Pyramid Scheme by Dave Freer and Eric Flint

With a low chuckle, she wandered off. Leaving Jerry simultaneously chagrined, confused—and quite happy.

* * *

Pan blocked his ears in horror at the testing phase. Lamont blew a note testing his mysterious and complex brass and reed instrument . . . “I think that’s a B flat.”

“Be flatulence, more like,” said Jerry with a grin. “Now what are we going to play, guys?”

Henri lifted a sneering lip. “Parsifal. Or perhaps ‘Götterdämmerung’ would be more appropriate.”

McKenna looked even more confused than the extra valves had any right to make him. “Huh?”

“Is that one of those old ‘Abba’ songs, maybe?” asked Liz with a perfectly straight face.

* * *

Pan had left them. He was not a sea god, and he was determined to gather a few like minds and try to reason with Zeus. And a brief encounter with Liz’s handbag was enough to convince him that naiads were more receptive to his charms.

Besides, he said, the noise was driving him to drink. He had left them with an amplifying spell, and he wanted to be gone before they used it. . . .

* * *

In the bow of Odysseus’ black ship, the new musical sensation was bickering about the really important stuff. When the gods are out to kill, you might as well be silly. The band needed a name.

Henri’s New York Philharmonic had been rejected unanimously. So had McKenna’s The Herb Boys. Argument now was centered on Non-serious Skews or The Gathering Moss.

The conches sounded. Debate was brought to an end with Cruz leaping to his feet. He hunched over his Pan-made instrument and struck chords. Or something approximately like chords.

“AAAH CAIN’T GET NO-WOOO . . . ”

“Merde! I do not know how to play this. Is this singing or some kind of fit?”

“It’s just a jam session.”

The Frenchman looked puzzled.

“Just play as well as you can and try and fit in.”

Henri drew the bow across the semi-violin. A shriek of tortured strings erupted from the device. “I will have to have a fit, too. This will be ‘raspberry jam’ no?”

But you could hardly hear him above the magically amplified shrill wail of the pipes and flatulent chorus of brass. Jerry, in his determination to give them all something to play along with, regardless of what speed they should desire to play at, thrashed away at the drums . . .

The Tritons disappeared, flinging conches.

On the shore, the Cyclops that Pan had lulled to sleep came pouring out of their scattered caves.

The first rock fortunately fell astern and surfing the wave took the black ship out of range.

“Holy Macaroni! I’m used to them throwing eggs and tomatoes. But rocks!” said Cruz.

Jerry smiled beatifically. “I always wanted to be in a rock band!”

The ship wallowed on a swell. Lamont blew a defiant flat note. “Jerry . . . This is rock and roll!”

Henri looked triumphant. “I think it was just a question of age. I was simply not ready for the violin. Now I feel it is my natural métier. Shall we give them, how do you say, another number?”

Odysseus wrung his hands. “Please. The crew says you can have all of their loot. Just no more music. Please. It is too far to swim for shore.”

* * *

Cruz was sitting in the bow talking to Medea. She was looking a trifle miserable. “It wouldn’t have been safe to bring the children. But I miss them terribly.”

“They’ll be fine,” said the stocky gorilla of a paratrooper, patting her hand gently. “Your aunt and Glauce will take good care of them.” He went on polishing the pair of hardwood batons linked with a short section of bespelled chain. Cruz had got the idea for the chain from Pan’s altering and “stretching” a cartridge into a trumpet. The chain had once been a few links on Liz’s handbag strap, before Medea had got to them.

“I know. But I can’t help worrying.” She looked at him with a wry smile. “You don’t miss your children?”

“I haven’t got any,” said Cruz, feeling as if he might be stepping into deep water.