Pyramid Scheme by Dave Freer and Eric Flint

Again, he listened to the voice. This time, for perhaps fifteen seconds.

“Excellent, Mrs. Jackson. I’ll have someone there at two o’clock.” A few more seconds of the voice. “Oh, you won’t be able to miss them, ma’am. Look for some paratroopers in a Humvee.”

A few more seconds. Very pungent, those.

Tremelo’s smile grew positively arctic. “By all means. Be my guest.”

He placed the telephone back on the receiver and walked back to his office. At the door, he paused and turned back upon the troll.

“I do suggest you not place any obstacles in the way of Mrs. Jackson, when she shows up here later today. Really I do.”

He managed to keep a straight face. Even a solemn one. “Mrs. Jackson was quite precise. In a colorful sort of way. She says she’ll either get the red carpet treatment when she arrives, or she’ll make herself one. Ah, the source of the pigment will apparently involve, to use her expression, someone’s new asshole.”

He turned away. “Not mine.”

PART V

To the hell dogs that couch beneath his throne,

cast that fair prey.

—Percy Bysshe Shelley,

“The Daemon of the World”

24

A grave undertaking.

They sailed due south for Hades with a crew full of lamentations and hangovers, and a pair of sacrificial sheep. With a fair wind to carry them, they crossed the river of ocean and came at last to a bleak coastline shrouded in a swirling mist.

McKenna peered into the world of gray. “Jeez, I wish this stuff would blow away.”

“It never does,” said Jerry. “This is the frontier of the world. It’s supposed to be beyond where the sun shines.”

“So this is where the monkey puts his nuts!” said Liz. “They said it was a place where the sun don’t shine.” She was exceptionally moody today. One minute up, and the next snapping your head off. Jerry wished he could be sure why. But then he’d always found women to be slightly more confusing than calculus.

* * *

They sailed into a river mouth. On the low banks, groves of tall black poplars loomed out of the mist. It was a bleak place, enough to sink anyone’s spirits. The talk dried up. The water was still and oily, covered in a network of floating willow-catkins. Unnaturally long and dark catkins. “The Acheron,” said Odysseus. “I go no further.” There was a level of implacable grimness in that statement, which let them all know that they’d reached the edge of how far they could push him.

Medea took a deep breath. “Very well. Set us ashore. And then wait beside your black ship. I place this geas on you. Surely none of you will ever return to the lands where the sun shines, if you abandon us.” She began chanting sonorously, flicking droplets of red wine from her fingers.

A low moan went up from the sailors.

“I think they might just be here when we get back,” said Cruz.

“They have a reputation for being recidivists of the worst order,” said Jerry, darkly.

Medea scowled. “Indeed. That’s Hellenes for you.”

The hull of the black ship grated on the coarse sand. Jerry and his companions helped to haul the ship up. Then they set out through the gloom between the black poplars towards the place where the River of Lamentation joined the River of Flaming Fire.

Henri was not terribly keen. He offered to remain at the ship as he particularly wanted to examine the black foliage of the plants. As a botanist . . .

“Typical frog-eater,” said McKenna, dismissively. “Got no guts.”

The cold mist was lightened by the apoplectic Henri’s flaming red face. “How dare you, you insolent puppy? How dare you?” He stood on tiptoe to bristle his eyebrows at McKenna’s chin. And then, pulling in his ample supply of guts, he turned. “I will lead. I will be your guide. For the honor of la belle France!”

Unfortunately, the drama of the occasion was immediately ruined. Charging ahead, Henri stepped unwarily into a muddy stream.

“Oh! Merde! My shoes! This place it is terrible! Oh my shoes, my shoes. The leather will be completely ruined! Oh, this is terrible. Even my socks they are muddy.”