The sun dropped against the water, and now Ulan Dhor, with a sudden shock, noticed the crumble at the base of the towers; here was his expectation, as much desolation as Kandive had predicted. Strangely the fact gave Ampridatvir an added majesty, the dignity of a lost monument.

The wind had slackened, the progress of boat and barge was slow indeed. The fishermen betrayed anxiety, muttering to each other, adjusting their sail to draw its best, tightening their stays. But before they drifted inside the breakwater, purple twilight had dropped across the city, and the towers became tremendous black monoliths.

In near-darkness they tied to a landing of logs, among other barges, some painted green, others gray.

Ulan Dhor jumped up to the dock. "A moment," said the younger fisherman, eyeing Ulan Dhor's red coat. "It would be unwise to dress thus, even at night." He rummaged through a box and brought forth a green cape, ragged and smelling of fish. "Wear this, and hold the hood over your black hair ..."

Ulan Dhor obeyed with a private grimace of distaste. He asked,

"Where may I sup and bed tonight? Are there inns or hostels in Ampridatvir?"

The younger man said without enthusiasm, "You may pass the night at my hall."

The fishermen slung the day's catch over their shoulders, climbed to the dock, and peered anxiously through the rubble.

"You are ill at ease," observed Ulan Dhor.

"Aye," said the younger man. "At night the Gauns roam the streets."

"What are the Gauns?"

"Demons."

'There are many varieties of demons," Ulan Dhor said lightly. "What be these?"

"They are like horrible men. They have great long arms that clutch and rend ..."

"Ho!" muttered Ulan Dhor, feeling for his sword hilt. "Why do you permit them abroad?"

"We cannot harm them. They are fierce and strong— but fortunately not too agile. With luck and watchfulness .. ."

Ulan Dhor now searched the rubble with an expression as careful as the fishermen's. These people were familiar with the dangers of the place; he would obey their counsel until he knew better.

They threaded the first tumble of ruins, entered a canyon shadowed from the afterglow by the pinnacles to either side, brimming with gloom.

Deadness! thought Ulan Dhor. The place was under the pall of dusty death. Where were the active millions of long ago Ampridatvir? Dead dust, their moisture mingled in the ocean, beside that of every other man and woman who had lived on Earth.

Ulan Dhor and the two fishermen moved down the avenue, pygmy figures wandering a dream-city, and Ulan Dhor looked coldly from side to side . . . Prince Kandive the Golden had spoken truth. Ampridatvir was the very definition of antiquity. The windows gaped black, concrete had cracked, balconies hung crazily, terraces were mounded with dust.

Debris filled the streets—blocks of stone from fallen columns, crushed and battered metal.

But Ampridatvir still moved with a weird unending life where the builders had used ageless substance, eternal energies. Strips of a dark glistening material flowed like water at each side of the street—slowly at the edges, rapidly at the center.