Pyramid Scheme by Dave Freer and Eric Flint

Liz looked at the vessel and shook her head. “It looks like a thin wooden banana. I could make a fortune here as a boat designer.”

Lamont struggled to board the ship. “I can’t even walk in this stupid tight dress. This is a dumb, dumb idea.”

“Are you in Dis-dress, Lamont?” asked Jerry.

Lamont was less than amused. “I should toss you to the crocodiles, Jerry.”

“I think he’s skirting the issue,” offered Liz.

Jerry snorted. “Dressed like that, you never know what it might be. But I’d better say no more. I might get kilt.”

Liz groaned. “Why did I ever join in this ridiculous punfest?”

Jerry smiled. “Because you like them?”

Liz shook her head. “Who ever admitted to liking puns?”

* * *

Liz was far more impressed by the vessel now that she was aboard. “Not one nail. It’s amazing. This ship is held together with strips of linen. Like a mummy.”

Henri Lenoir shuddered. “Madame, I do not think I wish to know this. A few pieces of linen between my person and the crocodiles? Not even the finding of something the locals call ‘wine’ can adequately comfort me. Although,” he said, drinking some from the jar, “I shall do my best to insulate myself from water, both inside me as well as out.”

33

Heavy on the soul, please.

Despite his professional interest, Jerry really wasn’t all that keen on going to Duat and the land of the justified dead. People who made that trip generally wound up working in the rich fields of Osiris. . . .

Perhaps it was worth doing the trip just for the scenery and the architecture. If you liked massive, blocky architecture. And immense pillars crowned with stone palm leaves, the details picked out in reds, and blues and gold foil. And lots and lots of other bright colors.

The white statues of Greece had once been brightly painted, Jerry knew. The paintings and murals to be seen in modern Egypt are magnificent. But they’re old. These were bright and new. Red and blue pennants fluttered from the temple pillars. The walls gleamed with glass and semiprecious stone murals. There was gold foil on anything that there could be any excuse to put it on. And every flat surface, pillar and lintel was carved and set with murals or hieroglyphs.

The whole thing looked like some immense jeweled insect, against the stark and barren desert cliffs that loomed above the verdant valley.

The colonnaded temple was cool after their brief walk in the blazing sun. Cool and reeking of incense.

They were greeted by Anubis. He grinned toothily at them. “Welcome to the hall of double justice. I have news for you . . . ”

Isis had come up behind him. “Ah, here they are. There is a soul that has come to face psychostasia. Osiris has been awaiting your arrival. He is from none of the forty-two nomes. We think he may come from your nome.”

“I was not aware that I had a nome,” said Henri, with a genteel hiccup.

“I bin through the desert on a horse with no nome . . . “Lamont had also been dipping deeply. He was much worse off than Henri, as he was normally not much of a drinking man. The Frenchman had a well-trained liver; Lamont didn’t.

In a way, it was Liz’s fault that Lamont was reeling drunk. She’d told him that the “beer” was like the African beer of her homeland. Perhaps Lamont had felt it incumbent on him to prove his roots. He’d drunk the stuff—with distaste. Then he’d had some more . . . on the ship he’d topped it off with lots of wine. He hardly noticed that he was dressed in women’s clothing anymore.

“‘Cause in the desert you cain’t remember your nome . . . ” he sang tunelessly, cheerfully.

“Indeed. You are very right, Lady! I am sorry that I did not realize that you were in disguise when we met beside my husband’s body. Come. We will give you a winding sheet. The soul must be questioned. You shall act as one of the judges.”

Lamont hiccupped, and veered into another song. “Show me the way to go nome . . . “