A mass of valves and tubes and coils of unfamiliar pattern were mounted high inside the bubble. To one side, a cord like a bell-pull hung nearly to the floor.
But Haral gave the equipment scant heed. He had eyes only for the woman known as Xaymar.
Her body gleamed smooth and sleek in this eerie light—voluptuous, lithe-limbed, perfect. Motionless, naked save for the short, jeweled veil that masked the top half of her face against a nimbus of jet-black hair, she lay like some lovely manikin, frozen in a sleep as deep as death itself. Yet, somehow, there was a warmth and texture to her skin that seemed to reach out even through the crystal; a melding of curves and hollows that cried out that once she, too, had been alive.
And might still live!
The blue man sucked in air. Pivoting, he studied the panel set in the great globe's base.
The switch was there, just as Kyla had described it.
And the secret prayer, the call to waken—?
Only the soul of dead Namboina could chant it now.
Haral clutched the lever. Then, stiff with tension, he jammed it shut.
Seconds crept by on leaden feet. He felt a lone drop of icy sweat slide down his spine.