"No." Michaelson looked off down the street, trying to ignore the native, trying to feel the life of the city as it might have been.
"You are sensitive," the native said in his ear. "It takes a sensitive god to feel the spirits moving in the houses and walking in these old streets."
"Say it any way you want to. This is the most fascinating thing I've ever seen. The Inca's treasure, the ruins of Pompeii, Egyptian tombs—none can hold a candle to this."
"Mr. Earthgod...."
"Don't call me that. I'm not a god, and you know it."
The old man shrugged. "It is not an item worthy of dispute. Those names you mention, are they the names of gods?"
He chuckled. "In a way, yes. What is your name?"
"Maota."
"You must help me, Maota. These things must be preserved. We'll build a museum, right here in the street. No, over there on the hill just outside the city. We'll collect all the old writings and perhaps we may decipher them. Think of it, Maota! To read pages written so long ago and think their thoughts. We'll put everything under glass. Build and evacuate chambers to stop the decay. Catalogue, itemize...."