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 hisburrow, Mr. Michaelson saw the native.
At first he was startled, thinking it might be someone else from theEarth settlement who had discovered the old city before him. Then hesaw the glint of sun against the metallic skirt, and relaxed.
He chuckled to himself, wondering with amusement what a webfooted manwas doing in an old dead city so far from his people. Some facts wereknown about the people of Alpha Centaurus II. They were not actuallynatives, he recalled. They were a colony from the fifth planet ofthe 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 theancient street, a mere speck against the sand. There would be plenty oftime to wonder about him.
He gazed out from his position at the complex variety of buildingsbefore him. Some were small, obviously homes. Others were hugewith tall, frail spires standing against the pale blue sky. Squarebuildings, ellipsoid, spheroid. Beautiful, dream-stuff bridgesconnected tall, conical towers, bridges that still swung in the windafter half a million years. Late afternoon sunlight shone against ebonysurfaces. The sands of many centuries had blown down the wide streetsand filled the doorways. Desert plants grew from roofs of smallerbuildings.
Ignoring the native, Mr. Michaelson poked about among the ruinshappily, exclaiming to himself about some particular artifact,marveling at its state of preservation, holding it this way and that tocatch the late afternoon sun, smiling, clucking gleefully. He crawledover the rubble through old doorways half filled with the accumulationof 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, wavinghis arms madly. "Mr. Earthgod," he cried. "It is sacred ground whereyou 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 upand down as he walked. He wore no shoes. The toes of his webbed feetdragged 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 itbeautiful?"
"Yes, beautiful. You will leave now."
"Leave?" Michaelson asked, acting surprised as if the man were achild. "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 histrousers. 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 s