The Discworld Series (№7) - Pyramids

'Why do they bother to bolt the doors?' he demanded, eyeing the pillars. 'That's what I want to know. I'm surprised you didn't wander back to your cell while I was in there.'

'I — I don't want to die,' she said quietly.

'Don't blame you.'

'You mustn't say that! It's wrong not to want to die!' Teppic glanced up at the roof around the courtyard and unslung his grapnel.

'I think I ought to go back to my cell,' said Ptraci, without actually making any move in that direction. 'It's wrong even to think of disobeying the king.'

'Oh? What happens to you, then?'

'Something bad,' she said vaguely.

'You mean, worse than being thrown to the crocodiles or having your soul taken by the Soul Eater?' said Teppic, and caught the grapnel firmly on some hidden ledge on the flat roof.

'That's an interesting point,' said Ptraci, winning the Teppic Award for clear thinking.

'Worth considering, isn't it?' Teppic tested his weight on the cord.

'What you're saying is, if the worst is going to happen to you anyway, you might as well not bother any more,' said Ptraci. 'If the Soul Eater is going to get you whatever you do, you might as well avoid the crocodiles, is that it?'

'You go up first,' said Teppic, 'I think someone's coming.'

'Who are you?'

Teppic fished in his pouch. He'd come back to Djeli an aeon ago with just the clothes he stood up in, but they were the clothes he'd stood up in throughout his exam. He balanced a Number Two throwing knife in his hand, the steel glinting in the flarelight. It was possibly the only steel in the country; it wasn't that Djelibeybi hadn't heard about iron, it was just that if copper was good enough for your great-great-great-great— grandfather, it was good enough for you.

No, the guards didn't deserve knives. They hadn't done anything wrong.

His hand closed over the little mesh bag of caltraps. These were a small model, a mere one inch per spike. Caltraps didn't kill anyone, they just slowed them down a bit. One or two of them in the sole of the foot induced extreme slowness and caution in all except the terminally enthusiastic.

He scattered a few across the mouth of the passage and ran back to the rope, hauling himself up in a few quick swings. He reached the roof just as the leading guards ran under the lintel. He waited until he heard the first curse, and then coiled up the rope and hurried after the girl.

'They'll catch us,' she said.

'I don't think so.'

'And then the king will have us thrown to the crocodiles.'

'Oh no, I don't think-' Teppic paused. It was an intriguing idea.

'He might,' he ventured. 'It's very hard to be sure about anything.'

'So what shall we do now?'

Teppic stared across the river, where the pyramids were ablaze. The Great Pyramid was still under construction, by flarelight; a swarm of blocks, dwarfed by distance, hovered near its tip. The amount of labour Ptaclusp was putting on the job was amazing.

What a flare that will give, he thought. It'll be seen all the way to Ankh.

'Horrible things, aren't they,' said Ptraci, behind him.

'Do you think so?'

'They're creepy. The old king hated them, you know. He said they nailed the Kingdom to the past.'

'Did he say why?'

'No. He just hated them. He was a nice old boy. Very kind. Not like this new one.' She blew her nose and replaced her handkerchief in its scarcely adequate space in her sequinned bra.

'Er, what exactly did you have to do? As a handmaiden, I mean?' said Teppic, scanning the rooftop panorama to hide his embarrassment.

She giggled. 'You're not from around here, are you?'

'No. Not really.'

'Talk to him, mainly. Or just listen. He could really talk, but he always said no-one ever really listened to what he said.'

'Yes,' said Teppic, with feeling. 'And that was all, was it?'

She stared at him, and then giggled again. 'Oh, that? No, he was very kind. I wouldn't of minded, you understand, I had all the proper training. Bit of a disappointment, really. The women of my family have served under the kings for centuries, you know.'

'Oh yes?' he managed.

'I don't know whether you've ever seen a book, it's called The Shuttered-'

'-Palace,' said Teppic automatically.

'I thought a gentleman like you'd know about it,' said Ptraci, nudging him. 'It's a sort of textbook. Well, my great— great-grandmother posed for a lot of the pictures. Not recently,' she added, in case he hadn't fully understood, 'I mean, that would be a bit off-putting, she's been dead for twenty-five years. When she was younger. I look a lot like her, everyone says.'

