Pyramid Scheme

  Service against the alien device was a unique experience in military history. In the first five hours, casualties were about 10%—all of which seemed random, and almost all of which were fatal. At least, only one of the 87% who had returned had still been alive. No one yet knew what had happened to the other 13% of the snatchees. But thereafter, it was no more dangerous than a traffic jam.

  "Gonna have us towed, Marie?" called out one of the soldiers.

  She matched the grins with a bigger one of her own. "I wouldn't do that, boys, and you know it. But if you don't move it, I will put a dent in that fancy expensive U.S. government vee-hicle, and let you fill out all the forms. You think I care about this jalopy of mine?"

  With Marie, it was never entirely clear when she was joking. The driver of the Humvee pulled it out of the space and made room for her to park the Buick. After she got out and began walking away, one of the soldiers tried a riposte.

  "Are you in that big a hurry to get back to your Sugar Daddy?"

  The other soldiers in the Humvee frowned. That joke was crossing a line none of them much appreciated.

  Marie stopped, spun around, and planted her hands on her hips. "You think I'm humping the Professor?" she demanded. "A nice married woman like me?"

  Then, with a laugh: "Shit! I'd kill the old man." She sashayed off, swinging her hips.

  The soldier who'd made the wisecrack fumbled for a response. Failed. The other soldiers laughed derisively.

  "You wanna trade slams with that lady, Hannon," chortled one of them, "you'd better get yourself a bigger hammer."

  PART VII

  My works are all stamped down into the sultry mud.

  —William Butler Yeats, "On a Picture of a

  Black Centaur by Edmund Dulac"

  31

  I want my Mummy.

  It was the same river. It wasn't the same place.

  The village they'd landed at had disappeared. So had Odysseus' struggling crew. The snatchees were in knee-deep water.

  Well . . . calf-deep anoxic mud, and the rest water, at the edge of the dense papyrus reeds. Obviously the water dropped off sharply in front of them. Jerry realized that there were tiny fish nibbling at his hand.

  He saw a piece of floating gnarled old log move. It opened an eye, which was an unusual thing for a log to do. It was a very big log.

  "Keep together. Let's try and get out of the water." Liz's voice had that steely edge of control in it. "That is a crocodile. Don't run."

  "Çøa[dhatch] Søø?" asked Medea.

  Despite the crocodile, Jerry closed his eyes briefly. Medea's translation spells obviously didn't work here. He'd gotten himself repromoted to chief translator . . .

  Damn. While Jerry had studied liturgical Coptic, which was as near as anything came to ancient Egyptian, he was willing to bet it wasn't that close. And the vocabulary at his disposal was rather limited.

  Herodotus had described the Egyptians as the most religious of men. That made ancient Egypt an interesting hunting ground for a mythographer. It also made it a place you didn't necessarily want to experience firsthand. For starters, it had crocodiles. For seconds . . . lots of gods. If something was taking possession of these gods this could a bad place to be.

  They edged back from the water cautiously. The crocodile regarded them with interest. A sudden frantic splashing in the reeds sent them up the slippery muddy bank. It was only a lapwing, but it was enough to have the group forget systematic retreat and fling themselves up the bank.

  Medea looked skywards. "Bitar? Smitar?"

  Then she dissolved into tears. Cruz, who happened to be nearest, held her and patted her awkwardly.

  "What's wrong? She's not that attached to those dragons," said Liz, in an undervoice to Lamont.

  "Her children," answered Lamont quietly, understanding perfectly.

  * * *

  There was a path, and at length they came to a small mud-walled village. It reeked of fish. The locals were busy with the tasks of a small fishing village—the men lounging in the pretense of mending a net, while women washed. All the villagers shrieked in unison at the sudden appearance of the strangers. Previously indolent villagers moved with startling rapidity inside the wall. The heavy palm-wood gate thudded shut in the faces of the visitors.

  Liz chuckled. "They certainly don't like door-to-door salesmen much."

  "I wonder how they feel about telemarketers?" mused Lamont.

  Jerry tried out a phrase in his best liturgical Coptic. No response.

