Pyramid Scheme

  Osiris groaned. Liz, stepping back, took a very deep, deep breath and wondered if now was not the perfect time for that second-to-last cigarette.

  He sat up. This, thought Liz, is where I get the hell out of here.

  But the small island glade was too full of chanting Egyptian deities to let her just slip away.

  "Ohhh. Well, it's a better job than last time." Osiris croaked and felt his groin.

  "Thank Ra for that. That desert jackass won't be able to call me `dickless' again." He massaged his throat. "Isis, my queen, you wouldn't have something to drink, would you?"

  "No, my lord brother-husband. We came in haste."

  Liz had some of Mac's "brandy" in her bag, in a small wineskin. It was all that she had, besides river water. "Here, Isis. It's pretty strong."

  She passed it over. Osiris struggled with the cork and then gratefully swallowed some.

  The mummy-man's greenish pallor flushed. His eyes bulged. He sprayed the liquor out. "Gah! Kehaph!! Eheh!"

  Strong, rough hands seized Liz.

  And Osiris took another pull at the skin. This time he swallowed it. He shuddered. Then he took a deep breath and smiled beatifically. "By Ra, Nut, Geb and even my brother Set—now that's what I call embalming fluid! Here, my good vizier! Try this. Make sure that you write down the recipe."

  He passed the skin to a doubtful-looking Thoth. "Chug it, old birdbrain!"

  The rough hands ceased holding Liz in a grip of iron, as the pedantic grand vizier spluttered but did not die. Indeed, even Osiris was looking remarkably lively for a fairly ripe corpse that had just been sewed up by a bunch that would have been rejected by most sewing circles, never mind med schools.

  Osiris turned to Liz. "Tell me, she who brings Sa, that which warms the very cockles of the Ka—who are you? How do you come to the land of the Nile?"

  "We were kind of hoping you could tell us how we got here. But what we're really interested in is how we could get home."

  Osiris shook his head vigorously. It was a good thing, thought Liz, that she and Isis had done most of that section of the sewing. If it had been Nepthys, it could easily have just fallen off again.

  * * *

  Liz was the noticing kind. But you could hardly help noticing the looks on Cruz and Medea's faces, even if they hadn't been leaning against each other. She couldn't help feeling a little envious, if pleased for Medea's sake. The broad sergeant was a nice guy. Heh. He was looking a bit bemused. That was good.

  "Basically," she said, flopping onto the bank, "Osiris has no trouble remembering that this was a decaying Mythworld. He says even now things are barely beginning to change. There are large tracts of upper Egypt where the desert just disappears into nothingness."

  Jerry studied her intently. "He seems very cheerful. If a bit unsteady on his feet."

  She chuckled. "He's dead drunk. Which is not bad seeing that he was just plain dead, earlier. I think any favors we want to ask had better be soon and not tomorrow. Still, he and Isis are very obliged to us right now. He says he can feel the Ka of this universe being drawn into the naos of a dark force that sucks out its Sa. Whatever that means."

  "Better than it sounds, I hope," said Mac with a grin, looking at Medea and Cruz. "I wonder if it's infectious."

  "I'll thump you," growled Cruz, without any signs of a deep desire to do so. Actually, he was looking very relaxed. Almost as if, were he to relax any more, he'd be asleep. "So what does it mean, Doc?"

  "Ka is soul, Sa is life-force. Naos is the inner sanctuary of the temple."

  Cruz's expression showed that Jerry's explanation was as clear as mud. "So . . . can we go home? Or even back to—to—the Olympians' universe?"

  Liz shook her head. "The linkage, from the `gods' point of view, seems to be having believers in both universes. Whoever or whatever is running this show seems to be able to ignore or override that."

  Lamont, as usual, was quick on the uptake. "So. Aren't there any gods in common?"

  Jerry pursed his lips thoughtfully. "In a way, there are. In the latter days of Egypt, the Greeks identified numerous of the Egyptian gods as being the same as their own. Bastet was considered to be one with Artemis. Anubis with Hermes, Nepthys with Nike, Osiris with Dionysus or Hades. Isis got identified with Demeter, Hera, Selene and even Aphrodite."

