Pyramid Scheme by Dave Freer and Eric Flint

It was strange how the formalities slipped in again. Jerry blinked. “Fine, Lamont. Well. A bit sore and a bit dizzy. I think I hit my head.”

“You’re lucky to be alive,” snapped Liz.

“Um. I’m sorry,” Jerry apologized humbly.

She smiled. “S’all right. I don’t think you were alive on purpose, somehow. Actually, I think Ody helped you on your way.”

Jerry looked up at the slope that he’d obviously glissaded down. “Where is Odysseus?”

Liz shrugged. “Gapped it. Along with the lieutenant.”

Jerry swallowed. His mouth tasted of blood. “They took Salinas?”

Cruz snorted and shook his head. ” ‘Took him,’ my ass. He scampered right after them, Doc.”

“Chickened out on us,” said Lamont grimly. “Wanted to stick to ‘Prince Odysseus.’ ”

Jerry managed a weak grin. “He chickened out? What a fowl fellow.”

Liz groaned. “The puns have started again. He must be feeling better.”

Jerry felt a sudden sharp reluctance to move his head. The cushion was—splendid. Duty calls. He forced himself to sit erect. “Yes. I am.”

“What do we do now?” asked McKenna.

Liz stood up. “Well, there’s no sense in chasing after Odysseus. They know their way around here, and we don’t. And I’ll bet the ship isn’t on the beach any more either. So: I’m going to have a bath. And I suggest you put that ankle into the stream. The water is pretty cold. That’ll reduce the swelling a bit. I’ve got some soap in my bag and a couple of sachets of shampoo, if anyone else wants to wash.”

“And then?” asked Lamont.

Liz shrugged. “And then we’ll strap up that ankle and go looking for Circe, or something to eat. Whichever comes first.”

When Liz had made up her mind on a course of action, you might as well follow it. It was too much like hard work not to. Besides . . . at least she was decisive.

* * *

As she walked away, Liz allowed the knot in her stomach to ease slightly.

She was scared, unhappy, and—worst of all—confused. She didn’t like being out of her depth. But, as she’d learned the hard way on that first two-month stint as an observer on a Spanish vessel down in the Southern Ocean, you didn’t let it show. And you didn’t let yourself get upset. Get angry instead. This place was making her positively waspish. Ichneumonid wasp, to judge by the effect it was having on her waistline.

That thought led to another. She was sick of being filthy.

Besides, she decided, a bath always cleared her thoughts. She was starting to think like a stupid schoolgirl. Her idle attraction to McKenna was one thing. She’d always had a bit of a soft spot for tall, handsome men and had, now and then, indulged herself. Not that she’d had any intention at all of doing so, under these circumstances, because it would be sure to create problems. She had precious little respect for women, or men for that matter, who let lust overpower their brains. Still, she found Mac physically very attractive.

She pondered on that thought idly, for a moment. It was a product of her background, she supposed. Her former husband had been, physically anyway, very similar. It had taken her nearly two years to come to terms with the fact that, other than appreciating his body, she didn’t really like the guy. And now she was behaving in her typical “can you dominate me?” fashion with this corporal. Fortunately he didn’t even seem to understand the game, because she really had no interest in it herself.

But this other business, now. That was a different thing altogether. And, under the circumstances . . .

She snorted. Sure to create problems? Say better: disaster.

Fortunately, the water looked cold. Quite cold enough, she thought, to squelch silliness.

She walked about thirty yards downstream, just out of sight. There was a bath-shaped pool etched out of the sandstone, complete with a miniature waterfall shower. It looked like it was meant for her. She stripped off, took the little bar of traveling soap out of her bag, and jumped in. It was even colder than she’d expected.