'Urk,' agreed Teppic.

'She was famous. She could put her feet behind her head, you know. So can I. I've got my Grade Three.'

'Urk?'

'The old king told me once that the gods gave people a sense of humour to make up for giving them sex. I think he was a bit upset at the time.'

'Urk.' Only the whites of Teppic's eyes were showing.

'You don't say much, do you?'

The breeze of the night was blowing her perfume towards him. Ptraci used scent like a battering ram.

'We've got to find somewhere to hide you,' he said, concentrating on each word. 'Haven't you got any parents or anything?' He tried to ignore the fact that in the shadowless flarelight she appeared to glow, and didn't have much success.

'Well, my mother still works in the palace somewhere,' said Ptraci. 'But I don't think she'd be very sympathetic.'

'We've got to get you away from here,' said Teppic fervently. 'If you can hide somewhere today, I can steal some horses or a boat or something. Then you could go to Tsort or Ephebe or somewhere.'

'Foreign, you mean? I don't think I'd like that,' said Ptraci.

'Compared to the netherworld?'

'Well. Put like that, of course . . .' She took his arm. 'Why did you rescue me?'

'Er? Because being alive is better than being dead, I think.'

'I've read up to number 46, Congress of the Five Auspicious Ants,' said Ptraci. 'If you've got some yoghurt, we could-'

'No! I mean, no. Not here. Not now. There must be people looking for us, it's nearly dawn.'

'There's no need to yelp like that! I was just trying to be kind.'

'Yes. Good. Thank you.' Teppic broke away and peered desperately over a parapet into one of the palace's numerous light wells.

'This leads to the embalmers' workshops,' he said. 'There must be plenty of places to hide down here.' He unwound the cord again.

Various rooms led off the well. Teppic found one lined with benches and floored with wood shavings; a doorway led through to another room stacked with mummy cases, each one surmounted by the same golden dolly face he'd come to know and loathe. He tapped on a few, and raised the lid of the nearest.

'No-one at home,' he said. 'You can have a nice rest in here. I can leave the lid open a bit so you can get some air.'

'You can't think I'd risk that? Supposing you didn't come back!'

'I'll be back tonight,' said Teppic. 'And — and I'll see if I can drop some food and water in some time today. She stood on tiptoe, her ankle bangles jingling all the way down Teppic's libido. He glanced down involuntarily and saw that every toenail was painted. He remembered Cheesewright telling them behind the stables one lunch-hour that girls who painted their toenails were . . . well, he couldn't quite remember now, but it had seemed pretty unbelievable at the time.

'It looks very hard,' she said.

'What?'

'If I've got to lie in it, it'll need some cushions.'

'I'll put some wood shavings in, look!' said Teppic. 'But hurry up! Please!'

'All right. But you will be back, won't you? Promise?'

'Yes, yes! I promise!'

He wedged a splinter of wood on the case to allow an airhole, heaved the lid back on and ran for it.

The ghost of the king watched him go.

The sun rose. As the golden light spilled down the fertile valley of the Djel the pyramid flares paled and became ghost dancers against the lightening sky. They were now accompanied by a noise. It had been there all the time, far too high-pitched for mortal ears, a sound now dropping down from the far ultrasonic KKKkkkkkkhhheeee. . .

It screamed out of the sky, a thin rind of sound like a violin bow dragged across the raw surface of the brain.

kkkkheeeeeee. . .

Or a wet fingernail dragged over an exposed nerve, some said. You could set your watch by it, they would have said, if anyone knew what one was.

. . .keeee. . .

It went deeper and deeper as the sunlight washed over the stones, passing through cat scream to dog growl.

. . .ee. . . ee. . . ee.

The flares collapsed.

. . .ops.

'A fine morning, sire. I trust you slept well?'

Teppic waved a hand at Dios, but said nothing. The barber was working through the Ceremony of Going Forth Shaven.

The barber was trembling. Until recently he had been a one— handed, unemployed stonemason. Then the terrible high priest had summoned him and ordered him to be the king's barber, but it meant you had to touch the king but it was all right because it was all sorted out by the priests and nothing more had to be chopped off. On the whole, it was better than he had thought, and a great honour to be singlehandedly responsible for the king's beard, such as it was.

