not actually -natives, he recalled. They were a colony from the fifth planet of -the system. They were a curious people. Some were highly intelligent, -though uneducated.</p> - -<p>He decided to ignore the man for the moment. He was far down the -ancient street, a mere speck against the sand. There would be plenty of -time to wonder about him.</p> - -<p>He gazed out from his position at the complex variety of buildings -before him. Some were small, obviously homes. Others were huge -with tall, frail spires standing against the pale blue sky. Square -buildings, ellipsoid, spheroid. Beautiful, dream-stuff bridges -connected tall, conical towers, bridges that still swung in the wind -after half a million years. Late afternoon sunlight shone against ebony -surfaces. The sands of many centuries had blown down the wide streets -and filled the doorways. Desert plants grew from roofs of smaller -buildings.</p> - -<p>Ignoring the native, Mr. Michaelson poked about among the ruins -happily, exclaiming to himself about some particular artifact, -marveling at its state of preservation, holding it this way and that to -catch the late afternoon sun, smiling, clucking gleefully. He crawled -over the rubble through old doorways half filled with the accumulation -of ages. He dug experimentally in the sand with his hands, like a dog, -under a roof that had weathered half a million years of rain and sun. -Then he crawled out again, covered with dust and cobwebs.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>The native stood in the street less than a hundred feet away, waving -his arms madly. "Mr. Earthgod," he cried. "It is sacred ground where -you are trespassing!"</p> - -<p>The archeologist smiled, watching the man hurry closer. He was short, -even for a native. Long gray hair hung to his shoulders, bobbing up -and down as he walked. He wore no shoes. The toes of his webbed feet -dragged in the sand, making a deep trail behind him. He was an old man.</p> - -<p>"You never told us about this old dead city," Michaelson said, -chidingly. "Shame on you. But never mind. I've found it now. Isn't it -beautiful?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, beautiful. You will leave now."</p> - -<p>"Leave?" Michaelson asked, acting surprised as if the man were a -child. "I just got here a few hours ago."</p> - -<p>"You must go."</p> - -<p>"Why? Who are you?"</p> - -<p>"I am keeper of the city."</p> - -<p>"You?" Michaelson laughed. Then, seeing how serious the native was, -said, "What makes you think a dead city needs a keeper?"</p> - -<p>"The spirits may return."</p> - -<p>Michaelson crawled out of the doorway and stood up. He brushed his -trousers. He pointed. "See that wall? Built of some metal, I'd say, -some alloy impervious to rust and wear."</p> - -<p>"The spirits are angry."</p> - -<p>"Notice the inscriptions? Wind has blown sand against them for eons, -and rain and sleet. But their story is there, once we decipher it."</p> - -<p>"Leave!"</p> - -<p>The native's lined, weathered old face was working around the mouth in -anger. Michaelson was almost sorry he had mocked him. He was deadly -serious.</p> - -<p>"Look," he said. "No spirits are ever coming back here. Don't you know -that? And even if they did, spirits care nothing for old cities half -covered with sand and dirt."</p> - -<p>He walked away from the old man, heading for another building. The -sun had already gone below the horizon, coloring the high clouds. He -glanced backward. The webfoot was following.</p> - -<p>"Mr. Earthgod!" the webfoot cried, so sharply that Michaelson stopped. -"You must not touch, not walk upon, not handle. Your step may destroy -the home of some ancient spirit. Your breath may cause one iota of -change and a spirit may lose his way in the darkness. Go quickly now, -or be killed."</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>He turned and walked off, not looking back.</p> - -<p>Michaelson stood in the ancient street, tall, gaunt, feet planted wide, -hands in pockets, watching the webfoot until he was out of sight beyond -a huge circular building. There was a man to watch. There was one of -the intelligent ones. One look into the alert old eyes had told him -that.</p> - -<p>Michaelson shook his head, and went about satisfying his curiosity. -He entered buildings without thought of roofs falling in, or decayed -floors dropping from under his weight. He began to collect small items, -making a pile of them in the street. An ancient bowl, metal untouched -by the ages. A statue of a man, one foot high, correct to the minutest -detail, showing how identical they had been to Earthmen. He found books -still standing on ancient shelves but was afraid to touch them without -tools.</p> - -<p>Darkness came swiftly and he was forced out into the street.</p> - -<p>He stood there alone feeling the age of the place. Even the smell -of age was in the air. Silver moonlight from the two moons filtered -through clear air down upon the ruins. The city lay now in darkness, -dead and still, waiting for morning so it could lie dead and still in -the sun.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"You did not leave, as I asked you."</p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"What rooms?"