"Slaves, flogged to death in the hot sun?" Ramses asked. "What are you saying! This did not happen!" He turned to Julie.
"Alex, that's merely one theory of how the monuments were completed," she said. "No one really knows ..."
"Well, I know," Ramses said.
"Everyone has his theory!" Julie said, raising her voice slightly and glaring at Ramses.
"Well, for heaven's sake," Alex said, "the man built enormous statues of himself from one end of Egypt to another. You can't tell me the people wouldn't have been a lot happier tending their flower beds...."
"Young man, you are most strange!" said Ramses. "What do you know about the people of Egypt? Slaves, you speak of slaves when your slums are filled with starving children. The people wanted the monuments. They took pride in their temples. When the Nile overflowed its banks there could be no work in the fields; and the monuments became the passion of the nation. Labour wasn't forced. It didn't have to be. The Pharaoh was as a god, and he had to do what his people expected of him."
"Surely you're sentimentalizing it a bit," said Elliott, but he was plainly fascinated.
Henry had turned white. He was no longer moving at all. His fresh glass of Scotch stood untouched.
"Not in the least," Ramses argued. "The people of Egypt were proud of Ramses the Great. He drove back the enemies; he conquered the Hittites; he maintained the peace in Upper and Lower Egypt for sixty-four years of his reign! What other Pharaoh ever brought such tranquillity to the land of the great river! You know what happened afterwards, don't you?"
"Reginald," Julie said under her breath, "does this really matter so much!"
"Well, apparently it matters to your father's friend," said Elliott. "I suspect the ancient Kings were perfect tyrants. I suspect they beat their subjects to death if they didn't work on those absurd monuments. The pyramids, how for example--"
"You are not so stupid, Lord Rutherford," said Ramses. "You are ... how do you say ... baiting me. Were Englishmen whipped in the streets when they built your St. Paul's or Westminster Abbey? The Tower of London, this is the work of slaves?"
"No one knows these answers," Samir said meekly. "Perhaps we should attempt to--"
"There's a great deal of truth in what you say," Elliott said, ignoring Samir. "But with regard to the great Ramses, you must admit, he was an exceptionally immodest ruler. The stele which brag of his accomplishments are laughable."
"Sir, really," Samir said.
"They are nothing of the sort," said Ramses. "This was the style of the times, the way the people wanted their ruler to represent himself. Don't you understand? The ruler was the people. For the people to be great, the ruler had to be great! The ruler was the slave of the people when it came to their wishes, their needs, their welfare."
"Oh, surely you don't mean the old fellow was a martyr!" Alex scoffed. Never had Julie seen him so aggressive.
"Perhaps it's not possible for a modern mind to comprehend an ancient mind so easily," Elliott conceded. "I wonder if the opposite is true. Whether a man of ancient times, brought to life again, in this era, could understand our values."
"You're not so difficult to understand," Ramses said. "You've learned to express yourselves too well for anything to remain veiled or mysterious. Your newspapers and books tell everything. Yet you are not so different from your ancient ancestors. You want love, you want comfort; you want justice. That is what the Egyptian farmer wanted when he went out to till his fields. That is what the labourers of London want. And as always the rich are jealous of what they possess. And greed leads to high crimes as it always has."
He turned his eyes mercilessly on Henry, who was now staring back at him directly. Julie looked in desperation to Samir.
"Why, you speak of this era as if you have nothing to do with it!" Alex said.
"So what you're saying," Elliott said, "is that we're no better and no worse than the ancient Egyptian."
Henry reached for his drink and suddenly knocked it over. Then he reached for the wine and drank it down. His white face was now moist all over. His lower lip was trembling. He looked for all the world like a man about to be seriously ill.
"No, that is not what I'm saying," Ramses said thoughtfully. "You are better. Better in a thousand ways. And yet you're still human. You haven't found all the answers yet. Electricity, telephones, these are lovely magic. But the poor go unfed. Men kill for what they cannot gain by their own labour. How to share the magic, the riches, the secrets, that is still the problem."
"Ah, there you have it. Marxism, I told you," Alex said. "Well, at Oxford they told us Ramses the Second was a bloody tyrant."
