When he came to, Kelly was holding his head cradled in her lap. She had moistened a cloth with her saliva and was using it as a washcloth on his face. Feeling him stir, she bent over and kissed him passionately, their lips almost bruising each other, her long blond hair folding around their faces like a tent.

“I thought you would be killed,” she whispered, her eyes shiny in the dancing flamelight.

“So did I,” he said.

“You were wonderful,” she said and tried to smile, but it didn’t come off. She stared blankly into the darkness.

The Scorpion didn’t say anything.

“It’s not your fault. You were going so well. It’s just lousy luck.”

He didn’t say anything.

She held his hands in her own and looking at the battered fingers her eyes began to fill with tears.

“Poor hands. Poor poor hands,” she said. She lifted his hands to her mouth and kissed them tenderly. He winced and she quickly put them down.

“My hands are all right. Don’t worry about my hands. I’m not a concert violinist,” he snapped.

“You never let anyone get close, do you?” Kelly said. There was a tremble in her voice.

“I can’t afford to. There’s no time.”

“Then you can’t afford not to,” she retorted.

He smiled, but it changed to a grimace of pain as he tried to get up. She pulled him back to the warm comfort of her lap.

“How long have I been out?” he asked.

“Just a few seconds.”

He tried to struggle up but she held him back.

“Easy. Rest first. You’re exhausted. Just relax for a minute,” she soothed.

“I can’t.”

“Why not? There’s lots of time.”

“No. If I don’t get up now I’m not sure I ever will. Every bit of me doesn’t want to move, so I know I should. Besides, there is no time. King Salim’s being tortured right now. If he gives in and abdicates, we’ll be too late. Abdul Sa’ad will have won,” he said and rolled over on to his hands and knees. Groaning in pain like a wounded animal, he crawled on all fours back to the wall.

Using the wall for support, he somehow pulled himself slowly and awkwardly erect, like a creature who had never walked before.

“Where’s the chisel?” he demanded.

“Here,” she said and sifting through the sand, grabbed at the black stone shard.

“But it’s broken,” she said, handing it to him.

He examined the blade in the shadowy light. The blade had snapped in two almost in the middle, leaving a jagged edge. The Scorpion fingered the broken edge thoughtfully. It was razor sharp.

“Might even be better,” he rasped. He studied it in the lamplight.

“It’s odd, isn’t it? The fate of nations in the Atomic Age hanging on a stone-age implement,” he said.