</p> - -<p>"Oh, come now. The small rooms back there. Look like they were -bedrooms."</p> - -<p>"I do not know." The webfoot drew closer. Michaelson decided he was -sixty or seventy years old, at least.</p> - -<p>"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?"</p> - -<p>"I insist that you go." The webfoot held something in his hand.</p> - -<p>"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.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"Mr. Earthgod...."</p> - -<p>"Don't call me that. I'm not a god, and you know it."</p> - -<p>The old man shrugged. "It is not an item worthy of dispute. Those names -you mention, are they the names of gods?"</p> - -<p>He chuckled. "In a way, yes. What is your name?"</p> - -<p>"Maota."</p> - -<p>"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...."</p> - -<p>Michaelson was warming up to his subject, but Maota shook his head like -a waving palm frond and stamped his feet.</p> - -<p>"You will leave now."</p> - -<p>"Can't you see? Look at the decay. These things are priceless. They -must be preserved. Future generations will thank us."</p> - -<p>"Do you mean," the old man asked, aghast, "that you want others to come -here? You know the city abhors the sound of alien voices. Those who -lived here may return one day! They must not find their city packaged -and preserved and laid out on shelves for the curious to breathe their -foul breaths upon. You will leave. Now!"</p> - -<p>"No." Michaelson was adamant. The rock of Gibraltar.</p> - -<p>Maota hit him, quickly, passionately, and dropped the weapon beside his -body. He turned swiftly, making a swirling mark in the sand with his -heel, and walked off toward the hills outside the city.</p> - -<p>The weapon he had used was an ancient book. Its paper-thin pages -rustled in the wind as if an unseen hand turned them, reading, while -Michaelson's blood trickled out from the head wound upon the ancient -street.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>When he regained consciousness the two moons, bright sentinel orbs in -the night sky, had moved to a new position down their sliding path. Old -Maota's absence took some of the weirdness and fantasy away. It seemed -a more practical place now.</p> - -<p>The gash in his head was painful, throbbing with quick, short -hammer-blows synchronized with his heart beats. But there was a new -determination in him. If it was a fight that the old webfooted fool -wanted, a fight he would get. The cylinder flicked him, at his command, -across five hundred miles of desert and rocks to a small creek he -remembered. Here he bathed his head in cool water until all the caked -blood was dissolved from his hair. Feeling better, he went back.</p> - -<p>The wind had turned cool. Michaelson shivered, wishing he had brought -a coat. The city was absolutely still except for small gusts of wind -sighing through the frail spires. The ancient book still lay in the -sand beside the dark spot of blood. He stooped over and picked it up.</p> - -<p>It was light, much lighter than most Earth books. He ran a hand over -the binding. Smooth it was, untouched by time or climate. He squinted -at the pages, tilting the book to catch the bright moonlight, but the -writing was alien. He touched the page, ran his forefinger over the -writing.</p> - -<p>Suddenly he sprang back. The book fell from his hands.</p> - -<p>"God in heaven!" he exclaimed.</p> - -<p>He had heard a voice. He looked around at the old buildings, down the -length of the ancient street. Something strange about the voice. Not -Maota. Not his tones. Not his words. Satisfied that no one was near, he -stooped and picked up the book again.</p> - -<p>"Good God!" he said aloud. It was the book talking. His fingers had -touched the writing again. It was not a voice, exactly, but a stirring -in his mind, like a strange language heard for the first time.</p> - -<p>A talking book. What other surprises were in the city? Tall, -fragile buildings laughing at time and weather. A clock measuring -God-knows-what. If such wonders remained, what about those already -destroyed? One could only guess at the machines, the gadgets, the -artistry already decayed and blown away to mix forever with the sand.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>And all you do is touch a book, and a voice jumps across all those -years!</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p><i>The clock was warm.</i></p> - -<p>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!</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>He sat down in the darkness, meaning to rest a moment.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>When he awoke dawn was red against thin clouds in the east.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>Michaelson asked, "Did you sleep well?"</p> - -<p>"No."</p> - -<p>"I'm sorry to hear that."</p> - -<p>"How do you feel?"</p> - -<p>"Fine, but my head aches a little."</p> - -<p>"Sorry," Maota said.</p> - -<p>"For what?"</p> - -<p>"For hitting you. Pain is not for gods like you."</p> - -<p>Michaelson relaxed somewhat. "What kind of man are you? First you try -to break my skull, then you apologize."</p> - -<p>"I abhor pain. I should have killed you outright."</p> - -<p>He thought about that for a moment, eyeing the weapon.