"Be quiet, Alex," said Elliott dismissively. He turned to Ramses. "Why does this concern you so, these questions of greed and power?"
"Oxford? What is Oxford?" Ramses asked, glancing at Alex. Then he stared again at Henry, and Henry moved his chair abruptly backwards. He appeared to be hanging on to the table as if to steady himself. The waiters, meantime, had taken the fish away and were setting down the roast chicken and potatoes. Someone poured another drink for Henry, which he emptied at once.
"You're going to be ill," Elliott said to him under his breath.
"Wait a minute," Alex said. "You've never heard of Oxford!"
"No, what is it?" Ramses asked.
"Oxford, egomania, aspirin, Marxism," Elliott said. "Your head is in the clouds, Mr. Ramsey."
"Yes, like that of a colossal statue!" Ramses smiled.
"But you're still a Marxist," Alex said.
"Alex, Mr. Ramsey is not a Marxist!" Julie said, unable any longer to contain her rage. "And as I recall, your favorite subject at Oxford was sports, wasn't it? Boat races and football? You've never studied Egyptian history or Marxism, am I right?"
"Yes, darling. I don't know a thing about ancient Egypt," he conceded, a bit crestfallen. "But there is that poem, Mr. Ramsey, that poem about Ramses the Great by Shelley. You have heard it, have you not? Let's see, some damnable old teacher made me memorize it."
"Perhaps we should return to the question of the journey," Samir said. "It shall be very hot in Luxor. Perhaps you will want to go only as far as--"
"Yes, and the reasons for the journey," Elliott said. "Are you investigating the claims made by 'the mummy'?"
"What claims?" Julie asked weakly. "I don't know what you mean specifically...."
"You know. You told me yourself," Elliott answered. "And then there was your father's notebook, which I read, at your behest. The mummy's claim to be immortal, to have lived and loved Cleopatra."
Ramses looked down at his plate. Deftly he broke off a joint of the chicken and ate half of it in two quick, delicate bites.
"The museum will have to examine those texts," Samir said. "It's too early to draw conclusions."
"And is the museum content that you've left the collection locked up in Mayfair?" asked Elliott.
"Frankly," Alex said, "the whole thing sounded perfectly absurd to me. Romantic twaddle. An immortal being, living for a thousand years and then falling tragically in love with Cleopatra. Cleopatra!"
"I beg your pardon," Ramses said. He devoured the remaining chicken and wiped his fingers again. "At your famous Oxford, they said mean things about Cleopatra as well."
Alex laughed frankly and cheerfully.
"You don't have to go to Oxford to hear mean things about Cleopatra. Why, she was the trollop of the ancient world, a spendthrift, a temptress and an hysterical woman."
"Alex, I don't want to hear any more of this schoolboy history!" Julie said.
"You have many opinions, young man," Ramses said with a chilling smile. "What is your passion now? What interests you?"
There was a silence. Julie couldn't help but notice the curious expression on Elliott's face.
"Well," Alex said. "If you were an immortal--an immortal who'd once been a great King, would you have fallen in love with a woman like Cleopatra?"
"Answer the question, Alex," Julie said. "What is your p
assion? It's not history, not Egyptology, not government. What would you say it is that makes you want to wake up in the morning?" She could feel the blood rising in her face.
"Yes, I would have fallen in love with Cleopatra," said Ramses. "She could have charmed a god. Read between the lines of your Plutarch. The truth is there."
"And what is the truth?" Elliott asked.
"That she was a brilliant mind; she had a gift for languages and for governing which defied reason. The greatest men of the time paid court to her. Hers was a royal soul in every sense of the word. Why do you think your Shakespeare wrote about her? Why do your schoolchildren know her name?"
"Oh, come now. Divine right?" said Alex. "You sound much better when you are talking Marxist theory."
"Which is what, precisely?"
"Alex," Julie said sharply. "You wouldn't know a Marxist if one punched you in the face."
"You must understand, my lord," Samir said to Alex. "We Egyptians take our history rather seriously. Cleopatra was by any standards a formidable Queen."
"Yes, well said," Ramses said. "And Egypt could use a Cleopatra now to rid it of British domination. She'd send your soldiers packing, you can be sure."