'You were not disturbed in any way?' said the high priest. His eyes scanned the room on a raster of suspicion; it was surprising that little lines of molten rock didn't drip off the walls.

'Verrr-'

'If you would but hold still, O never-dying one,' said the barber, in the pleading tone of voice employed by one who is assured of a guided tour of a crocodile's alimentary tract if he nicks an ear.

'You heard no strange noises, sire?' said Dios. He stepped back suddenly so that he could see behind the gilded peacock screen at the other end of the room.

'Norr.'

'Your majesty looks a little peaky this morning, sire,' said Dios. He sat down on the bench with the carved cheetahs on either end. Sitting down in the presence of the king, except on ceremonial occasions, was not something that was allowed. It did, however, mean that he could squint under Teppic's low bed.

Dios was rattled. Despite the aches and the lack of sleep, Teppic felt oddly elated. He wiped his chin.

'It's the bed,' he said. 'I think I have mentioned it. Mattresses, you know. They have feathers in them. If the concept is unfamiliar, ask the pirates of Khali. Half of them must be sleeping on goosefeather mattresses by now.'

'His majesty is pleased to joke,' said Dios.

Teppic knew he shouldn't push it any further, but he did so anyway.

'Something wrong, Dios?' he said.

'A miscreant broke into the palace last night. The girl Ptraci is missing.'

'That is very disturbing.'

'Yes, sire.'

'Probably a suitor or a swain or something.'

Dios's face was like stone. 'Possibly, sire.

'The sacred crocodiles will be going hungry, then.' But not for long, Teppic thought. Walk to the end of any of the little jetties down by the bank, let your shadow fall on the river, and the mud-yellow water would become, by magic, mud-yellow bodies. They looked like large, sodden logs, the main difference being that logs don't open at one end and bite your legs off. The sacred crocodiles of the Djel were the kingdom's garbage disposal, river patrol and occasional morgue.

They couldn't simply be called big. If one of the huge bulls ever drifted sideways on to the current, he'd dam the river.

The barber tiptoed out. A couple of body servants tiptoed in.

'I anticipated your majesty's natural reaction, sire,' Dios continued, like the drip of water in deep limestone caverns.

'Jolly good,' said Teppic, inspecting the clothes for the day. 'What was it, exactly?'

'A detailed search of the palace, room by room.'

'Absolutely. Carry on, Dios.'

My face is perfectly open, he told himself. I haven't twitched a muscle out of place. I know I haven't. He can read me like a stele. I can outstare him.

'Thank you, sire.'

'I imagine they'll be miles away by now,' said Teppic. 'Whoever they were. She was only a handmaiden, wasn't she?'

'It is unthinkable that anyone could disobey your judgements! There is no-one in the kingdom that would dare to! Their souls would be forfeit! They will be hunted down, sire! Hunted down and destroyed!'

The servants cowered behind Teppic. This wasn't mere anger. This was wrath. Real, old-time, vintage wrath. And waxing? It waxed like a hatful of moons.

'Are you feeling all right, Dios?'

Dios had turned to look out across the river. The Great Pyramid was almost complete. The sight of it seemed to calm him down or, at least, stabilise him on some new mental plateau.

'Yes, sire,' he said. 'Thank you.' He breathed deeply. 'Tomorrow, sire, you are pleased to witness the capping of the pyramid. A momentous occasion. Of course, it will be some time before the interior chambers are completed.'

'Fine. Fine. And this morning, I think, I should like to visit my father.'

'I am sure the late king will be pleased to see you, sire. It is your wish that I should accompany you.'

'Oh.'

It's a fact as immutable as the Third Law of Sod that there is no such thing as a good Grand Vizier. A predilection to cackle and plot is apparently part of the job spec.

High priests tend to get put in the same category. They have to face the implied assumption that no sooner do they get the funny hat than they're issuing strange orders, e.g., princesses tied to rocks for itinerant sea monsters and throwing little babies in the sea.

This is a gross slander. Throughout the history of the Disc most high priests have been serious, pious and conscientious men who have done their best to interpret the wishes of the gods, sometimes disembowelling or flaying alive hundreds of people in a day in order to make sure they're getting it absolutely right.

