"No, no. There is another direction. Come, if you must see."
Michaelson followed him far down the street. They came to a section of the city he had not seen before. Buildings were smaller, spires dwarfed against larger structures. Here a path was packed in the sand, leading to a particular building.
Michaelson said, "This is where you live?"
"Yes."
Maota went inside. Michaelson stood in the entrance and looked around. The room was clean, furnished with hand made chairs and a bed. Who is this old man, he thought, far from his people, living alone, choosing a life of solitude among ancient ruins but not touching them? Above the bed a "clock" was fastened to the wall, Michaelson remembered his fright—thinking of the warmth where warmth should not be.
Maota pointed to it.
"You asked about this machine," he said. "Now I will tell you." He laid his hand against it. "Here is power to follow another direction."
Michaelson tested one of the chairs to see if it would hold his weight, then sat down. His curiosity about the instrument was colossal, but he forced a short laugh. "Maota, you are complex. Why not stop all this mystery nonsense and tell me about it? You know more about it than I."
"Of course." Maota smiled a toothless, superior smile. "What do you suppose happened to this race?"