"Ah, there you see, a revolutionary. And what about the Suez Canal? I suppose she'd say 'No, thank you' for that? You do know what the Suez Canal is, don't you! Well, it was British financing that accomplished that little miracle, my friend, I hope you understand."
"Oh, yes, that little trench you dug between the Red Sea and the Mediterranean. Did you whip the slaves in the hot sun to dig that trench? Do tell me."
"Touche, old fellow, touche. Truth is, I haven't the foggiest notion." Alex put down his fork and sat back, smiling at Henry. "This has been the most exhausting dinner."
Henry stared at him with the same expressionless glassy eyes with which he regarded everything else.
"Tell me, Mr. Ramsey," said Elliott. "Your personal opinion, if you will. Is this mummy truly Ramses the Great? An immortal who lived until the time of Cleopatra?"
Alex laughed softly. He looked again at Henry, and this time apparently Henry's condition shocked him. He was about to say something when Ramses went on.
"And what do you think, Lord Rutherford?" Ramses asked. "You read the notes of your friend Lawrence. Is there an immortal man in that mummy case in Julie's house in Mayfair?"
Elliott smiled. "No, there isn't," he said.
Julie stared at her plate. Then slowly she looked up at Samir.
"Of course not!" Alex said. "And it's about time somebody said so. When they take him to the museum and cut him up, they'll discover he was a scribe with a lively imagination."
"Forgive me," Julie said. "But I am so weary of all this. We'll be in Egypt soon enough, among the mummies and the monuments. Must we go on?"
"I'm sorry, my dear," Elliott said, lifting his fork and taking a small morsel of chicken. "I've rather enjoyed our conversation, Mr. Ramsey. I find your perspective on ancient Egypt absolutely riveting."
"Oh? The present era is my fascination of late, Lord Rutherford. Englishmen such as yourself intrigue me. And as you were saying, you were a good friend of Lawrence, were you not?"
Julie saw the change in Henry before she realized that Ramses was once again glaring at him. Henry shifted, lifted the empty glass in his hand, then realized it was empty and stared at it as if he did not know what to do with it, and then stared just as stupidly at the waiter who took it from him and gave him another drink.
If Elliott noticed all this, he gave no sign.
"We had our differences, Lawrence and I," he answered, "but yes, we were very good friends. And we did agree upon one thing. We hoped that our children would soon be happily married."
Julie was stunned. "Elliott, please."
"But we needn't discuss this, you and I," Elliott said quickly. Obviously rudeness wasn't easy for him. "There are other things I should like to discuss with you. Where you came from, who you really are. All those same questions I ask myself when I look into the mirror."
Ramses laughed, but he was now angry. Julie could feel it.
"You'll probably find my answers brief and disappointing. As for the marriage of Julie to your son, Lawrence believed it was Julie's choice. Let me see. How did he put it?" He turned his eyes on Henry again. "English is rather new to me, but my memory is exceptional. Ah, yes. 'Julie's marriage can wait forever.' My dear Henry, were those not the words?"
Henry's lips worked silently, but only a faint moan came out of his lips. Alex was red-faced, hurt, looking at Ramses. Julie had to do something to stop this, but what?
"Well, you certainly do seem to have been a close friend of Julie's father," Alex said almost sadly. "Closer perhaps than we realized. Was there anything else that Lawrence made known to you before he died?"
Poor, poor Alex! But this was all aimed at Henry, and in another moment things were going to explode.
"Yes," Ramses said. Julie grabbed his hand and squeezed it, but he did not acknowledge this. "Yes, that he thought his nephew was a bastard." Again he glared at Henry. "Am I right? 'You bastard.' Weren't those his last words?"
Henry rose from the chair, upsetting it. He stumbled backwards as the chair went over with a thud on the carpeted floor. He stared at Ramses, his mouth open, a low sound coming from him, half gasp, half moan.
"Good God," said Alex. "Mr. Ramsey, you go too far."
"Do I?" asked Ramses, watching Henry.
"Henry, you're drunk, old man," Alex said. "I should help you to your room."
"Please do not do this," Julie whispered. Elliott was studying both of them. He had not so much as looked up at Henry, who turned now and half stumbled towards the far door.