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="figcenter"> - <img src="images/illus.jpg" width="650" height="308" alt=""/> -</div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p>"Well," he said, "before you kill me, tell me about the book." He held -it up for Maota to see.</p> - -<p>"What about the book?"</p> - -<p>"What kind of book is it?"</p> - -<p>"What does Mr. Earthgod mean, what <i>kind</i> of book? You have seen it. It -is like any other book, except for the material and the fact that it -talks."</p> - -<p>"No, no. I mean, what's in it?"</p> - -<p>"Poetry."</p> - -<p>"Poetry? For God's sake, why poetry? Why not mathematics or history? -Why not tell how to make the metal of the book itself? Now there is a -subject worthy of a book."</p> - -<p>Maota shook his head. "One does not study a dead culture to learn how -they made things, but how they thought. But we are wasting time. I must -kill you now, so I can get some rest."</p> - -<p>The old man raised the gun.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>"Wait! You forget that I also have a weapon." He pointed to the spot -behind his ear where the cylinder was buried. "I can move faster than -you can fire the gun."</p> - -<p>Maota nodded. "I have heard how you travel. It does not matter. I will -kill you anyway."</p> - -<p>"I suggest we negotiate."</p> - -<p>"No."</p> - -<p>"Why not?"</p> - -<p>Maota looked off toward the hills, old eyes filmed from years of sand -and wind, leather skin lined and pitted. The hills stood immobile, -brown-gray, already shimmering with heat, impotent.</p> - -<p>"Why not?" Michaelson repeated.</p> - -<p>"Why not what?" Maota dragged his eyes back.</p> - -<p>"Negotiate."</p> - -<p>"No." Maota's eyes grew hard as steel. They stood there in the sun, not -twenty feet apart, hating each other. The two moons, very pale and far -away on the western horizon, stared like two bottomless eyes.</p> - -<p>"All right, then. At least it's a quick death. I hear that thing just -disintegrates a man. Pfft! And that's that."</p> - -<p>Michaelson prepared himself to move if the old man's finger slid closer -toward the firing stud. The old man raised the gun.</p> - -<p>"Wait!"</p> - -<p>"Now what?"</p> - -<p>"At least read some of the book to me before I die, then."</p> - -<p>The gun wavered. "I am not an unreasonable man," the webfoot said.</p> - -<p>Michaelson stepped forward, extending his arm with the book.</p> - -<p>"No, stay where you are. Throw it."</p> - -<p>"This book is priceless. You just don't go throwing such valuable items -around."</p> - -<p>"It won't break. Throw it."</p> - -<p>Michaelson threw the book. It landed at Maota's feet, spouting sand -against his leg. He shifted the weapon, picked up the book and leafed -through it, raising his head in a listening attitude, searching for -a suitable passage. Michaelson heard the thin, metallic pages rustle -softly. He could have jumped and seized the weapon at that moment, but -his desire to hear the book was strong.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Old Maota read, Michaelson listened. The cadence was different, the -syntax confusing. But the thoughts were there. It might have been -a professor back on Earth reading to his students. Keats, Shelley, -Browning. These people were human, with human thoughts and aspirations.</p> - -<p>The old man stopped reading. He squatted slowly, keeping Michaelson in -sight, and laid the book face up in the sand. Wind moved the pages.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>Michaelson laughed. "You certainly have an imagination."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>Then quite suddenly a finger or hand—neither knew whose finger or -hand—touched the firing stud.</p> - -<p>There was a hollow, whooshing sound. Both stopped still, realizing the -total destruction they might have caused.</p> - -<p>"It only hit the ground," Michaelson said.</p> - -<p>A black, charred hole, two feet in diameter and—they could not see how -deep—stared at them.</p> - -<p>Maota let go and sprawled in the sand. "The book!" he cried. "The book -is gone!"</p> - -<p>"No! We probably covered it with sand while we fought."</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>Finally they stopped, exhausted. They had covered a substantial area -around the hole. They had covered the complete area where they had been.</p> - -<p>"We killed it," the old man moaned.</p> - -<p>"It was just a book. Not alive, you know."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"There are other books. We'll get another."</p> - -<p>Maota shook his head. "There are no more."</p> - -<p>"But I've seen them. Down there in the square building."</p> - -<p>"Not poetry. Books, yes, but not poetry. That was the only book with -songs."</p> - -<p>"I'm sorry."</p> - -<p>"<i>You</i> 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.</p> - -<p>When he could talk again, Maota said, "I am sorry, Mr. Earthgod. I've -disgraced myself."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>"I told you before! We are on the same side. Negotiate. Have you never -heard of negotiation?"</p> - -<p>"You are a god," Maota said. "One does not negotiate with gods. One -either loves them, or kills them."