“That Piper is a smart lad,” Gunnar whispered. “He knows what he wants. He’ll go far—maybe.”
They approached. Odin knew that four guards were stationed here at all times. They were all gone. The two went in, Gunnar turned on a little flash.
Had there been time, Odin might have grudgingly given Grim Hagen a few kind words for the work he had done and the tribute he had paid Maya. The best of a planet’s treasures and art had been brought here. But all he could see was Maya, lying upon a golden, diamond-set couch. A silk embroidered coverlet was drawn over her, and it too seemed to have been spun from moonbeams. She looked no older. Odin could see no sign of breath. But he touched her hand and it was warm. He knelt beside her.
“Here,” Gunnar handed him the light. “Hold this while I get busy. Here now, Nors-King. No blubbering.”
He opened his buckskin bag and took out the last of its treasures—a small hypodermic case. He filled the hypodermic from a little vial that glittered in the light of the lamp. “Turn the light upon her forearm, now,” he instructed.
Gunnar slowly counted to sixty after he had given her the shot. Maya’s breasts moved. She sighed and raised a hand to her dark curls. Then her eyes opened—in fear and wonder as a child opens its eyes in a strange place.
Then her vision cleared and she recognized them.
“Jack—Gunnar—” she gasped. Then she was in Odin’s arms. And Gunnar, the strong one, was standing over them—sniffling.
It was one of those moments that seem to last forever. And then it was over and she drew her hand through his light hair, “What happened? Where are we? I dreamed the strangest dreams.”