Pyramid Scheme by Dave Freer and Eric Flint

* * *

Henri Lenoir was sitting propped up against the pillows, being fussed over by three nurses in crisp whites. By the gleam in the Frenchman’s eye he was already engaging in thoughts not at all in congruence with the ECG monitoring equipment, the IV drip, and oxygen mask.

“He’s very weak,” snapped the doctor. “His heartbeat is erratic. Try and keep it as brief as possible.” She plainly had no intention of leaving the room of her celebrity patient. Doctors are allowed to be curious too.

Henri patted his doctor’s hand avuncularly. She just happened to be titian-haired and more than slightly attractive. “Ah, Madeleine, my dear. Just a peck on the cheek from you, and my heart would beat more strongly. It would give an old man a reason to live.”

Well, thought Tremelo, the guy certainly appeared to have his wits. “Dr. Lenoir—”

“Call me Henri. I have to your American familiarity become so accustomed in the last while.”

He took a couple of panting breaths and continued. “I suppose you want to know about what happens within the pyramid. I will tell you. But first you must bring to me a bottle of Chateau Lafitte. From one of the great years.” He went off in a paroxysm of coughing.

The doctor shook her head, angrily. “I utterly forbid it.”

But Lenoir was determined. “One small taste will do me no harm, Madeleine, petit. Just one small taste, please.”

Milliken, who had also come to the hospital, was a man of decision. He turned to one of his men. “Johnson. Get it for us, please.”

Miggy thrust his hands into his pockets. “Do you think this is wise, Mr. Milliken? The doctor has advised against it.”

“Professor Tremelo, I know the type. You’ll get nothing out of him unless you go along with him. And this guy has definitely got all his marbles. We need that story out of him.”

Henri chuckled weakly.

The doctor shooed them out.

* * *

Henri Lenoir held the glass with its perfect ruby liquid in one unsteady hand. He pulled aside the oxygen mask and straightened his goatee and mustachios with a practiced if shaky gesture. He pushed aside the attempt to put the mask back. “To nose this,” he panted, “will do me more good than any oxygen. This is the bouquet of the very lifeblood of la belle France. Ah! Magnifique!”

It did indeed seem to do him good. His voice sounded stronger when he spoke again. “I am afraid, good gentlemen, that I have—how do you say it?—’pulled you on a fast one.’ ” He smiled. “The story you already have. She is exactly as I have written it down.” He put the glass to his lips with a beatific expression on his pale face.

Henri Lenoir died for the second time. But the glass that fell to the floor was empty.

PART IX

. . . there to dwell,

In adamantine chains and penal fire,

Who durst defy the Omnipotent to arms.

—John Milton,

Paradise Lost, First Book

43

Prometheus bound.

The bleak mountain crest was full of a craggy Titan. Looking at him, Jerry knew that whatever went into Titan construction it wasn’t ordinary flesh and blood. Jerry was glad to see the guy. It hadn’t been rock-climbing—not exactly—but the last section of the mountain, up bleak rocky slopes and icy gullies had been steep, treacherous and exhausting. Without the sphinx and the dragons, it would have been impossible. But now it was already well into the afternoon. They’d have to get off this peak before dark. With or without the big guy.

The eagle pecking at his liver hadn’t even seen them. Or heard them coming, either, as Prometheus had been bellowing in pain.

Jerry looked at it worriedly. He’d forgotten about the creature. “How do we deal with Zeus’ eagle?”

Cruz held up a bow, retrieved from the sheep-savaged bandits. “I can try. I’m a pretty terrible shot so far.”

Jerry had been part of the practice team back at the cave where they’d stayed the night. Cruz was by far the best shot, but hitting an eagle on the wing might be a challenge beyond most experienced archers.