King Teppicymon XXVII's casket lay in state. Crafted it was of foryphy, smaradgine, skelsa and delphinet, inlaid it was with pink jade and shode, perfumed and fumed it was with many rare resins and perfumes It looked very impressive but, the king considered, it wasn't worth dying for. He gave up and wandered across the courtyard.

A new player had entered the drama of his death.

Grinjer, the maker of models.

He'd always wondered about the models. Even a humble farmer expected to be buried with a selection of crafted livestock, which would somehow become real in the netherworld. Many a man made do with one cow like a toast rack in this world in order to afford a pedigree herd in the next Nobles and kings got the complete set, including model carts, houses, boats and anything else too big or inconvenient to fit in the tomb. Once on the other side, they'd somehow become the genuine article.

The king frowned. When he was alive he'd known that it was true. Not doubted it for a moment Grinjer stuck his tongue out of the corner of his mouth as, with great care, he tweezered a tiny oar to a perfect 1/80th scale river trireme. Every flat surface in his corner of the workshop was stacked with midget animals and artifacts; some of his more impressive ones hung from wires on the ceiling.

The king had already ascertained from overheard conversation that Grinjer was twenty-six, couldn't find anything to stop the inexorable advance of his acne, and lived at home with his mother. Where, in the evenings, he made models. Deep in the duffel coat of his mind he hoped one day to find a nice girl who would understand the absolute importance of getting every detail right on a ceremonial six-wheeled ox cart, and who would hold his glue-pot, and always be ready with a willing thumb whenever anything needed firm pressure until the paste dried.

He was aware of trumpets and general excitement behind him. He ignored it. There always seemed to be a lot of fuss these days. In his experience it was always about trivial things. People just didn't have their priorities right. He'd been waiting two months for a few ounces of gum varneti, and it didn't seem to bother anyone. He screwed his eyeglass into a more comfortable position and slotted a minute steering oar into place.

Someone was standing next to him. Well, they could make themselves useful .

'Could you just put your finger here,' he said, without glancing around. 'Just for a minute, until the glue sets.'

There seemed to be a sudden drop in temperature. He looked up into a smiling golden mask. Over its shoulder Dios's face was shading, in Grinjer's expert opinion, from No.13 (Pale Flesh) to No.37 (Sunset Purple, Gloss).

'Oh,' he said.

'It's very good,' said Teppic. 'What is it?'

Grinjer blinked at him. Then he blinked at the boat.

'It's an eighty-foot Khali-fashion river trireme with fishtail spear deck and ramming prow,' he said automatically.

He got the impression that more was expected of him. He cast around for something suitable.

'It's got more than five hundred bits,' he added. 'Every plank on the deck is individually cut, look.'

'Fascinating,' said Teppic. 'Well, I won't hold you up. Carry on the good work.'

'The sail really unfurls,' said Grinjer. 'See, if you pull this thread, the-'

The mask had moved. Dios was there instead. He gave Grinjer a short glare which indicated that more would be heard about this later on, and hurried after the king. So did the ghost of Teppicymon XXVII.

Teppic's eyes swivelled behind the mask. There was the open doorway into the room of caskets. He could just make out the one containing Ptraci; the wedge of wood was still under the lid.

'Our father, however, is over here. Sire,' said Dios. He could move as silently as a ghost.

'Oh. Yes.' Teppic hesitated and then crossed to the big case on its trestles. He stared down at it for some time. The gilded face on the lid looked like every other mask.

'A very good likeness, sire,' prompted Dios.

'Ye-ess,' said Teppic. 'I suppose so. He definitely looks happier. I suppose.'

'Hallo, my boy,' said the king. He knew that no-one could hear him, but he felt happier talking to them all the same. It was better than talking to himself. He was going to have more than enough time for that.

'I think it brings out the best in him, O commander of the heavens,' said the head sculptor.

'Makes me look like a constipated wax dolly.'

Teppic cocked his head on one side.

'Yes,' he said, uncertainly. 'Yes. Er. Well done.'

He half-turned to look through the doorway again.

Dios nodded to the guards on either side of the passageway.