</p> - -<p>"That's another thing. I am not a god. Can't you understand?"</p> - -<p>"Of course you are." Maota looked up, very sure. "Mortals cannot step -from star to star like crossing a shallow brook."</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Maota laughed, then sobered quickly. "You lie."</p> - -<p>"No."</p> - -<p>"If I had this machine, could I travel as you?"</p> - -<p>"Yes."</p> - -<p>"Then I'll kill you and take yours."</p> - -<p>"It would not work for you."</p> - -<p>"Why?"</p> - -<p>"Each machine is tailored for each person."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"Look," Michaelson said. "I'm sure I've convinced you that I'm human. -Why not have a try at negotiating our differences?"</p> - -<p>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."</p> - -<p>He turned and started off, shoulders slumped dejectedly.</p> - -<p>Michaelson caught up to him. "Are you leaving the city?"</p> - -<p>"No."</p> - -<p>"Where are you going?"</p> - -<p>"Away. Far away." Maota looked off toward the hills, eyes distant.</p> - -<p>"Don't be stupid, old man. How can you go far away and not leave the -city?"</p> - -<p>"There are many directions. You would not understand."</p> - -<p>"East. West. North. South. Up. Down."</p> - -<p>"No, no. There is another direction. Come, if you must see."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>Michaelson said, "This is where you live?"</p> - -<p>"Yes."</p> - -<p>Maota went inside. Michaelson stood in the entrance and looked around. -The room was clean, furnished with hand made chairs and a bed. Who is -this old man, he thought, far from his people, living alone, choosing -a life of solitude among ancient ruins but not touching them? Above -the bed a "clock" was fastened to the wall, Michaelson remembered his -fright—thinking of the warmth where warmth should not be.</p> - -<p>Maota pointed to it.</p> - -<p>"You asked about this machine," he said. "Now I will tell you." He laid -his hand against it. "Here is power to follow another direction."</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Michaelson tested one of the chairs to see if it would hold his weight, -then sat down. His curiosity about the instrument was colossal, but he -forced a short laugh. "Maota, you <i>are</i> complex. Why not stop all this -mystery nonsense and tell me about it? You know more about it than I."</p> - -<p>"Of course." Maota smiled a toothless, superior smile. "What do you -suppose happened to this race?"</p> - -<p>"You tell me."</p> - -<p>"They took the unknown direction. The books speak of it. I don't know -how the instrument works, but one thing is certain. The race did not -die out, as a species becomes extinct."</p> - -<p>Michaelson was amused, but interested. "Something like a fourth -dimension?"</p> - -<p>"I don't know. I only know that with this instrument there is no death. -I have read the books that speak of this race, this wonderful people -who conquered all disease, who explored all the mysteries of science, -who devised this machine to cheat death. See this button here on the -face of the instrument? Press the button, and...."</p> - -<p>"And what?"</p> - -<p>"I don't know, exactly. But I have lived many years. I have walked the -streets of this city and wondered, and wanted to press the button. Now -I will do so."</p> - -<p>Quickly the old man, still smiling, pressed the button. A high-pitched -whine filled the air, just within audio range. Steady for a moment, it -then rose in pitch passing beyond hearing quickly.</p> - -<p>The old man's knees buckled. He sank down, fell over the bed, lay -still. Michaelson touched him cautiously, then examined him more -carefully. No question about it.</p> - -<p>The old man was dead.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Feeling depressed and alone, Michaelson found a desert knoll outside -the city overlooking the tall spires that shone in the sunlight and -gleamed in the moonlight. He made a stretcher, rolled the old man's -body on to it and dragged it down the long ancient street and up the -knoll.</p> - -<p>Here he buried him.</p> - -<p>But it seemed a waste of time. Somehow he knew beyond any doubt that -the old native and his body were completely disassociated in some sense -more complete than death.</p> - -<p>In the days that followed he gave much thought to the "clock." He came -to the city every day. He spent long hours in the huge square building -with the books. He learned the language by sheer bulldog determination. -Then he searched the books for information about the instrument.</p> - -<p>Finally after many weeks, long after the winds had obliterated all -evidence of Maota's grave on the knoll, Michaelson made a decision. He -had to know if the machine would work for him.</p> - -<p>And so one afternoon when the ancient spires threw long shadows -over the sand he walked down the long street and entered the old -man's house. He stood before the instrument, trembling, afraid, but -determined. He pinched his eyes shut tight like a child and pressed the -button.</p> - -<p>The high-pitched whine started.</p> - -<p>Complete, utter silence. Void. Darkness. Awareness and memory, yes; -nothing else. Then Maota's chuckle came. No sound, an impression only -like the voice from the ancient book. Where was he? There was no left -or right, up or down. Maota was everywhere, nowhere.