  "Ask if they'd like to come out and listen to a high-tech stock presentation," suggested Lamont. "Tell them there's a free gift holiday for two on offer."

  Jerry snorted. "Right. I was hoping for some dinner and shelter. It'll be dark soon."

  Jerry altered his intonations in his next attempt. The result was totally unexpected.

  Crabs began to appear. Not by ones and twos, but by the hundreds. Crawling out of every conceivable hole and crevice. The crabs ranged from pea-sized to the size of generous soup plates.

  Of course, Henri got nipped. "Merde!" He stamped at the crab, splattering it with one of his once-elegant Italian shoes.

  The results of that unpremeditated action were even more unexpected. The palm-wood gate was ripped open and the once-frightened villagers began pouring out in a flood. Judging from appearances—the faces transformed into berserk grimaces, the dervish dancing, the howling and shrieking, not to mention the waving clubs—they seemed hell-bent on beating the sacrilegious foreigners to a bloody pulp. . . .

  * * *

  Two things saved Jerry and his companions.

  Firstly, the avenging Oxyrhynchites had to, at all costs, avoid hurting the crabs—which were all over the pace. Secondly, there was the fishing net hanging from a series of poles.

  Cruz kicked over one pole. The net, probably the village's most precious possession, fell on top of half of the crab worshippers. Mac and Lamont between them picked up an enormous basket of river sardines and flung them at the crowd. Now the locals had the double jeopardy of avoiding standing on their catch and the crabs.

  "Merde alors!" cursed Henri. "You have me covered in fish slime!"

  "Come on! Into this boat!!" yelled Liz. She and Medea had shoved three of the village's papyrus-reed-bundle boats out into the Nile to drift away. They were waiting with the fourth, the last and the largest.

  It was a splash and scramble, but the seven of them were soon out on the muddy waters, drifting upstream under a coarse flax sail away from the angry yelling mob on the shore.

  "I think this is likely to stay virgin territory in the high-tech industry," said Jerry ruefully.

  "God alone knows what they'd have done if you'd offered them the opportunity to invest their precious crabs," grumbled Lamont, feeling his bruises.

  "Just what the hell happened back there?" asked Liz.

  Lamont held up two fingers. "Well, I'd say we discovered two things. For sure."

  Liz raised an eyebrow. "Like what? Besides that they've got a crab problem. And they don't like visitors."

  Jerry shook his head. "They might be quite friendly. But we—or at least Henri—committed sacrilegious murder. So . . . one of the things that we found out is that the locals belong to a sect, the Oxyrhynchites, who regard the spider crab as sacred. Ancient Egyptian reverence for various animals was truly amazing. There are whole cemeteries full of mummified cats and crocodiles. They were buried by the hundreds of thousands. I remember reading that the modern Egyptians were actually using the cat cemetery at Beni Hasan for making artificial fertilizer."

  It was the kind of information that usually silences cocktail parties. It did pretty well with the muddy-refugees-in-a-reed-bundle-boat party, too. It was a good minute and a half before Liz said: "And what was the second point?"

  Lamont glanced at Jerry and snorted. "Those crabs. I think we've got ourselves a new magician. He summoned them."

  Jerry winced. "The ancient Egyptian magicians were the ultimate believe
rs in the power of words and names. Magicians could even compel their own gods to do their bidding."

  "Holy cow!" Liz looked at him askance. "Do you think you can send us home, O Great Magician?"

  There was both embarrassment and exasperation in Jerry's reply. "Look. I tried to get us some shelter and I got us a plague of crabs. If I had enough of a grasp of what I was doing, maybe I could do something. But right now the results are more likely to be terminal."

  Liz nodded. "Right. The wind has pushed us upstream. I think we should keep going for a bit and then find a good patch of reed to lie up in for the night. Tomorrow—O Magnificent Sorcerer Lukacs—you're going to have to start systematic experimentation."

  Lamont grinned. "Be careful, Liz. He might turn you into a newt in the trial run."

  Mac shook his head, scowling. "I vote for turning Lenoir into a frog. That'd hardly take any magic at all."

  Lenoir's response was all in French. Fortunately, Jerry was not able to translate.

  * * *

  The night was still . . .

