Pyramid Scheme by Dave Freer and Eric Flint

“Let’s get the hell out of here,” said McKenna. “Before she sobers up.”

“The idea is one of remarkable sense,” agreed Henri. “This place, how do you say, ‘gives me the willy.’ ”

“Willies,” corrected Jerry.

“Ah? You have it too?”

* * *

“HRRRRRR.” The rumbling that came from Cerberus’ throats made mere basso profundo seem like treble. “And where do you lot think you’re going?” asked the middle head.

“We thought we would go and take a little of the night air,” said Henri. “It is very close in here.”

“And very close is where you stay,” said the left head.

“And do try that little spear, dark one. Do,” pleaded the right.

“We haven’t had new souls for a long, long time,” snarled the center head.

“Not for ages. Did you know that we are immortal?” said left head. “You can’t kill us.”

The right head missed his chance to speak because he was nibbling at fleas, the huge fangs champing at coarse fur.

“Lord Hades will return from Olympus soon. He sits in council with his brothers,” said the center head.

“Great things are afoot.” The left head eyed them hungrily. “Hades will be receiving many new souls.”

“These gods-bedamned fleas are driving me demented,” said the right hand head, obviously ordering a scratch of the ear.

“So how do we get out of here, Doc?” asked Cruz in an undervoice.

Jerry looked worried. “Honey cakes can distract him.”

“Damn. I knew I’d forgotten something. What about half a transformed Hershey bar?” volunteered Liz, digging in her bag.

They broke the sticky honey-scented papyrus-wrapped thing in three.

“Right, guys.” McKenna and Cruz and Lamont had been given the task of throwing. “On the count of three . . . ”

Four seconds later it was painfully obvious that they’d need a whole crate of mythworld-type Hershey bars.

“Okay, Doc,” grumbled McKenna. “Next?”

“Hermes’ caduceus and Orpheus’ sweet music on the lyre were supposed to soothe him,” said Jerry doubtfully.

Liz looked at the big dog. “Well, Hermes seems to be involved with who or whatever is trying to capture or kill us. So I don’t think that likely. What about music?”

“How do you feel about Tina Turner, dog?” asked Lamont, grinning.

The music played. The dog appeared no less vigilant. “Don’t like singing,” said the central head.

“Got anything instrumental?” asked the left head.

“Strings are good. Damn these fleas.”

“You got anything else, Lamont?” asked McKenna.

Lamont was staring at the air where the shade of Tina Turner had appeared. “Tina doesn’t do it, I don’t imagine Donna Summers will either,” he mused. Doubtfully: “I could try some Miles Davis . . . ”

Cruz looked at the dog, weighing chances. “Doc?”

He shook his head. “I’m fresh out of ideas, Anibal.”

Liz cleared her throat loudly. “What about something for those fleas? I happen to be an expert on fleas.”

She had all three heads’ focused attention. “If you can do something about these fleas, you can go,” said the central head.

“You personally, that is,” said the head on the right.

“More than our job is worth to let all of you go,” added the left head, wrinkling its nose.

“Very well,” Liz said, calmly. “Fleabane. Some advice and a good long scratch in all those hard to reach spots.”

She turned to look in her bag. “You guys make like a banana, while I deal with this,” she said in an undervoice.

“What?” asked a puzzled Jerry.

“Make like a banana,” she said urgently. “Split. South African idiom. Our canine acquaintance is aurally sensitive but a trifle microcephalic.”

“What are you talking about, flea-girl?” demanded Cerberus.

“My friends want to know if I have your promise to let me go,” said Liz, without a quaver.

“Promise.”

“Swear to the gods.”

“By the Styx.”

“Oaths sworn on the Styx are binding,” said Jerry.

Liz walked forward calmly. “Very well. This will drive the fleas off and kill them on contact. But it is important that you break the life cycle of the flea. Now, I wonder if you know . . . ” She continued to speak softly while rubbing the fleabane, wormwood and rue mixture into the huge dog’s rough fur.