</p> - -<p>"Look!" Maota's thought was directed at him in this place of no -direction. "Think of the city and you will see it."</p> - -<p>Michaelson did, and he saw the city beyond, as if he were looking -through a window. And yet he was in the city looking at his own body.</p> - -<p>Maota's chuckle again. "The city will remain as it is. You did not win -after all."</p> - -<p>"Neither did you."</p> - -<p>"But this existence has compensations," Maota said. "You can be -anywhere, see anywhere on this planet. Even on your Earth."</p> - -<p>Michaelson felt a great sadness, seeing his body lying across the -old, home made bed. He looked closer. He sensed a vibration or life -force—he didn't stop to define it—in his body. Why was his dead body -different from Old Maota's? Could it be that there was some thread -stretching from the reality of his body to his present state?</p> - -<p>"I don't like your thoughts," Maota said. "No one can go back. I tried. -I have discussed it with many who are not presently in communication -with you. No one can go back."</p> - -<p>Michaelson decided he try.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>"No!" Maota's thought was prickled with fear and anger.</p> - -<p>Michaelson did not know how to try, but he remembered the cylinder and -gathered all the force of his mind in spite of Maota's protests, and -gave his most violent command.</p> - -<p>At first he thought it didn't work. He got up and looked around, then -it struck him. <i>He was standing up!</i></p> - -<p>The cylinder. He knew it was the cylinder. That was the difference -between himself and Maota. When he used the cylinder, that was where -he went, the place where Maota was now. It was a door of some kind, -leading to a path of some kind where distance was non-existent. But the -"clock" was a mechanism to transport only the mind to that place.</p> - -<p>To be certain of it, he pressed the button again, with the same result -as before. He saw his own body fall down. He felt Maota's presence.</p> - -<p>"You devil!" Maota's thought-scream was a sword of hate and anger, -irrational suddenly, like a person who knows his loss is irrevocable. -"I said you were a god. I said you were a god. <i>I said you were a -god...!</i>"</p> - - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of A City Near Centaurus, by Bill Doede - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A CITY NEAR CENTAURUS *** - -***** This file should be named 50802-h.htm or 50802-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/0/8/0/50802/ - -Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - -Title: A City Near Centaurus - -Author: Bill Doede - -Release Date: December 31, 2015 [EBook #50802] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ASCII - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A CITY NEAR CENTAURUS *** - - - - -Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net - - - - - - - - - - A CITY NEAR CENTAURUS - - By BILL DOEDE - - Illustrated by WEST - - [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from - Galaxy Magazine October 1962. - Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that - the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] - - - - - The city was sacred, but not to its gods. - Michaelson was a god--but far from sacred! - - -Crouched in the ancient doorway like an animal peering out from his -burrow, Mr. Michaelson saw the native. - -At first he was startled, thinking it might be someone else from the -Earth settlement who had discovered the old city before him. Then he -saw the glint of sun against the metallic skirt, and relaxed. - -He chuckled to himself, wondering with amusement what a webfooted man -was doing in an old dead city so far from his people. Some facts were -known about the people of Alpha Centaurus II. They were not actually -natives, he recalled. They were a colony from the fifth planet of -the system. They were a curious people. Some were highly intelligent, -though uneducated. - -He decided to ignore the man for the moment. He was far down the -ancient street, a mere speck against the sand. There would be plenty of -time to wonder about him. - -He gazed out from his position at the complex variety of buildings -before him. Some were small, obviously homes. Others were huge -with tall, frail spires standing against the pale blue sky. Square -buildings, ellipsoid, spheroid. Beautiful, dream-stuff bridges -connected tall, conical towers, bridges that still swung in the wind -after half a million years. Late afternoon sunlight shone against ebony -surfaces. The sands of many centuries had blown down the wide streets -and filled the doorways. Desert plants grew from roofs of smaller -buildings. - -Ignoring the native, Mr. Michaelson poked about among the ruins -happily, exclaiming to himself about some particular artifact, -marveling at its state of preservation, holding it this way and that to -catch the late afternoon sun, smiling, clucking gleefully. He crawled -over the rubble through old doorways half filled with the accumulation -of ages. He dug experimentally in the sand with his hands, like a dog, -under a roof that had weathered half a