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."