A deserted floor stretched before him, shadowed by the late-afternoon darkness which crept down from the mountains to rest on the aged remains of the city.  Forty feet down the walkway he saw stairs descending, but his head swam and all he could focus on clearly was the light film of dust and sand which covered even this topmost level of the city, blown in shallow drifts against the walls which rose a few feet above the floor here.  There were no footprints in that dust; no one had walked here for thousands of years.

Wearily, he pulled himself over the last barrier and fell numbly to the floor, where he lay for long minutes fighting for breath.  His lungs were raw; the thin air of the planet caught and rasped in his throat.  His hands were torn and bleeding, and the knife-scar over his right eye had begun to throb, but he ignored the pain.  He had to clear his head....

Eventually he was able to stand, swaying beneath the dark sky.  Below him he saw the city, broken and dim, empty streets winding between fallen walls and pillars.  Mara’s flyer lay shattered against one of those broken walls; seeing it, he wondered how badly she had been hurt.

He moved toward the stairs, and descended them slowly.  The stairs of the city were as he had remembered them from Tebron’s memories, and yet not the same.  To the Earthman they were steep:  the steps were like separate levels, three feet across and almost four feet deep.  His legs ached at each step as the shock of his weight fell on them.

He reached the bottom level and paused in the doorway onto the street.  It was empty, but he had to think a moment before he could remember his bearings.  Yes, the Temple was that way, somewhere down the dusty street.  He moved through the deeper shadows at the base of the buildings, remembering.

Tebron had taken this city at the head of a force of warriors.  To him it had been large and majestic, a place of power and knowledge.  But Rynason, moving wearily through the dust of the ages which had fallen upon the city since the ancient king, found it not merely large, but huge; not majestic, but futile.  And the power and knowledge which it once had held was but a dusty shadow now.  Somewhere ahead, in the Temple, the survivors of that ages-old culture were trying to bring the city to life again.  With or without the Outsiders, he felt, they must fail.  They really wanted to bring themselves back to life, to reawaken their minds, their dreams, their own power.  But they tried to do it with memories, and that was not the way.

No one was guarding the Temple.  Rynason went up the steps as quickly as he could, vaulting from level to level, trying to stay in the shadows, listening for movement.  But sounds did not carry far in the air of Hirlaj; the aliens would not hear him approaching, but he might not hear any of them either until he stumbled upon them.

At the top of the stairs he darted into the shadows of the colonnade which surrounded the interior.  Doorways opened at intervals of fifty feet around the building; he would have to circle to the side and enter there if at all.  He slipped quickly between the columns and paused at the third doorway.  He dropped to the floor, lay flat on his chest and looked inside.