Alex stared at his plate, his face reddening.
"Mr. Ramsey, I think there's something you must understand," Alex said.
"What is that, young man?"
"Julie's father was plainspoken with those he loved." Then something dawned on him. "But ... you weren't there when he died, were you? I thought Henry was with him. Alone."
Elliott was silent.
"My, but this is going to be a very interesting trip," Alex said lamely. "I must confess--"
"It's going to be a disaster!" Julie said. She could take this no more. "Now, listen to me. All of you. I don't want any more talk of marriage; or of my father's death. I've had quite enough of both." She rose to her feet. "You must forgive me, but I'm leaving you now. I'll be in my cabin if you should need me." She looked down at Ramses. "But no more talk of these things, is that clear?"
She gathered up her small evening bag and walked slowly through the dining room, ignoring those who were staring.
"Oh, this is dreadful," she heard Alex say behind her. And then he was at her side. "I am so sorry, darling, really! Things just got out of hand."
"I want to go to my room, I told you," she said, walking faster.
Nightmare. You are going to wake up, back in London, safe, and none of this will have happened. You did what you had to do. That creature is a monster and must be destroyed.
He stood at the bar waiting for the Scotch, which seemed to be taking forever, and then he looked up and saw him--that thing, that thing that wasn't human, standing in the door.
"Never mind," he growled under his breath. He turned and rushed through the little carpeted corridor to the deck. Slam of the door behind him, the thing was coming after him. He turned, his face stung by the wind, and almost fell on the narrow metal steps. The thing was only a few feet away from him, those big glassy blue eyes staring at him. He ran up the steps, the wind working against him as he ran along the deserted deck.
Where was he going? How would he get away from it? He pushed open another door into a little corridor. Numbers he didn't recognize on the polished doors of the staterooms. He looked back; the thing had entered the corridor; it was pounding after him.
"Damn you." His voice was a whimper. Out on the deck again and this time the wind was so damp it was like ra
in. He couldn't see where he was going. He clutched the railing for a moment, looking down at the boiling grey sea.
No! Get away from the railing. He rushed along until he saw another doorway, and ducked inside again. He felt the vibration right behind him, heard the thing breathing. His gun, where the hell was his gun?
Turning, he fumbled in his pocket. The thing had hold of him. Dear God! He felt a large warm hand close over his. The gun was wrenched out of his fingers. Groaning, he slumped against the wall, but the thing held him up by his lapel, peering into his face. An ugly light flashed through the porthole of the door, illuminating the thing in irregular bursts.
"A pistol, am I correct?" the thing said to him. "I read of it when perhaps I should have been reading of Oxford, egomania, aspirin and Marxism. It fires a small projectile of metal at high speed, as the result of intense combustion within the chamber behind the projectile. Very interesting, and useless when you are dealing with me. And were you to fire it, men would come and want to know why you did it."
"I know what you are! I know where you came from."
"Oh, you do! Then you realize that I know what you are. And what you have been up to! And I have not the slightest scruple about carrying you down to the coal furnaces which fuel this magnificent ship and feeding you to the fires which drive us now into the cold Atlantic."
Henry's body convulsed. With every muscle he struggled, but he could not free himself from the hand that now locked on his shoulder, gently crushing the bones.
"Listen to me, foolish one." The thing drew in closer. He could feel its breath on his face. "Harm Julie and I shall do it. Make Julie cry and I shall do it! Make Julie frown and I shall do it! For the sake of Julie's peace of mind, you live. There is nothing more to it. Remember what I say."
The hand released him. He slumped towards the floor, only catching himself before he actually fell. He gritted his teeth, his eyes closing as he felt the warm stickiness inside his pants, and smelled his own waste. His bowels had cut loose.
The thing stood there, its face veiled in shadow as it studied the gun which it held out to the grey light from the porthole in the door. Then it pocketed the gun and turned on its heel and left him.
A wave of sickness rose; he saw blackness.
When he awoke he was crouched in the corner of the passage. No one had passed, it seemed. Trembling, dizzy, he climbed to his feet and made his way to his stateroom. And once there he stood over the small toilet vomiting up the contents of his stomach. Only then did he strip off his soiled clothes.