'If you will excuse me, sire,' he said urbanely.

'Hmm?'

'The guards will continue their search.'

'Right. Oh-'

Dios bore down on Ptraci's casket, flanked by guards. He gripped the lid, thrust it backwards, and said, 'Behold! What do we find?'

Dil and Gern joined him. They looked inside.

'Wood shavings,' said Dil.

Gern sniffed. 'They smell nice, though,' he said.

Dios's fingers drummed on the lid. Teppic had never seen him at a loss before. The man actually started tapping the sides of the case, apparently seeking any hidden panels.

He closed the lid carefully and looked blankly at Teppic, who for the first time was very glad that the mask didn't reveal his expression.

'She's not in there,' said the old king. 'She got out for a call of nature when the men went to have their breakfast.'

She must have climbed out, Teppic told himself. So where is she now?

Dios scanned the room carefully and then, after swinging slowly backwards and forwards like a compass needle, his eyes fixed on the king's mummy case. It was big. It was roomy. There was a certain inevitability about it.

He crossed the room in a couple of strides and heaved it open.

'Don't bother to knock,' the king grumbled. 'It's not as if I'm going anywhere.'

Teppic risked a look. The mummy of the king was quite alone.

'Are you sure you're feeling all right, Dios?' he said.

'Yes, sire. We cannot be too careful, sire. Clearly they are not here, sire.'

'You look as if you could do with a breath of fresh air,' said Teppic, upbraiding himself for doing this but doing it, nevertheless. Dios at a loss was an awe-inspiring sight, and slightly disconcerting; it made one instinctively fear for the stability of things.

'Yes, sire. Thank you, sire.'

'Have a sit down and someone will bring you a glass of water. And then we will go and inspect the pyramid.'

Dios sat down.

There was a terrible little splintering noise.

'He's sat on the boat,' said the king. 'First humorous thing I've ever seen him do.'

The pyramid gave a new meaning to the word 'massive'. It bent the landscape around it. It seemed to Teppic that its very weight was deforming the shape of things, stretching the kingdom like a lead ball on a rubber sheet.

He knew that was a ridiculous idea. Big though the pyramid was, it was tiny compared to, say, a mountain.

But big, very big, compared to anything else. Anyway, mountains were meant to be big, the fabric of the universe was used to the idea. The pyramid was a made thing, and much bigger than a made thing ought to be.

It was also very cold. The black marble of its sides was shining white with frost in the roasting afternoon sun. He was foolish enough to touch it and left a layer of skin on the surface.

'It's freezing!'

'It's storing already, O breath of the river,' said Ptaclusp, who was sweating. 'It's the wossname, the boundary effect.'

'I note that you have ceased work on the burial chambers,' said Dios.

'The men . . . the temperature . . . boundary effects a bit too much to risk . . .' muttered Ptaclusp. 'Er.'

Teppic looked from one to the other.

'What's the matter?' he said. 'Are there problems?'

'Er,' said Ptaclusp.

'You're way ahead of schedule. Marvellous work,' said Teppic. 'You've put a tremendous amount of labour on the job.'

'Er. Yes. Only.'

There was silence except for the distant sounds of men at work, and the faint noise of the air sizzling where it touched the pyramid.

'It's bound to be all right when we get the capstone on, the pyramid builder managed eventually. 'Once it's flaring properly, no problem. Er.'

He indicated the electrum capstone. It was surprisingly small, only a foot or so across, and rested on a couple of trestles.

'We should be able to put it on tomorrow,' said Ptaclusp. 'Would your sire still be honouring us with the capping-out ceremony?' In his nervousness he gripped the hem of his robe and began to twist it. 'There's drinks,' he stuttered. 'And a silver trowel that you can take away with you. Everyone shouts hurrah and throws their hats in the air.

'Certainly,' said Dios. 'It will be an honour.'

'And for us too, your sire,' said Ptaclusp loyally.

'I meant for you,' said the high priest. He turned to the wide courtyard between the base of the pyramid and the river, which was lined with statues and stelae commemorating King Teppicymon's mighty deeds18, and pointed.

'And you can get rid of that,' he added.

Ptaclusp gave him a look of unhappy innocence.

