Guyal threw back his shoulders and spoke in a nervous voice. “Ah, well — the Museum of Man has been my goal for many years. On this motive I set forth from Sfere, so now I would seek the Curator and satisfy my obsession for brainfilling.”
“You are blessed with great fortune,” said Shierl, “for you are being granted your heart’s desire.”
Guyal could find nothing to say, so for a space they walked in silence. Then he spoke. “Shierl.”
“Yes, Guyal of Sfere?”
“Do they separate us and take us apart?”
“I do not know.”
“Shierl.”
“Yes?”
“Had we met under a happier star …” He paused.
Shierl walked in silence.
He looked at her coolly. “You speak not.”
“But you ask nothing,” she said in surprise. Guyal turned his face ahead, to the Museum of Man.
Presently she touched his arm. “Guyal, I am greatly frightened.”
Guyal gazed at the ground beneath his feet, and a blossom of fire sprang alive in his brain. “See the marking through the lichen?”
“Yes; what then?”
“Is it a trail?”
Dubiously she responded, “It is a way worn by the passage of many feet. So then — it is a trail.”
Guyal said in restrained jubilation, “Here is safety, if I never permit myself to be cozened from the way. But you — ah, I must guard you; you must never leave my side, you must swim in the charm which protects me; perhaps then we will survive.”
Shierl said sadly, “Let us not delude our reason, Guyal of Sfere.”
But as they walked, the trail grew plainer, and Guyal became correspondingly sanguine. And ever larger bulked the crumble which marked the Museum of Man, presently to occupy all their vision.
If a storehouse of knowledge had existed here, little sign of it remained. There was a great flat floor, flagged in white stone, now chalky, broken and inter-thrust by weeds. Around this floor rose a series of monoliths, pocked and worn, and toppled off at various heights. These at one time had supported a vast roof; now of roof there was none and the walls were but dreams of the far past.
So here was the flat floor bounded by the broken stumps of pillars, bare to the winds of time and the glare of cool red sun. The rains had washed the marble, the dust from the mountains had been laid on and swept off, laid on and swept off, and those who had built the Museum were less than a mote of this dust, so far and forgotten were they.
“Think,” said Guyal, “think of the vastness of knowledge which once was gathered here and which is now one with the soil — unless, of course, the Curator has salvaged and preserved.”
Shierl looked about apprehensively. “I think rather of the portal, and that which awaits us … Guyal,” she whispered, “I fear, I fear greatly … Suppose they tear us apart? Suppose there is torture and death for us? I fear a tremendous impingement, the shock of horror …”
Guyal’s own throat was hot and full. He looked about with challenge. “While I still breathe and hold power in my arms to fight, there will be none to harm us.”
Shierl groaned softly. “Guyal, Guyal, Guyal of Sfere — why did you choose me?”
“Because,” said Guyal, “my eye went to you like the nectar moth flits to the jacynth; because you were the loveliest and I thought nothing but good in store for you.”
With a shuddering breath Shierl said, “I must be courageous; after all, if it were not I it would be some other maid equally fearful … And there is the portal.”
Guyal inhaled deeply, inclined his head, and strode forward. “Let us be to it, and know …”
The portal opened into a nearby monolith, a door of flat black metal. Guyal followed the trail to the door, and rapped staunchly with his fist on the small copper gong to the side.
The door groaned wide on its hinges, and cool air, smelling of the under-earth, billowed forth. In the black gape their eyes could find nothing.
“Hola within!” cried Guyal.
A soft voice, full of catches and quavers, as if just after weeping, said, “Come ye, come ye forward. You are desired and awaited.”
Guyal leaned his head forward, straining to see. “Give us light, that we may not wander from the trail and bottom ourselves.”
The breathless quaver of a voice said, “Light is not needed; anywhere you step, that will be your trail, by an arrangement so agreed with the Way-Maker.”
“No,” said Guyal, “we would see the visage of our host. We come at his invitation; the minimum of his guest-offering is light; light there must be before we set foot inside the dungeon. Know we come as seekers after knowledge; we are visitors to be honored.”
“Ah, knowledge, knowledge,” came the sad breathlessness. “That shall be yours, in full plentitude — knowledge of many strange affairs; oh, you shall swim in a tide of knowledge —”
Guyal interrupted the sad, sighing voice. “Are you the Curator? Hundreds of leagues have I come to bespeak the Curator and put him my inquiries. Are you he?”
“By no means. I revile the name of the Curator as a treacherous non-essential.”
“Who then may you be?”
