In half a minute he had secured it and
was holding the map under her eyes. Her little forefinger touched
Copenhagen. Leaning over her shoulder, he felt her hair crumpling
against his breast. He felt an insane desire to bury his face in
it and hug her up close in his arms--for a single moment the
question of whether she came from Copenhagen or the moon was
irrelevant and of little consequence. He, at least, had found her.
He was digging her out of chaos, and he was filled with the joyous
exultation of a triumphant discoverer--almost the thrill of
ownership. He held his breath as he watched the little forefinger
telling him its story on the map.
From Copenhagen it went to Moscow--which must have been Muskvas,
and from there it trailed slowly to St. Petersburg and thence
straight across Russia and Siberia to Bering Sea.
"Skunnert," she said softly, and her finger came across to the
green patch on the map which was Alaska.
It hesitated there. Evidently it was a question in her own mind
where she had gone after that.
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