  Except for the mosquitoes, who filled the air with bzzzz. And the snort of a hippo.

  Liz noticed that the moon was full again—as if the full moon on the night she'd swum next to Odysseus' boat hadn't happened two days back. She reminded herself to point out to Jerry the difference in time . . . if the delta mosquitoes didn't drive her mad and get her to fling herself to the crocodiles first. She slapped. She wasn't the only one.

  "These things are going to drive me mad," snarled Mac.

  "They'll almost certainly give us mythical bloody malaria," said Liz.

  "They had malaria?" asked McKenna warily.

  Liz snorted. "I'll tell you in ten to fourteen days."

  "Why?" asked Lamont

  "That's the incubation period."

  Henri stood up and shook himself. "I do not think my sanity I will still have in a week, not to speak of ten days. These moustique are driving me insane. And the dinner was execrable."

  "I wish we could drop him into the Seine," muttered Lamont. "He ate enough of the `execrable' dinner for a hog, never mind a frog!"

  Liz sat up. Slapped again. "Look, why don't we get out into the main stream? Out there, there's a breeze and hopefully we will be away from the mosquitoes. There's a full moon, too. We can navigate this tub okay."

  "What about hippopotamus?" asked Henri nervously. "I really do not wish to encounter in the dark a hippopotamus."

  Liz shook her head. "They move out of the water at night to feed."

  "I'm for it," growled Cruz. "Anything beats listening to all the grousing and whining."

  So they pushed the boat out into the open water between the seas of papyrus and raised sail, because they had no anchor, and let the gentle north wind carry them deeper and deeper into the delta. It was cooler on the water. And the mosquitoes were mercifully absent. And somehow all of them on those fish-reeking bundles of papyrus reed . . . they slipped into sleep. Even Liz dozed, at the helm.

  And the small vessel sailed on silently, pushed by a divine wind.

  * * *

  There was a gentle shake. Jerry sat up with a start. He hadn't meant to sleep. "Shht." Liz had a hand over his mouth. "Look," she whispered.

  The boat had slid onto a mud bank overhung by a huge tree. From its shadows, Jerry could see a stark moon-etched tableau. A figure was stalking toward the water's edge. It was at least twice the size of a man. The snout was thin and cruelly curved. The ears stood up straight and square in the moonlight.

  It was the head of no animal on earth. . . .

  * * *

  Jerry shuddered a little. He recognized the figure. It was the typhonian beast. The head of Set, who is the eternal adversary. The Egyptian god that is the soul of drought, desert, and darkness.

  Set was carrying a burden. A manlike form, which he began to rip limb from limb and toss into the water.

  Jerry stiffened with comprehension. Then, convulsively, he grabbed the spear from McKenna's hand, lurched upright, and flung it as hard as he could.

  Alas, Jerry was never going to make the Olympic javelin team. And a stick with a bayonet on the end was a lousy javelin anyway. It struck the mud a few feet from Set and then flipped over to strike the destroyer lightly across the ankles. Set didn't even notice. He tossed the last gruesome piece into the water, turned, and strode away. In seconds, he was gone.

  "Quick!" hissed Jerry. "We've got to get those pieces. Particularly the penis! The crabs got that bit the last time."

  By now, Jerry's companions had learned to trust his knowledge, even if they didn't understand it. The crew scrambled from the boat and began the grizzly task of hauling piece after piece out of the shallows.

  Liz found the vital bit, already being attacked by two of the spider crabs. She had it in hand and was lifting it—triumphantly and daintily at the same time—when—

  Cruz shouted. The sound was inarticulate, filled with simultaneous rage and terror. A large form surged out of the water. Liz gasped.

  The crocodile nearly took out Cruz. It would have taken out any other member of the party, except possibly McKenna. But Cruz had the trained reflexes of a paratrooper and a martial arts devotee. He'd caught sight of the croc at the last moment. As the teeth ripped into his flesh, seizing his leg, the muscular soldier struck the beast's snout with the only weapon he had at his disposal. A severed arm.

  Instantly, the crocodile let go. Jerry and Medea hauled Cruz up onto the bank, still clutching a severed mummified arm. His bitten leg was pumping blood. McKenna was there at a run. He applied pressure to the wound.

