Pyramid Scheme by Dave Freer and Eric Flint

Jerry had the dreadful feeling that a practical joke had gone way too far.

“Ah, did he say . . . ” He cleared his throat, smiled apologetically, and repeated the phrase he had taught the police lieutenant.

“Yes, indeed!” Circe’s teeth were showing. “Twice!”

Jerry looked very apologetic. “It’s my fault. I taught him to say that. And I told him it meant ‘I am your friend.’ ”

Circe’s eyes narrowed. She picked up her wand. “Why?”

“Well, he was ass-kissing—I mean, being servile and obsequious to Odysseus, because he saw him as being the most powerful person around. So I, ah, played a practical joke on him. I thought he’d say it to Odysseus.”

There was a silence. Then Medea and Circe burst into riotous laughter. After a moment, the rest began joining in, all staring in surprise at the red-faced academic.

“I’m really very sorry . . . ” said Jerry in a small voice.

Circe continued to laugh. “Come.” She rose, her shoulders still heaving. “Why not? Eventually I even felt sorry for Odysseus and his verminous crew. They behaved like ravening beasts and such they became.” She shrugged. “It is the nature of the magic to make the beast reflect the inner man.”

They went around to the pigsties. “Most of these are just ordinary pigs. I keep the transformed ones apart in this sty. They’ve got a regrettable tendency to become human again when slaughtered.”

They were greeted with enthusiastic, frantic squeals from one of the two denizens of the sty. It was a small, blotchy Vietnamese pot-bellied miniature pig, weeping and snorting at them in almost equal quantities. The other, a large bristly hog, planted both feet in the trough and alternated between suspicious glances at them and angry, hasty mouthfuls.

Jerry bent over the small pig that was becoming quite asthmatic in its squeaking, snorting, and jumping up. “I’m sorry, Lieutenant. It was a stupid practical joke.” The pig shook its head furiously and squeaked like an accordion on acid.

“I think,” said Liz, “that he’s trying to tell you he isn’t Salinas.” She turned to the larger, sleekly-fat, white porker. “Come, Lieutenant, let’s make a man of you . . . such as you are. I’m sure you’ll be ecstatic. We’ve got hardships, dangers and privations to face. Mortal peril. Companions to stand by. Women to defend . . . ”

The large pig retreated into the far corner of the sty, where it stood with bared teeth. Pigs have quite awesome teeth.

“I’d say that Landrace is definitely our lieutenant,” said McKenna, the only one of them that would know one pig breed from another. “And I’d also say he’s very happy as a pig right now. He’s in no danger. He can get both feet in the trough and he’s bigger than all the other piggies around.”

Circe nodded, while smearing salve onto the little pig, which was now mercifully still and quiet. “Besides, I’ve been using him to improve the quality of my broodstock.”

The bristles of the little pig began to fall away. The person who stood up from the smelly mud of the sty was not unlike the piggy from whence he came. If Jerry recalled the Odyssey correctly, the pigs that became men again were supposed to be younger, handsomer and taller. The imagination boggled at what the previous version must have been like—if this was an improvement . . .

The plump gentleman with the very Gallic moustache and goatee stepped gingerly up to the gate. “Mon dieu! This is the most terrible affront of the dignity. Un cochon! Given,” he shuddered, “acorns to eat. Only in America could this happen to one. In France we treat our visiting botanists with greater respect. The management of the University of Chicago will hear of this.”

He bowed to Circe. “Thank you. I will not say enchanté.”

“What did he say?” Circe asked.

“He said ‘thank you,’ ” said Liz, sparing the Frenchman a possible return to pigdom.

Circe looked him up and down. “You know, he was more attractive as a pig than as a man. He was quite cute as a pig. He was an excessively greedy guest. But at least he is polite.”