Pyramid Scheme

  Jerry grinned. "Good thing you weren't smoking!"

  Liz raised her gentian eyes to heaven. "Something to be said for giving up. `You won't accidentally set fire to dragon farts.' The born-again breathers will just love that."

  * * *

  Lamont found that the forest was a different place with an aerial escort flying overhead. He'd love to bring his girls here. Hell, it hurt seeing those kids of Medea's. That was one of the main reasons he'd been fishing. Well, he'd enjoyed the novelty of catching fish. But he had to get home. And if he pushed Jerry Lukacs hard enough, the man would come up with an answer. Jerry was good at putting pieces together. He'd spotted the achronology. He'd work out how to escape from whatever was trapping them in this terrifyingly real but unreal mythworld. He just had to be pushed. And he, Lamont Jackson, would do that pushing. He had a wife and children to get home to.

  He spotted a pair of slitted eyes gleaming somewhere in the dark recesses of the forest. "Go ahead," he sneered. "Make my day." He jerked his thumb at the two huge dragons soaring above.

  The eyes seemed to roll upward.

  "Boo!" And they were gone.

  Lamont's stride down the overgrown path turned into something of a jaunty little shuffle.

  "Yo—beast! I'm talking to you!

  "Snarl all you want! Slobber away!

  "Ain't getting none o' my—"

  * * *

  Cruz leaned on his spear, his head tilted back. He spent a few seconds admiring the distant profile of Medea steering her dragons, her long dark hair streaming back. The sorceress was circling above them while they had a rest.

  "Quite a woman, ain't she, Doc?"

  Jerry was alarmed. "Uh—Anibal. That . . . ah, lady. Um. Legend appears to be wrong about several details. That's not surprising, of course, since it was a Greek legend and she was a foreigner. Still . . . " He paused.

  How to explain this best? "She's, ah, not a woman you want to play around with. If you follow my drift. She takes commitment quite seriously. As in, ah, dead seriously."

  The sergeant chuckled and felt his ribs. "Tell me about it!"

  His smile widened a little, and he shrugged. "So what? I'm not really the man-about-town type, to tell you the truth. Although I'd appreciate it if you didn't spread that around the barracks if we ever get home. And there are advantages to a woman who doesn't let her man play around. It usually cuts both ways, you know?"

  The smile faded a bit, and turned into something almost feral. "Sounds like she got a raw deal. Tell me about this `Jason' guy, Doc. I might wind up meeting him one day."

  By the way Sergeant Anibal Cruz was flexing his forearm muscles, Jerry suspected it might be a very unpleasant meeting. Short, though.

  "Well, he was the leader of the Argonauts . . . "

  They started to move off again, and Jerry, even with a stout stick, was finding the going tricky. "Look," he panted. "I'll tell you about it, when I'm not trying to—" pant "—keep up. Just . . . remember the story that I know . . . was told by her . . . enemies. She was supposed to have murdered her children before this . . . and they seem very alive to me. She's also supposed to have . . . killed Glauce . . . that girl who is with her, before this all happened . . . "

  * * *

  The dragons spiraled down onto Circe's castle of well-dressed stone, scattering animals. Jerry, tired but nervous, eyed it with extreme suspicion. The paratrooper's entrenching tool had made excavating the "moly"—well, the wild garlic they thought was the correct plant, reasonably easy. He resolved not to eat anything if he could possibly avoid it. Even the formidable Medea seemed a trifle wary about seeing Circe, and that, as far as Jerry was concerned, was enough to make anyone cautious.

  The sounds coming from within were not those of a lady singing as she plied her loom. They were the raucous sounds of a bunch of good-time boys, deep into partying at what could not have been eleven in the morning.

  Medea raised an eyebrow.

  "Odysseus and his crew, I suspect," said Jerry grimly.

  Medea pounded on the door.

  A harassed-looking woman, with long and lustrous hair, opened the door. "Medea! Don't say you've brought the unspeakable Jason and his crew down on me as well! This is all just too much!"

  "I've left Jason, Aunt Circe," Medea said quietly. "You were right about him."

  Circe hugged her. "Oh, my dear. I never did like him. But your father won't have you back, you know. He was very upset about losing, and even more so about your half brother, Absyrtus."

  "Absyrtus got exactly what he deserved!" said Medea fiercely.