million years of rain and sun. -Then he crawled out again, covered with dust and cobwebs. - - * * * * * - -The native stood in the street less than a hundred feet away, waving -his arms madly. "Mr. Earthgod," he cried. "It is sacred ground where -you are trespassing!" - -The archeologist smiled, watching the man hurry closer. He was short, -even for a native. Long gray hair hung to his shoulders, bobbing up -and down as he walked. He wore no shoes. The toes of his webbed feet -dragged in the sand, making a deep trail behind him. He was an old man. - -"You never told us about this old dead city," Michaelson said, -chidingly. "Shame on you. But never mind. I've found it now. Isn't it -beautiful?" - -"Yes, beautiful. You will leave now." - -"Leave?" Michaelson asked, acting surprised as if the man were a -child. "I just got here a few hours ago." - -"You must go." - -"Why? Who are you?" - -"I am keeper of the city." - -"You?" Michaelson laughed. Then, seeing how serious the native was, -said, "What makes you think a dead city needs a keeper?" - -"The spirits may return." - -Michaelson crawled out of the doorway and stood up. He brushed his -trousers. He pointed. "See that wall? Built of some metal, I'd say, -some alloy impervious to rust and wear." - -"The spirits are angry." - -"Notice the inscriptions? Wind has blown sand against them for eons, -and rain and sleet. But their story is there, once we decipher it." - -"Leave!" - -The native's lined, weathered old face was working around the mouth in -anger. Michaelson was almost sorry he had mocked him. He was deadly -serious. - -"Look," he said. "No spirits are ever coming back here. Don't you know -that? And even if they did, spirits care nothing for old cities half -covered with sand and dirt." - -He walked away from the old man, heading for another building. The -sun had already gone below the horizon, coloring the high clouds. He -glanced backward. The webfoot was following. - -"Mr. Earthgod!" the webfoot cried, so sharply that Michaelson stopped. -"You must not touch, not walk upon, not handle. Your step may destroy -the home of some ancient spirit. Your breath may cause one iota of -change and a spirit may lose his way in the darkness. Go quickly now, -or be killed." - - * * * * * - -He turned and walked off, not looking back. - -Michaelson stood in the ancient street, tall, gaunt, feet planted wide, -hands in pockets, watching the webfoot until he was out of sight beyond -a huge circular building. There was a man to watch. There was one of -the intelligent ones. One look into the alert old eyes had told him -that. - -Michaelson shook his head, and went about satisfying his curiosity. -He entered buildings without thought of roofs falling in, or decayed -floors dropping from under his weight. He began to collect small items, -making a pile of them in the street. An ancient bowl, metal untouched -by the ages. A statue of a man, one foot high, correct to the minutest -detail, showing how identical they had been to Earthmen. He found books -still standing on ancient shelves but was afraid to touch them without -tools. - -Darkness came swiftly and he was forced out into the street. - -He stood there alone feeling the age of the place. Even the smell -of age was in the air. Silver moonlight from the two moons filtered -through clear air down upon the ruins. The city lay now in darkness, -dead and still, waiting for morning so it could lie dead and still in -the sun. - -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." - -"Do you mean," the old man asked, aghast, "that you want others to come -here? You know the city abhors the sound of alien voices. Those who -lived here may return one day! They must not find their city packaged -and preserved and laid out on shelves for the curious to breathe their -foul breaths upon. You will leave. Now!" - -"No." Michaelson was adamant. The rock of Gibraltar. - -Maota hit him, quickly, passionately, and dropped the weapon beside his -body. He turned swiftly, making a swirling mark in the sand with his -heel, and walked off toward the hills outside the city. - -The weapon he had used was an ancient book. Its paper-thin pages -rustled in the wind as if an unseen hand turned them, reading, while -Michaelson's blood trickled out from the head wound upon the ancient -street. - - * * * * * - -When he regained consciousness the two moons, bright sentinel orbs in -the night sky, had moved to a new position down their sliding path. Old -Maota's absence took some of the weirdness and fantasy away. It seemed -a more practical place now. - -The gash in his head was painful, throbbing with quick, short -hammer-blows synchronized with his heart beats. But there was a new -determination in him. If it was a fight that the old webfooted fool -wanted, a fight he would get. The cylinder flicked him, at his command, -across five hundred miles of desert and rocks to a small creek he -remembered. Here he bathed his head in cool water until all the caked -blood was dissolved from his hair. Feeling better, he went back. - -The wind had turned cool. Michaelson shivered, wishing he had brought -a coat. The city was absolutely still except for small gusts of wind -sighing through the frail spires. The ancient book still lay