Pyramid Scheme by Dave Freer and Eric Flint

“Forget it then,” said Cruz brusquely. “It’s a no-can-do.”

Jerry blinked. “We’ve got to try something.”

“Then try something else, Doc. That one’s not gonna work.”

Liz looked intently at the chain. “Jerry. You can’t break it. But can you change it? Pan always worked from scraps when he was making those instruments.”

His eyes gleamed. “You’re a genius, Liz!”

She gave a wry grin. “Yeah, and beautiful into the bargain.”

“Well, I think so,” said Jerry, leaving her blushing and himself amazed.

* * *

A triangle is the simplest of musical instruments. It also has an open corner.

Ten minutes later, Prometheus was free.

* * *

His triumphant laughter rang across the Caucasus. “Well, mortals. My thanks! I have been amply repaid for being the friend of mankind.”

Prometheus was large. Jerry was relieved to discover that he also seemed good-natured, despite the wound in his side.

“Who do you keep calling ‘mortal,’ you big oaf!” bellowed Bes.

The Titan peered at the dwarf, a smile creasing into familiar lines on his gigantic face. “I see I am mistaken. But I do not know you. You are not one of the Olympians, nor yet one of the Titans. Are you perhaps one of the giants?”

“You come down here and say that and I’ll punch your big nose for you! I’m a dwarf, I am, and I’m proud of it. And I’m from the land of Punt, and certainly not one of your foppish Olympians.”

“I can see I’m going to like you,” chuckled Prometheus. Then he grew . . . to at least three times the size he had been. “I am free of your binding, Zeus! Your chains are gone, and I am come into my powers again. Now, good rescuers, let us get off this mountain. I’d like to try the view from very nearly anywhere else. Can I give any of you a lift?”

44

Nymphomania.

Mac screamed. This is never wise when you are underwater. He fought too, with all the berserk strength that panic and fear could lend.

She was unbelievably strong. He struggled for a full five minutes before realizing that if he was going to drown, he would have done so already. And if she was a drowned woman, she wasn’t into decay. And that Arachne was tapping him on the shoulder. Smiling worriedly at him. But smiling. Exhausted, he let the woman pull him down to her bower in a grotto beneath the willow roots.

Down there, she let him go. Lungs full of water, he didn’t float away. He didn’t feel dead—or he didn’t think he felt dead. He certainly hadn’t gone back to the U.S. How come he was breathing water?

Arachne busied herself with tending to his foot. That bolt from Zeus must have come closer and been hotter than he’d realized. His footwear had been one of the big advantages on this trip. That certainly wasn’t true any more. Still, the ruined boot had saved him from having a cremated foot. The underwater-woman gave Arachne some green salve for it, and now Arachne was bandaging it.

Mac didn’t know what happened next, because, somehow, relaxing down there in the stream bed . . . he fell asleep, or passed out. Drowning—even when you don’t end up dead—takes it out of you.

He awoke to find himself on a bed of soft rootlets, canopied with drifts of algae. Sticking a hand out he realized that the water-woman had spared no effort to make it a comfortable resting spot. Warm water from somewhere played over the bed. The canopy of algae wasn’t just decorative. It served to keep the bed at least five degrees warmer than the stream. He was still cold.

A greenish hand with long, manicured fingernails pulled aside the curtain of algae. It was his hostess. And Arachne. He tried speaking. Some form of sound did issue from his mouth. Vocal chords designed to work on air found this fluid medium rather different. Pitch and volume were going to have to be learned anew.

His hostess was obviously accustomed to it . . . or perhaps designed for it. “Greetings, mortal. Do you want some help to remove all those ugly clothes?” she said archly.