“If the temple is deserted,” asked Ulan Dhor dryly, “why has not some man taken the tablet?”

She shrugged and looked vaguely into space. “We believe that it is guarded by ghosts … At any rate, sometimes a man in red is found raiding Cazdal’s temple also, whereupon he is killed. A man in red is therefore everybody’s enemy, and every hand is turned against him.”

Ulan Dhor rose to his feet and wrapped himself in the gray robe the girl had brought.

“What are your plans?” she asked, rising quickly.

“I wish to look upon the tablets of Rogol Domedonfors, both in Cazdal’s Temple and in Pansiu’s.”

She shook her head. “Impossible. Cazdal’s Temple is forbidden to all but the venerable priests, and Pansiu’s Temple is guarded by ghosts.”

Ulan Dhor grinned. “If you’ll show me where the temples are situated …”

She said, “I’ll go with you … But you must remain wrapped in the cloak, or it will go badly for both of us.”

They stepped out into the sunlight. The square was dotted with slow-moving groups of men and women. Some wore green, others wore gray, and Ulan Dhor saw that there was no intercourse between the two. Greens paused by little green-painted booths selling fish, leather, fruit, meal, pottery, baskets. Grays bought from identical shops which were painted gray. He saw two groups of children, one in green rags, the other in gray, playing ten feet apart, acknowledging each other by not so much as a glance. A ball of tied rags rolled from the Gray children into the scuffling group of Greens. A Gray child ran over, picked up the ball from under the feet of a Green child, and neither took the slightest notice of the other.

“Strange,” muttered Ulan Dhor. “Strange.”

“What’s strange?” inquired Elai. “I see nothing strange …”

“Look,” said Ulan Dhor, “by that pillar. Do you see that man in the green cloak?”

She glanced at him in puzzlement. “There is no man there.”

“There is a man there,” said Ulan Dhor. “Look again.”

She laughed. “You are joking … or can you see ghosts?”

Ulan Dhor shook his head in defeat. “You are the victims of some powerful magic.”

She led him to one of the flowing roadways; as they were carried through the city he noticed a boat-shaped hull built of bright metal with four wheels and a transparent-domed compartment.

He pointed. “What is that?”

“It is a magic car. When a certain lever is pressed the wizardry of the older times gives it great speed. Rash young men ride them along the streets … See there,” and she pointed to a somewhat similar hull toppled into the basin of a long, dry fountain. “That is another one of the ancient wonders — a craft with the power to fly through the air. There are many of them scattered through the city — on the towers, on high terraces, and sometimes, like this one, fallen into the streets.”

“And no one flies them?” asked Ulan Dhor curiously.

“We are all afraid.”

Ulan Dhor thought, what a marvel to own one of these air-cars! He stepped off the flowing road.

“Where are you going?” asked Elai anxiously, coming after him.

“I wish to examine one of these air-cars.”

“Be careful, Ulan Dhor. They are said to be dangerous …”

Ulan Dhor peered through the transparent dome, saw a cushioned seat, a series of little levers inscribed with characters strange to him and a large knurled ball mounted on a metal rod.

He said to the girl, “Those are evidently the guides to the mechanism … How does one enter such a car?”

She said doubtfully, “This button will perhaps release the dome.” She pressed a knob; the dome snapped back, releasing a puff of stagnant air.

“Now,” said Ulan Dhor, “I will experiment.” He reached within, turned down a switch. Nothing happened.

“Be careful, Ulan Dhor!” breathed the girl. “Beware of magic!”

Ulan Dhor twisted a knob. The car quivered. He touched another lever. The boat made a curious whining sound, jerked. The dome began to settle. Ulan Dhor snatched back his arm. The dome snapped into place over a fold of his gray cloak. The boat jerked again, made a sudden movement, and Ulan Dhor was dragged willy-nilly after.

Elai cried out, seized his ankles. Cursing, Ulan Dhor dropped out of his cloak, watched while the air-boat took a wild uncontrolled curvet, crashed against the side of a tower. It fell with another clang of colliding metal and stone.

“Next time,” said Ulan Dhor, “I will …”

He became aware of a strange pressure in the air. He turned. Elai was staring at him, hand against her mouth, eyes screwed up as if she were repressing a scream.

Ulan Dhor glanced around the streets. The slowly moving people, Grays and Greens, had vanished. The streets were empty.

“Elai,” said Ulan Dhor, “why do you look at me like that?”

“The red, in daylight — and the color of Pansiu on your legs — it is our death, our death!”

“By no means,” said Ulan Dhor cheerfully. “Not while I wear my sword and …”

A stone, coming from nowhere, crashed into the ground at his feet. He looked right and left for his assailant, nostrils flaring in anger.

In vain. The doorways, the arcades, the porticos were bare and empty.

Another stone, large as his fist, struck him between the shoulder-blades. He sprang around and saw only the crumbled facade of ancient Ampridatvir, the empty street, the glistening gliding strip.

A stone hissed six inches from Elai’s head, and at the same instant another struck his thigh.

Ulan Dhor recognized defeat. He could not fight stones with his sword. “We had better retreat …” He ducked a great paving block that would have split his skull.

“Back to the strip,” the girl said in a dull and helpless voice. “We can take refuge across the square.” A stone, looping idly down, struck her cheek; she cried in pain and fell to her knees.

Ulan Dhor snarled like an animal and sought men to kill. But no living person, man, woman, or child, was visible, though the stones continued to hurtle at his head.

He stooped, picked up Elai and ran to the swift central flow of the strip.

The rain of stones presently halted. The girl opened her eyes, winced, and shut them again. “Everything whirls,” she whispered. “I have gone mad. Almost I might think —”

Ulan Dhor thought to recognize the tower where he had spent the night. He stepped off the strip and approached the portico. He was wrong; a crystal plane barred him the tower. As he hesitated, it melted at a spot directly in front of him and formed a doorway. Ulan Dhor stared wonderingly. Further magic of the ancient builders.

It was impersonal magic, and harmless. Ulan Dhor stepped through. The doorway dwindled, fused, and became clear crystal behind him.

The hall was bare and cold, though the walls were rich with colored metals and gorgeous enamel. A mural decorated one wall — men and women in flowing clothes were depicted tending flowers in gardens curiously bright and sunny, playing airy games, dancing.