  Liz sighed. "Great. So the only two I've taken to, are so confused they don't even know who they are. Anyway, Osiris is off to face the judgment. Then he will be going to preside over the weighing of souls. We have been invited. You can ask as many gods as show their faces in the halls of the dead."

  "I just can't wait," said Mac.

  Liz gave him a wry smile. "Well, you'll just have to. We must stay here on the floating isle of Chemmis until a ship is sent for us."

  "I do not like the sounds of that," said Henri, doubtfully.

  Liz shook her head at the Frenchman. "And just how do you propose to go elsewhere?"

  It was a good question. They'd been guided there in the dark, through a maze of twisty papyrus channels. Of course they could—in theory—navigate by the sun. Mac looked at the curving channel. The landmarks were occasional tufts of trees. All remarkably similar to each other.

  A small Egyptian in a loincloth came up and bowed. "Buto has ordered us to set food for you, foreigners. Barley beer, bread, lentils, onions, cucumber, fish, pigeons and ducks, lotus root and pomegranates. My lady apologizes for the inadequate fare, but supplies have been disjointed of late."

  A second servant approached. "Toiletries await: oils, unguents and kohl for the ladies to darken their eyes. Cones of perfumed fat for your heads are prepared. Fresh garments of pleated linen are just being starched. Collars of faïence and coiled gold." He took a long look at the men. Shuddered. "Bronze-bladed razors and tweezers await the lords, for the removal of unwanted facial hair."

  * * *

  "Are you sure you don't want that cone of perfumed fat to melt slowly into your hair?" asked Lamont innocently.

  "Are you sure you want to live until nightfall?" retorted Liz, her eyes darkened with kohl and her ears adorned with large golden earrings. Around her neck was a fine-woven gold collar. "And no, I wasn't prepared to shave all my hair off and wear a wig either. Or wear a thing that exposed one breast!"

  Jerry swallowed. No point in letting your imagination run away with you. "It's a mishmash. They don't all come from the same era . . . "

  His explanation was interrupted by McKenna.

  "All right. Out with it! Who told them to do this?" McKenna descended on them snarling. He was wrapped in a shred of linen and still dripping. He was incandescently angry. He was also clean-shaven. Entirely clean-shaven. Well, they'd left his eyelashes. But otherwise not a hair on his head or chin . . . or armpits. "Who told them I was a priest? That bastard Henri?"

  "I am well aware of who my father was," said Henri, tugging his goatee complacently. "My neat beard they thought Pharoic."

  Mac seemed on the verge of removing Henri Lenoir from this plane of existence. Cruz stepped forward and wrapped his thick arms around the corporal. "Cool it, Mac. He was already with the flunkies when you went off. He wouldn't have even known you were going."

  "Somebody told Isis I was a priest!" snarled Mac. "Was this your idea of a practical joke—Sir?"

  Liz went bright red and slapped him hard enough to make his do-it-yourself loincloth fall off. This revealed that they'd not stopped shaving when they got to his armpits. "If I'm going to abuse you I'll do it firsthand!" she snarled, as Mac groped hastily for the fallen linen.

  Jerry cleared his throat. "I think you did it yourself, Mac. You said to Isis that you were trained in `First Aid.' If you try and translate that, it could come out as knowing the rituals of healing. That was the province of priests. And they were shaved bald."

  "You look like a boot, Mac," said Cruz with a grin.

  Lamont nodded and chuckled. "But that strip of linen does things for you."

  "Seriously," said Jerry, trying to coo
l things off, "it's a good thing Mac got rid of his hair. It could help us a lot."

  McKenna was not mollified. "I don't know anything about being a priest!"

  "No, it's your hair and skin color," explained the mythographer. "Set was supposed to be white-skinned and red-haired. Rough and rude, too. That was one reason Isis was so upset when she saw us with the dismembered pieces of her hubby."

  Lamont grinned. "Well, Mac could get a job as a stand-in. Wasn't he supposed to have ears like an ass too?"

  Jerry shook his head. "Shut up, Lamont. You're stirring things up just because you were the only one besides Liz who could stand that vile beer."

  "Real African beer has lumps in it. Not thin clear stuff like cats wee." Liz was grinning broadly.

