Slowly the globe with its trailing tentacles moved about the room. It whined hungrily when it found the batteries. It hovered above them and the silky wires fanned out. Then it darted down. The wires felt over the batteries and their connections—softly—eagerly. The whine changed to a purr of enjoyment. The thing fed. And slowly the pointer upon the volt-meter moved over to zero.
Nea raised a tiny whistle to her mouth. There was no sound, but the copper-studded globe seemed to hear. It raised itself back into the air. The silken wires wrapped themselves about the round body. It came back to Nea—slowly—almost defiantly—and settled into her arms like a plump cat returning to a doting mistress.
Nea pressed the button again and put it back into its case.
“Wonderful,” Ato applauded. “I move that we give Nea a vote of thanks.”
“But what earthly good is it?” Gunnar asked. “I could have swatted it with a broom.”
“And you would have died.” Nea turned upon him like a tigress. “It feeds upon electricity and it can discharge a lightning bolt. Don’t you see? There are few weapons that can resist it. But that is not all. In your own brain, Gunnar, there is a charge of electricity. It may be the only real life that you have within you. This can take it all away. That was why I asked for a live thing to demonstrate—”
The grizzled Bron who had spoken once before now laughed good-humoredly. “Demonstrate it on Gunnar,” he suggested.
“And I will thump your skull—” Gunnar was ready to go for him, but Odin grabbed the little giant’s arm.
“He jokes. Besides, you are ruining the girl’s show. This means much to her.”