Her rose quartz pedestal sat atop a five-foot-high solid block of Brazilian rosewood. The missing heart had been replaced by one crafted out of crimson glass that almost matched the splendor of the original ruby.
Throngs of people stared in wonder at the dazzling sight. A line stretched outside the gallery by the mall for nearly a quarter of a mile. La Dorada even surpassed the attendance record for the King Tut artifacts.
Every dignitary in the capital appeared to pay homage. The President and his wife escorted Hilda Kronberg-LeBaron to the preopening viewing. She sat in her wheelchair, a content old lady with sparkling eyes who smiled and smiled as the President honored the two men in her past with a short dedication speech. When he lifted her out of her chair so she could touch the statue, there wasn't a dry eye in the house.
"Strange," Jessie murmured, "when you think about how it all began with the shipwreck of the Cyclops and ended on the shipwreck of the Maine."
"Only for us," Pitt said distantly. "For her it began four hundred years ago in a Brazilian jungle."
"Hard to imagine such a thing of beauty has caused so many deaths."
He wasn't listening and didn't reply.
She flashed a curious look at him. He was staring intently at the statue, his mind lost in another time, another place.
"Rich the treasure, sweet the pleasure," she quoted.
He slowly turned and looked at her, his eyes refocusing on the present. The spell was broken. "I'm sorry," he said.
Jessie couldn't help smiling. "When are you going to give it a try?"
"Try?"
"Rush off to search for La Dorada's lost city?"
"No need to rush," Pitt replied, suddenly laughing. "It's not going anywhere."
Clive Cussler, Cyclops
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