  "Yes, dear, I know. That's why I cancelled the blood debt. But your father didn't think so. Anyway, come in. Who are these people with you? The new boyfriend and his retainers?" Circe said dryly.

  Medea sniffed. "Not hardly! These are your nephews, Priones and Neoptolmeus. And this is Glauce, daughter of Creon, King of Corinth. Jason of the golden fleas put me aside so that he could marry her."

  Circe cocked her head and looked at the princess. "I take it you've got more sense than Medea? Wanted no part of that slob, ha. Good for you, girl."

  Her eyes ranged over the others. "And these strangely attired ones? I have never seen cloth so fine—or dyed in such dull colors. But I wish you hadn't brought so many people, Medea dear. I have a house full of unwelcome guests already. I've gotten rid of them twice—and still they keep coming back! The nymphs can't keep up with the cooking, especially with the other demands . . . "

  Medea smiled ravishingly. "Dear Aunt, these are Americans. The men love to cook and wait on the women." Her own eyes ranged over them, appraisingly. They lingered on Cruz, perhaps a bit longer than any of the others. "As for the rest, they seem well behaved."

  * * *

  Odysseus acted as if he were delighted to see them. "My friends! Come! Sit! Let Circe and her nymphs bring you bowls of pottage! Barley meal, good sheep's cheese and amber honey, all flavored with Pramnian wine!"

  "Is this the same guy who promised to guide us and then ran off with Salinas?" asked Liz grimly.

  Odysseus' mouth fell open. "How is it possible that you can speak our tongue now?"

  Liz smiled nastily. "Magic, you bottom-feeding creep."

  It was apparent that Odysseus, the noble son of Laertes, did not get such a description of himself very often. His hand was just falling to his sword hilt when Jerry added hastily: "And we had some help from Medea, the Sorceress of Colchis."

  Odysseus' eyes flitted around, falling on the figure of Medea. Something about the woman apparently exuded sorceress, because Odysseus relinquished his grip on the sword instantly.

  There were advantages, Jerry realized, to having a quick-witted man for an opponent. Even if he was completely treacherous, he was at least more likely to think things through before resorting to brute force.

  "Besides," the mythographer added forcefully, "according to the wager, you and your ship belong to us until we arrive where we want to go. You know how the gods feel about oath-breakers, don't you?"

  "That's not the story you told me, Odysseus!" said Circe sharply.

  "But you said, `Take us to Circe . . . ' My oath is fulfilled!" replied Odysseus, as righteously as he could manage. And, in the subtle fashion of a gangster, he set about displaying who held the balance of power here. "Right, men?"

  Bitar pushed his head in through the doorway. He stuck out a long snaky tongue. "fSomebody pleafse come and fetch these fifsh. Thefse animalfs are trying to get into the chariot."

  As a rabble silencer, Jerry reflected, there is absolutely nothing to beat a dragon.

  Odysseus' eyes were flitting around again. "Well. Perhaps I misinterpreted our wager. But that was what was understood . . . "

  "We brought you some fresh fish, Aunt," said Medea sweetly. "Two dragons are so expensive to feed."

  Jerry shook his head and smiled sweetly. "No specific destination was mentioned, Odysseus. This is just part of the route—not where we're going."

  Odysseu
s looked sour. Circe did not, especially once Liz took her turn at Odysseus baiting.

  "We're so sorry our wager-slaves have trespassed on your hospitality, Ms. Circe. We'll see to it that that doesn't happen again. Outside, you lot! Fetch the fish and the bags. Now. Jump to it!"

  She harried the laggards with her bag.

  Bitar hissed supportively.

  You get pretty good service that way, too.

  * * *

  "I don't know if I like this being on `kitchen parade' much," said McKenna, looking at the scrubbed pots in the huge stone kitchen.

  "Could be worse," rumbled Cruz. "I don't mind cooking. It's the washing up I don't like."

  Jerry smiled quietly. "Hopefully, the nymphs will wash up for you. And cooking your own food around here is a really, really good idea. Remember that this Circe is the woman who fed certain herbal potions to people to turn them into savage animals."

  "I get like that myself when I'm only given salad for supper," said Liz with a wicked smile. "What's for lunch, guys?"