  "Fucking monster let go," said Cruz weakly. "The minute the arm hit its snout, it let go." He seemed more astonished than anything else.

  Jerry was no longer surprised that Lamont knew that myth also. "Only the spider crab was prepared to touch the remains of the Osiris," the mechanic said quietly, looking at the mummified arm.

  "Do you ever forget anything?" Jerry muttered.

  "Stop blabbing and get a fire going!" snapped McKenna. "I need to see what I'm doing."

  The younger paratrooper's voice was a little high-pitched. Like all of them, Jerry realized, McKenna had come to rely on Cruz's calm good sense and quiet courage. And, like all of them, had found professional respect transmuted into personal friendship. The thought of losing Cruz was well nigh terrifying.

  Fortunately, the leg wasn't severed. Badly lacerated, true, and it would need a lot of sewing. Mac was already starting the task.

  Jerry sighed. But Cruz wasn't going to be walking anywhere soon. And even if they solved that set of problems with the limited medical care facilities they could offer . . .

  He sighed again. The next problem had just arrived.

  "Do we ever get a break?" complained Lamont.

  * * *

  There was no longer any need for a fire, so Lamont left off struggling with it.

  There was plenty of light. It streamed from the lunar disk balanced on the ibis head of one visitor. The female figure at his side bore a small throne on her own head. Which would have been odd enough if she had not also had winged arms.

  And, just to make things complete, behind them walked a very large man with the head of a jackal.

  "Ah, how delightful," muttered Jerry. "Just what we needed. Thoth, Isis and Anubis."

  The triad of Egyptian gods did not look delighted to discover the bedraggled group of humans, with the fourteen collected pieces of Isis' beloved brother and husband.

  In fact, if Jerry understood the hauntingly familiar speech at all, what Isis was saying was: Grave robbers. Kill them all.

  Hastily, Jerry cleared his throat. It was time for a fast explanation—very fast, with a sadly limited vocabulary and, he was quite sure, a truly terrible accent.

  "Er. We have just—" what the hell was the word for `rescued'? "—saved these pieces of your husband from the water."

  Alas. The large and frightening-looking gods did not look as if they were impressed,
or even particularly believing. But at least they had stopped moving forward.

  Desperately, Jerry continued searching for the words. "Look, we saw Set . . . ah, pull apart Osiris. We came to save the parts."

  Silence.

  Jerry tried again, pointing at the grisly remnants. "See! The wrappings are still wet. And we have saved his phallus from the crabs."

  Isis seemed simultaneously pleased and angry. She glared at Liz. "Insolent woman! What are you doing with my brother-husband's phallus?"

  Jerry didn't bother to translate. The way Isis snatched the thing away from Liz was pretty self-explanatory. Fortunately, the stubborn South African biologist did not argue about it.

  Jackal-headed Anubis advanced, growling. "What do you want us to do with these defilers, Isis?"

  A part of Jerry's mind said: How interesting. Graecophone name-forms. Another part said: Help! For heaven's sake get someone else who can talk to these monsters.

  Trying a spell under these circumstances was probably not the cleverest thing he'd ever done, but he was pretty well out of other ideas. Short of screaming "run!"—which Cruz wasn't going to be doing for a while.

  He tried a phrase.

  Nothing happened.

  "What are you saying?" whispered Liz.

  "It's supposed to be a spell," said Jerry miserably.

  "A spell?" She repeated the Coptic words. "For what?"

  The sound of her distinctive voice fumbling at the incantation caused Jerry to stiffen, startled and hopeful at the same time. Especially when low-pitched and stressed, Liz's voice was accented. Slightly guttural. And she had a habit of drawling a bit. The pitch and preciseness of wording, Jerry suddenly remembered, were supposed to be nearly as important as the invocation of secret sacred names.

  "Er. I think you have the voice for it," he said.

  "You've got a rainbow in your mouth! On your tongue!" she exclaimed.

  "So have you," said Jerry, embarrassed. "I was trying for the tongue of many peoples. It looks like I got the tongue of many colors . . . "