"One of the black pools!" whispered Angus.
Through the luminescent bubble he could see only blackness, a jet nothingness that seemed alive.
A step sounded on the metal flagging behind him.
Angus whirled.
A man stood there, leaning on a bent staff, smiling gently. He was clad in a loose woolen garment, white as falling snow. His arms and legs were bare and brown. His face, though lined and creased, seemed almost youthful.
"I have waited many years," he said softly, "and no one ever came. Now—at last—there is someone who has found the city. Welcome. I bid you welcome to the Tower of the Ancients!"
"Stasor!" cried Angus in sudden recognition.
"The Stasor you know, yes. One of my race is chosen to spend a hundred years as Guardian of the City, to wait for any who might come to seek its treasures. You are the first who ever found it."
Angus said, "A lifetime of loneliness. Are we worth it?"