“Nothing like the work of getting to it. The roof hasn’t fallen.”
“I’ll be surprised if it hasn’t,” Hi said, “with the weight of the trees growing on it.”
“The roof can’t fall,” the man said. “These builders couldn’t vault a roof. That is why this place is so narrow. The roof is of slabs of stone laid upon balks of stone. It’s as strong as a hill. It is all enormous walls, with narrow rooms inside them. There’s a certain amount of mess inside, of course: these tropics sprout like sewage, but it can be easily cleared: that is, fairly easily.”
“It would be interesting work,” Hi said, “to get inside and see what it’s like.”
“Interesting? I believe you,” the man said. “This place was built by the Quetzals, whoever they may have been. They had a picture writing of sorts and kept a history in it. They’ve got rolls of their history in Santa Barb’; people have been deciphering it. Nothing much is known of them yet, for they were gone before the Spaniards came. Now I’ve reason to believe that this place is the great temple of the Quetzals; the Temple of the sun, or the Temple of Gold. It was a legend when the Spaniards came, as I expect you know: they heard of it: they often looked for it, but they never found it; the forest fever saw to that. Except by a sort of miracle no one could have found it. The Quetzals were a great race: you’ll see their cities up in Melchior; but the fever came in and wiped them out. I believe that this old god-shop is bung full of gold.”
“What gold?” Hi asked.
“Gold of offerings.”
“That would be exciting.”
“The Sacramento would be a fool to it.”
“Do you know that they offered gold?”