in the -sand beside the dark spot of blood. He stooped over and picked it up. - -It was light, much lighter than most Earth books. He ran a hand over -the binding. Smooth it was, untouched by time or climate. He squinted -at the pages, tilting the book to catch the bright moonlight, but the -writing was alien. He touched the page, ran his forefinger over the -writing. - -Suddenly he sprang back. The book fell from his hands. - -"God in heaven!" he exclaimed. - -He had heard a voice. He looked around at the old buildings, down the -length of the ancient street. Something strange about the voice. Not -Maota. Not his tones. Not his words. Satisfied that no one was near, he -stooped and picked up the book again. - -"Good God!" he said aloud. It was the book talking. His fingers had -touched the writing again. It was not a voice, exactly, but a stirring -in his mind, like a strange language heard for the first time. - -A talking book. What other surprises were in the city? Tall, -fragile buildings laughing at time and weather. A clock measuring -God-knows-what. If such wonders remained, what about those already -destroyed? One could only guess at the machines, the gadgets, the -artistry already decayed and blown away to mix forever with the sand. - -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?" - -"What does Mr. Earthgod mean, what _kind_ of book? You have seen it. It -is like any other book, except for the material and the fact that it -talks." - -"No, no. I mean, what's in it?" - -"Poetry." - -"Poetry? For God's sake, why poetry? Why not mathematics or history? -Why not tell how to make the metal of the book itself? Now there is a -subject worthy of a book." - -Maota shook his head. "One does not study a dead culture to learn how -they made things, but how they thought. But we are wasting time. I must -kill you now, so I can get some rest." - -The old man raised the gun. - - * * * * * - -"Wait! You forget that I also have a weapon." He pointed to the spot -behind his ear where the cylinder was buried. "I can move faster than -you can fire the gun." - -Maota nodded. "I have heard how you travel. It does not matter. I will -kill you anyway." - -"I suggest we negotiate." - -"No." - -"Why not?" - -Maota looked off toward the hills, old eyes filmed from years of sand -and wind, leather skin lined and pitted. The hills stood immobile, -brown-gray, already shimmering with heat, impotent. - -"Why not?" Michaelson repeated. - -"Why not what?" Maota dragged his eyes back. - -"Negotiate." - -"No." Maota's eyes grew hard as steel. They stood there in the sun, not -twenty feet apart, hating each other. The two moons, very pale and far -away on the western horizon, stared like two bottomless eyes. - -"All right, then. At least it's a quick death. I hear that thing just -disintegrates a man. Pfft! And that's that." - -Michaelson prepared himself to move if the old man's finger slid closer -toward the firing stud. The old man raised the gun. - -"Wait!" - -"Now what?" - -"At least read some of the book to me before I die, then." - -The gun wavered. "I am not an unreasonable man," the webfoot said. - -Michaelson stepped forward, extending his arm with the book. - -"No, stay where you are. Throw it." - -"This book is priceless. You just don't go throwing such valuable items -around." - -"It won't break. Throw it." - -Michaelson threw the book. It landed at Maota's feet, spouting sand -against his leg. He shifted the weapon, picked up the book and leafed -through it, raising his head in a listening attitude, searching for -a suitable passage. Michaelson heard the thin, metallic pages rustle -softly. He could have jumped and seized the weapon at that moment, but -his desire to hear the book was strong. - - * * * * * - -Old Maota read, Michaelson listened. The cadence was different, the -syntax confusing. But the thoughts were there. It might have been -a professor back on Earth reading to his students. Keats, Shelley, -Browning. These people were human, with human thoughts and aspirations. - -The old man stopped reading. He squatted slowly, keeping Michaelson in -sight, and laid the book face up in the sand. Wind moved the pages. - -"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. - -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." - -Maota went inside. Michaelson stood in the entrance and looked around. -The room was clean, furnished with hand made chairs and a bed. Who is -this old man, he thought, far from his people, living alone, choosing -a life of solitude among ancient ruins but not touching them? Above -the bed a "clock" was fastened to the wall, Michaelson remembered his -fright--thinking of the warmth where warmth should not be. - -Maota pointed to it. - -"You asked about this machine," he said. "Now I will tell you." He laid -his hand against it. "Here is power to follow another direction." - - * * * * * - -Michaelson tested one of the chairs to see if it would hold his weight, -then sat down. His curiosity about the instrument was colossal, but he -forced a short laugh. "Maota, you _are_ complex. Why not stop all this -mystery nonsense and tell me about it? You know more about it than I." - -"Of course." Maota smiled a toothless, superior smile. "What do you -suppose happened