Pyramid Scheme by Dave Freer and Eric Flint

So: they’d continuously questioned the man for more than an hour. So: every statement was ruthlessly shredded, and assumed to be false until corroborated. The grilling was similar, if milder, to that which a graduate student would have faced for their oral dissertation. And Tremelo wouldn’t have minded if he’d been the witness. In fact, if anything, he was intensely jealous that he hadn’t seen it. But it was true that he believed with a frightening intensity in the rightness of research.

Tremelo sat back. “Right. I think we want to try and establish physical and psychological profiles for these victims, as well as examining their background. We need a team on this. Eddie, you head it up. Phil, how’s the gamma ray group getting on?”

One of the others shook his head and grimaced. “Simmons is squalling for more equipment.”

“Well, get it for him, then!” Tremelo’s eyes grew unfocused again. “But I get the feeling that that avenue of research is going to lead nowhere. There’s something about the way this damned thing selects its victims . . . ”

He started pacing back and forth slowly, his hands shoved into the lab coat’s pockets. “It seems haphazard, but I’m willing to bet it isn’t. There’s something—something—”

He stopped his pacing. “Especially something about the people in this latest group! Six of them still haven’t come back. Why?”

He came to a decision and turned to one of his assistants. “First thing you do, Eddie, is track down the close relatives and friends of those six people. I want to talk to them, as soon as possible.”

PART III

First witch: Where has thou been, sister?

Second witch: Killing swine.

—William Shakespeare, Macbeth

15

Killing me softly with their song.

The black ship rode the gentle waves about a mile out to sea. The crew had shipped oars and only the helmsman was at work, using the steady breeze to carry them along the coastline. The cliffs had been left behind and now the coast was the white of sandy beaches and dunes topped with the gray-green of marram grasses.

The seasickness and accompanying nausea had gone and Jerry was wishing he had a horse to eat—or even a bowl of cornflakes. But at least the next stop was Aeaea, where Odysseus had promised to get them a good feasting with plenty of meat and sweet wine from Circe. Tastes had changed a tad from Homer’s day, thought Jerry. What he was really craving was a peanut butter sandwich and a cup of coffee. It had been good of the paratroopers to share some of their rations which had survived the transition—but split six ways, and being conservative, it wasn’t a lot.

On reflection, Odysseus was being very obliging. It made Jerry extremely suspicious. But he was so tired . . . he’d just rest a bit. They’d be safe for a while now, anyway.

* * *

He awoke to find that the wind had dropped. The sea was glassy, and the only sound was the arrhythmic sound of oars. Odysseus’ crew seemed to be struggling to row in time. No one was calling the stroke. Jerry concluded it was the silence that had woken him. The Achaeans were always talking, and if they rowed, they called the stroke. Now they rowed in silence. It had also become cool and the coastline was shrouded in a soft clinging mist. The sandy point and marram-clad dunes were gray and ghostly, even though Odysseus’ ship lay barely a hundred yards off the shore.

“It’s eerie, isn’t it?” said Liz, from her post in the bow. “It’s almost as if someone is singing in the distance.”

It struck Jerry like a bucket of cold water. He was suddenly very wide awake. “Sirens!”

Only Lamont knew exactly what Jerry meant. But it didn’t need much explaining. The singing was clearer now. And the Achaeans rowed stolidly on.

“The bastards have got beeswax in their ears!” snapped Jerry. The cunning Odysseus had hit on a novel way to get rid of his debts.

“Do we try to block our ears?” asked Lamont.

“I don’t think it’ll work. But I’ll tie you to the mast.” Jerry looked around for a rope.