  Jerry pulled a face. "We were all expecting . . . beer. It was vile, Liz. I don't know how you and Lamont could drink the stuff. But Mac'll be useful as a `priest.' I'll teach him a few chants. Hmm. We could use some upgrading of our status. If you've seen the numbers of soldiers around here, fighters won't impress them, but an extra sorceress might."

  "Medea's learning too damn fast," grunted Cruz. She responded by tickling him.

  Jerry grinned at Lamont. "Actually, I was thinking that what we really need is the most powerful and feared of sorceresses. The ones that came from Nubia—or, as it was otherwise known, Cush. Black people."

  Lamont blinked. "Me? Aren't you forgetting something?"

  "Like what?" asked Jerry, innocently.

  Lamont shook his head. "Like I'm the wrong sex."

  Jerry clucked his tongue. "Nothing to it, Lamont! Cross-dressing has a well-established precedent in ancient Egypt. Queen Hasheput who was regent for Thutmose III dressed herself as a man." Jerry's grin got more wicked still. "All we need to do is shave your head and put you in a dress. You'll be a winner."

  "You're not going to do that to me?" said Lamont, with disbelief.

  "Oh yes, we are!" said Mac fiendishly. "If I've got to suffer for a good cause, so do you!"

  "There was the wig they tried to give me . . . " said Liz. "And another dress that was way too big."

  "The topless one?" asked Medea, getting in on the spirit of things. "And there is much makeup." She looked at Lamont. "Fortunately."

  Liz snorted. "I don't think he's gynecomastic enough for the topless one. And he's probably got hairy boobs."

  "I'm not going to do this!" protested Lamont.

  "It's all right, Lamont," murmured Medea sweetly. "We'll do it for you."

  Jerry managed to wipe off the grin. "Lamont . . . Seriously, Nubian sorceresses were big-time power. And I've got a feeling we may need that desperately. And what do you care what you look like, if it can get us all home?"

  "I'm not going to do this." But Lamont sounded less sure about it. His companions arose and advanced upon him.

  "Not going to . . . " Mumble, mumble.

  * * *

  By the time the ship arrived to transport them, Lamont had been made into a strapping lass, if not a pretty one. And a very sulky lass, he was.

  The vessel was a far cry from the papyrus-bundle boat that they'd used to bear Osiris' remains to the island. The ship was at least a hundred and fifty feet long. It was made of curved cedar wood, with a high pointed prow and stern. It was canopied with spotless linen, with a team of rowers sweating at the long spear-bladed paddles. A harpist played melodiously from under the shaded canopy. "I think we have elevated our status in the world. Now if only they have more of that tilapia scented with cumin and fenugreek . . . " said Henri happily. "And perhaps something to drink other than that terrible beer."

  Liz looked at the vessel and shook her head. "It looks like a thin wooden banana. I could make a fortune here as a boat designer."

  Lamont struggled to board the ship. "I can't even walk in this stupid tight dress. This is a dumb, dumb idea."

  "Are you in Dis-dress, Lamont?" asked Jerry.

  Lamont was less than amused. "I should toss you to the crocodiles, Jerry."

  "I think he's skirting the issue," offered Liz.

  Jerry snorted. "Dressed like that, you never know what it might be. But I'd better say no more. I might get kilt."

  Liz groaned. "Why did I ever join in this ridiculous punfest?"

  Jerry smiled. "Because you like them?"

  Liz shook her head. "Who ever admitted to liking puns?"

  * * *

  Liz was far more impressed by the vessel now that she was aboard. "Not one nail. It's amazing. This ship is held together with strips of linen. Like a mummy."

  Henri Lenoir shuddered. "Madame, I do not think I wish to know this. A few pieces of linen between my person and the crocodiles? Not even the finding of something the locals call `wine' can adequately comfort me. Although," he said, drinking some from the jar, "I shall do my best to insulate myself from water, both inside me as well as out."

  33

  Heavy on the soul, please.

  Despite his professional interest, Jerry really wasn't all that keen on going to Duat and the land of the justified dead. People who made that trip generally wound up working in the rich fields of Osiris. . . .

  Perhaps it was worth doing the trip just for the scenery and the architecture. If you liked massive, blocky architecture. And immense pillars crowned with stone palm leaves, the details picked out in reds, and blues and gold foil. And lots and lots of other bright colors.