  Lamont seized a large wooden spoon. "Out of the kitchen, woman! Go and drink beer and watch the sport on the box."

  Jerry, not having seen Circe and Medea enter, backed up the joke. "Yes. A woman should know her place. And that's not in the kitchen, Liz. Go on. You've got quite a lot of belching and lounging about to catch up on."

  Circe's jaw dropped. Medea nodded with satisfaction. "I told you the men of this `America' island are quite unlike other men, Aunt! They are strange beyond all belief. Come, Liz. They obviously get restive when women are in their kitchen. You can explain this `box' we have to watch. Does it move if it is not watched? I'm already quite good at the belching part. We consider it unladylike, but customs differ."

  * * *

  Jim McKenna looked glumly at the mounds of vegetables and fresh fish. "If this ever gets back to the 101st . . . "

  "First, we worry about getting us back," said Cruz.

  McKenna sighed. "Yeah." Then he brightened slightly. "I bet I could make some kind of still with that pot."

  "After lunch for the ladies," said Jerry. "What are we going to cook, guys?"

  Lamont looked pensive. "A salad. Definitely."

  * * *

  In the outer chamber, Liz suddenly realized it had been a fine joke but now she was alone with the two sorceresses, without Jerry and his knowledge to turn to. It suddenly seemed a lot less funny. Their future could depend on what she said. And she'd never been much good at watching her tongue. Her nose got in the way.

  Circe seemed well disposed, if still a trifle distant. They had gotten rid of a house full of unwelcome guests for her, after all. "What hospitality can I offer you, Liz?" she asked, shaking back her long hair. "Wine? A warm bath?"

  "Oh! A bath, please! I can't wait to wash my hair."

  Circe inspected the hair in question. "Indeed. But it appears very clean, if an odd color for these parts. In Colchis we saw traders and tribesmen from the far north with hair this color, sometimes."

  Liz blushed. "It was a silly idea. I always wanted to be blond. It's really a mousy brown. It goes blondish when I'm in the sun a lot." She looked enviously at Circe's long dark tresses. "Maybe I should go black."

  Medea giggled. "What about red?"

  Both sorceresses found this almost irrepressibly funny.

  Liz smiled. "Ah, I considered it. I've got a cousin who dyed hers green."

  They gaped. "No! Really?"

  Conversation proved easy. She was a bit taken aback to discover that she was going be bathed, and that the others were planning to stay and yack. But . . . well, when in ancient Greece . . . do as the ancient Greeks do.

  Their response to the shampooing of her hair was first trepidation, and then, when they saw the results—delight. The only thing that tempered this delight was the discovery that Liz only had one more sachet—cunningly artificed out of thin leather. With real self-sacrifice she gave it to Circe. As a gesture to get she who was known as "Circe of the lovely tresses" on your side, it was inspired.

  Liz got on well with doing things in the fashion of the locals, until it came to being anointed with olive oil. Well, that explained the smell from Odysseus' crew. If you oiled, sweated, but didn't bathe . . .

  Her "I'm not rusty, thank you," provoked more mirth. She did, however, accept clean clothing with gratitude. She looked despairingly at her skirt and top. "Hard scrubbing . . . "

  The others agreed. "I don't know if that fine weave will take it. Is it sprite-woven?"

  "Ah—in a way. Machine sprites, they're called." She smiled. "I don't suppose you've got detergent?"

  Both of the sorceresses looked doubtful. "No," said Circe at last. "Not if it's what I think it is . . . no. The animals don't do well here. The young ones all died last winter."

  "It's soap." They looked equally blank. "What I gave the nymph to wash me with."

  "We use certain cleansers, but none like that," said Circe.

  Liz smiled. "We'll have to brave the kitchen. My mother couldn't teach me to cook, because she didn't. But she did teach me to make herb-scented soaps, because she did that for fun. We will need wood ash and some oil or lard."

  * * *

  Jerry had to admit that Lamont had been completely wasted as a maintenance man. Not only had he a gift for remembering things, but he also had a gift for presentation. A real gift. The combination of colors and shapes were pleasing to the eye. The platters were decorated with sprigs of fresh herbs. The food was all also carefully scented with "moly." Just in case.