to this race?" - -"You tell me." - -"They took the unknown direction. The books speak of it. I don't know -how the instrument works, but one thing is certain. The race did not -die out, as a species becomes extinct." - -Michaelson was amused, but interested. "Something like a fourth -dimension?" - -"I don't know. I only know that with this instrument there is no death. -I have read the books that speak of this race, this wonderful people -who conquered all disease, who explored all the mysteries of science, -who devised this machine to cheat death. See this button here on the -face of the instrument? Press the button, and...." - -"And what?" - -"I don't know, exactly. But I have lived many years. I have walked the -streets of this city and wondered, and wanted to press the button. Now -I will do so." - -Quickly the old man, still smiling, pressed the button. A high-pitched -whine filled the air, just within audio range. Steady for a moment, it -then rose in pitch passing beyond hearing quickly. - -The old man's knees buckled. He sank down, fell over the bed, lay -still. Michaelson touched him cautiously, then examined him more -carefully. No question about it. - -The old man was dead. - - * * * * * - -Feeling depressed and alone, Michaelson found a desert knoll outside -the city overlooking the tall spires that shone in the sunlight and -gleamed in the moonlight. He made a stretcher, rolled the old man's -body on to it and dragged it down the long ancient street and up the -knoll. - -Here he buried him. - -But it seemed a waste of time. Somehow he knew beyond any doubt that -the old native and his body were completely disassociated in some sense -more complete than death. - -In the days that followed he gave much thought to the "clock." He came -to the city every day. He spent long hours in the huge square building -with the books. He learned the language by sheer bulldog determination. -Then he searched the books for information about the instrument. - -Finally after many weeks, long after the winds had obliterated all -evidence of Maota's grave on the knoll, Michaelson made a decision. He -had to know if the machine would work for him. - -And so one afternoon when the ancient spires threw long shadows -over the sand he walked down the long street and entered the old -man's house. He stood before the instrument, trembling, afraid, but -determined. He pinched his eyes shut tight like a child and pressed the -button. - -The high-pitched whine started. - -Complete, utter silence. Void. Darkness. Awareness and memory, yes; -nothing else. Then Maota's chuckle came. No sound, an impression only -like the voice from the ancient book. Where was he? There was no left -or right, up or down. Maota was everywhere, nowhere. - -"Look!" Maota's thought was directed at him in this place of no -direction. "Think of the city and you will see it." - -Michaelson did, and he saw the city beyond, as if he were looking -through a window. And yet he was in the city looking at his own body. - -Maota's chuckle again. "The city will remain as it is. You did not win -after all." - -"Neither did you." - -"But this existence has compensations," Maota said. "You can be -anywhere, see anywhere on this planet. Even on your Earth." - -Michaelson felt a great sadness, seeing his body lying across the -old, home made bed. He looked closer. He sensed a vibration or life -force--he didn't stop to define it--in his body. Why was his dead body -different from Old Maota's? Could it be that there was some thread -stretching from the reality of his body to his present state? - -"I don't like your thoughts," Maota said. "No one can go back. I tried. -I have discussed it with many who are not presently in communication -with you. No one can go back." - -Michaelson decided he try. - - * * * * * - -"No!" Maota's thought was prickled with fear and anger. - -Michaelson did not know how to try, but he remembered the cylinder and -gathered all the force of his mind in spite of Maota's protests, and -gave his most violent command. - -At first he thought it didn't work. He got up and looked around, then -it struck him. _He was standing up!_ - -The cylinder. He knew it was the cylinder. That was the difference -between himself and Maota. When he used the cylinder, that was where -he went, the place where Maota was now. It was a door of some kind, -leading to a path of some kind where distance was non-existent. But the -"clock" was a mechanism to transport only the mind to that place. - -To be certain of it, he pressed the button again, with the same result -as before. He saw his own body fall down. He felt Maota's presence. - -"You devil!" Maota's thought-scream was a sword of hate and anger, -irrational suddenly, like a person who knows his loss is irrevocable. -"I said you were a god. I said you were a god. _I said you were a -god...!_" - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of A City Near Centaurus, by Bill Doede - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A CITY NEAR CENTAURUS *** - -***** This file should be named 50802.txt or 50802.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/0/8/0/50802/ - -Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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