  The white statues of Greece had once been brightly painted, Jerry knew. The paintings and murals to be seen in modern Egypt are magnificent. But they're old. These were bright and new. Red and blue pennants fluttered from the temple pillars. The walls gleamed with glass and semiprecious stone murals. There was gold foil on anything that there could be any excuse to put it on. And every flat surface, pillar and lintel was carved and set with murals or hieroglyphs.

  The whole thing looked like some immense jeweled insect, against the stark and barren desert cliffs that loomed above the verdant valley.

  The colonnaded temple was cool after their brief walk in the blazing sun. Cool and reeking of incense.

  They were greeted by Anubis. He grinned toothily at them. "Welcome to the hall of double justice. I have news for you . . . "

  Isis had come up behind him. "Ah, here they are. There is a soul that has come to face psychostasia. Osiris has been awaiting your arrival. He is from none of the forty-two nomes. We think he may come from your nome."

  "I was not aware that I had a nome," said Henri, with a genteel hiccup.

  "I bin through the desert on a horse with no nome . . . " Lamont had also been dipping deeply. He was much worse off than Henri, as he was normally not much of a drinking man. The Frenchman had a well-trained liver; Lamont didn't.

  In a way, it was Liz's fault that Lamont was reeling drunk. She'd told him that the "beer" was like the African beer of her homeland. Perhaps Lamont had felt it incumbent on him to prove his roots. He'd drunk the stuff—with distaste. Then he'd had some more . . . on the ship he'd topped it off with lots of wine. He hardly noticed that he was dressed in women's clothing anymore.

  "'Cause in the desert you cain't remember your nome . . . " he sang tunelessly, cheerfully.

  "Indeed. You are very right, Lady! I am sorry that I did not realize that you were in disguise when we met beside my husband's body. Come. We will give you a winding sheet. The soul must be questioned. You shall act as one of the judges."

  Lamont hiccupped, and veered into another song. "Show me the way to go nome . . . "

  * * *

  Osiris' face was a pallid green. Liz blamed it on Mac's "brandy." After all, she'd stopped them attaching the gall bladder to the heart valves. It could also have been the frieze of coiled cobras on the small roof above him. Occasionally they stirred. That would have been enough to make most people green.

  In the middle of the hall stood an enormous balance, with burnished brass pans. Lamont, complete with a funerary shroud, was led off to sit among the judges.

  * * *


  "Don't stare," hissed Jerry to Henri, whose mustachios were bristling fiercely as he peered at the scale's attendant. Jerry was trying not to stare himself. The goddess Maat, she of truth and justice, was depicted in several papyrus scrolls as having been clad in a garment that started just below the breasts. They'd got it right. . . .

  They dragged their attention to what was happening at the doorway. The person there was dressed in the remains of a uniform. Well, his shade was dressed in what would have been a uniform if it had been any more substantial. It wasn't.

  He stepped over the threshold. Anubis hauled him back, not bothering to be gentle. Obviously those jackal teeth could still hurt whatever this was. He stood. Anubis pushed him forward. So he stepped into the room. Anubis hauled him back by the scruff of the neck.

  "Kiss the threshold," said Jerry in a stage whisper.

  The strange ghost looked horrified. "Kiss the floor? But that's so unhygienic," he said fastidiously, backing off.

  Jerry took a deep breath. "You're dead, in an Egyptian myth. I think worrying about germs is the least of your problems, and it is a bit late to think about health hazards."

  The language obviously suddenly registered. "You speak English! Thank God!"

  Jerry had an upwelling of sympathy for the shade. "Yes . . . "

  "Go in, mortal soul. But kiss the threshold," snapped Anubis testily.

  "Better do it," said Jerry.

  The once-uniformed man staggered in and kissed the doorsill. Then said: "Please, please translate. I've learned about ten words in the construction gang, and they're not getting me very far. `Stop hitting me' is real useful but doesn't make for communication." He looked closely at Jerry. "Ah. Dr. Lukacs, I believe? You're one of that large party that went missing."

  "Yes. We're all here. How do you know? Who are you?"

  "Captain Michael Halstrom. I am—ah, was part of Professor Tremelo's research team. I'm an Army psychologist detailed to put together profiles of the snatchees. You were a very atypical group. The largest since the pyramid started operating a few days ago."