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.