  The salad—which was an ancient Greek version of tuna Niçoise, with a homemade mayonnaise—salt, crushed mustard seeds, two egg yolks, olive oil and a tablespoon of wine vinegar, with finely diced wild onion leaves. Set in a spiral of dandelion and young charlock leaves and olives, it looked almost too good to eat.

  "How the hell did you know how to make mayo?" asked Jerry.

  Lamont swatted away the tasting finger. "Didn't. Cruz did."

  The burly sergeant looked a little uneasy. "My mother used to make it. It's nicer with lemon juice."

  "Jerry. See if you can find some more of those golden goblets. We'll have to use them for dessert. Mac, go and find us some mint. That should be within your capability. Nuts and honey for a base. I'll beat this cream. What do you think it comes from? A goat?"

  "Or a sheep," chuckled Jerry, setting out goblets.

  Lamont snorted. "Well, if you don't tell Liz, I won't."

  Cruz looked up from his crouton frying. "What in the hell are you doing now, Jerry?"

  He grinned. "I got your goblets. Now I'm checking my roasting acorns."

  "Why are you doing that?" asked McKenna, posing with a sprig of mint.

  "WW Two coffee substitute," he said, hauling the smoldering acorns out of the fire.

  McKenna shook his head. "Jeez. Caffeine-free too, I bet."

  Jerry grinned. "I won't tell Liz if you don't."

  "Me? If it improves `Sir's' temper, I'll help you to roast the next lot," said McKenna.

  "She's not so bad," said Jerry defensively.

  McKenna snorted. "Compared to what? A drill sergeant?"

  * * *

  Circe wore a distinctly bemused expression. Mayonnaise was a hit. Some of the other food had been too bizarre, but this . . .

  She turned to Liz. "Are you sure they're not under some kind of spell? If so, I would dearly love to learn it."

  Liz swallowed. The mouthful of truly vile coffee substitute, with goats' milk and honey, at least stopped her from saying: You, me and several hundred million other women.

  She fought down the impulse. "No," she said. "And unfortunately they're not all like this. But if you get them young enough they can be trained."

  * * *

  The mention of spells brought something to Jerry's mind. He felt rather guilty about it. It suddenly occurred to him that he hadn't seen John Salinas.

  "Circe, you haven't seen any other people that wore clothes like us?"

 
"Barbarians, you mean? In leggings?"

  "Uh. Yes."

  "Indeed I have." Circe smiled. It was not a nice smile. "Two of them, in fact. They're in the pigsty. You can have the one, but not the other. He insulted me most dreadfully. A pig he is and a pig he stays."

  Jerry had the dreadful feeling that a practical joke had gone way too far.

  "Ah, did he say . . . " He cleared his throat, smiled apologetically, and repeated the phrase he had taught the police lieutenant.

  "Yes, indeed!" Circe's teeth were showing. "Twice!"

  Jerry looked very apologetic. "It's my fault. I taught him to say that. And I told him it meant `I am your friend.' "

  Circe's eyes narrowed. She picked up her wand. "Why?"

  "Well, he was ass-kissing—I mean, being servile and obsequious to Odysseus, because he saw him as being the most powerful person around. So I, ah, played a practical joke on him. I thought he'd say it to Odysseus."

  There was a silence. Then Medea and Circe burst into riotous laughter. After a moment, the rest began joining in, all staring in surprise at the red-faced academic.

  "I'm really very sorry . . . " said Jerry in a small voice.

  Circe continued to laugh. "Come." She rose, her shoulders still heaving. "Why not? Eventually I even felt sorry for Odysseus and his verminous crew. They behaved like ravening beasts and such they became." She shrugged. "It is the nature of the magic to make the beast reflect the inner man."

  They went around to the pigsties. "Most of these are just ordinary pigs. I keep the transformed ones apart in this sty. They've got a regrettable tendency to become human again when slaughtered."

  They were greeted with enthusiastic, frantic squeals from one of the two denizens of the sty. It was a small, blotchy Vietnamese pot-bellied miniature pig, weeping and snorting at them in almost equal quantities. The other, a large bristly hog, planted both feet in the trough and alternated between suspicious glances at them and angry, hasty mouthfuls.

  Jerry bent over the small pig that was becoming quite asthmatic in its squeaking, snorting, and jumping up. "I'm sorry, Lieutenant. It was a stupid practical joke." The pig shook its head furiously and squeaked like an accordion on acid.