The end of a quest, indeed. The bitter end.
Sickness came to Haral.
Yet because he was the man he was, such a mood could not last long even here, even now. Thoughtfully, he gazed about—taking in the vaulted roof; the walls, honeycombed with coleopteran burrows; the expressions with which Sark's mongrel crewmen tried to mask their awe.
Above all, he looked upon the woman.
Sark's eyes, too, were gleaming. Drawn as by some mighty lodestone, he sent his riding-chair scudding forward to the dais on which the globe encasing the sleeping goddess rested. His web-fingered hand reached out to touch the crystal.
Then, abruptly, he halted. Slowly, he withdrew his hand and wheeled the chair about. His eyes sought Haral, and his lips parted in a leer.
He said: "Ulna has little love for strangers, chitza."
Haral said nothing.
"Perhaps they thought to trap a few with this pretty bauble," the raider chief remarked. His smile was sinister. "Perhaps Namboina told the things he told too easily, in order that he might laugh in hell because I, too, had died."
Haral shrugged. "You talk in circles, starbo."