'That statue,' said Dios, 'is what I am referring to., 'Oh. Ah. Well, we thought once you saw it in place, you see, in the right light, and what with Hat the Vulture-Headed God being very-'

'It goes,' said Dios.

'Right you are, your reverence,' said Ptaclusp miserably. It was, right now, the least of his problems, but on top of everything else he was beginning to think that the statue was following him around.

Dios leaned closer.

'You haven't seen a young woman anywhere on the site, have you?' he demanded.

'No women on the site, my lord,' said Ptaclusp. 'Very bad luck.'

'This one was provocatively dressed,' the high priest said.

'No, no women.'

'The palace is not far, you see. There must be many places to hide over here,' Dios continued, insistently.

Ptaclusp swallowed. He knew that, all right. Whatever had possessed him.

'I assure you, your reverence,' he said.

Dios gave him a scowl, and then turned to where Teppic, as it turned out, had been.

'Please ask him not to shake hands with anybody,' said the builder, as Dios hurried after the distant glint of sunlight on gold. The king still didn't seem to be able to get alongside the idea that the last thing the people wanted was a man of the people. Those workers who couldn't get out of the way in time were thrusting their hands behind their back.

Alone now, Ptaclusp fanned himself and staggered into the shade of his tent.

Where, waiting to see him, were Ptaclusp IIa, Ptaclusp IIa, Ptaclusp IIa and Ptaclusp IIa. Ptaclusp always felt uneasy in the presence of accountants, and four of them together was very bad, especially when they were all the same person. Three Ptaclusp IIbs were there as well; the other two, unless it was three by now, were out on the site.

He waved his hands in a conciliatory way.

'All right, all right,' he said. 'What are today's problems?'

One of the IIas pulled a stack of wax tablets towards him 'Have you any idea, father,' he began, employing that thin; razor-edged voice that accountants use to preface something unexpected and very expensive, 'what calculus is?'

'You tell me,' said Ptaclusp, sagging on to a stool.

'It's what I've had to invent to deal with the wages bill, father,' said another IIa.

'I thought that was algebra?' said Ptaclusp.

'We passed algebra last week,' said a third IIa. 'It's calculus now. I've had to loop myself another four times to work on it, and there's three of me working on-' he glanced at his brothers — 'quantum accountancy.'

'What's that for?' said his father wearily.

'Next week.' The leading accountant glared at the top slab. 'For example,' he said. 'You know Rthur the fresco painter?'

'What about him?'

'He — that is, they — have put in a bill for two years' work.'

'Oh.'

'They said they did it on Tuesday. On account of how time is fractal in nature, they said.'

'They said that?' said Ptaclusp.

'It's amazing what they pick up,' said one of the accountants, glaring at the paracosmic architects.

Ptaclusp hesitated. 'How many of them are there?'

'How should we know? We know there were fifty-three. Then he went critical. We've certainly seen him around a lot.' Two of the IIas sat back and steepled their fingers, always a bad sign in anyone having anything to do with money. 'The problem is,' one of them continued, 'that after the initial enthusiasm a lot of the workers looped themselves unofficially so that they could stay at home and send themselves out to work.'

'But that's ridiculous,' Ptaclusp protested weakly. 'They're not different people, they're just doing it to themselves.'

'That's never stopped anyone, father,' said IIa. 'How many men have stopped drinking themselves stupid at the age of twenty to save a stranger dying of liver failure at forty?'

There was silence while they tried to work this one out.

'A stranger-?' said Ptaclusp uncertainly.

'I mean himself, when older,' snapped IIa. 'That was philosophy,' he added.

'One of the masons beat himself up yesterday,' said one of the IIbs gloomily. 'He was fighting with himself over his wife. Now he's going mad because he doesn't know whether it's an earlier version of him or someone he hasn't been yet. He's afraid he's going to creep up on him. There's worse than that, too. Dad, we're paying forty thousand people, and we're only employing two thousand.'

'It's going to bankrupt us, that's what you're going to say,' said Ptaclusp. 'I know. It's all my fault. I just wanted something to hand on to you, you know. I didn't expect all this. It seemed too easy to start with.'

One of the IIas cleared his throat.

'It's . . . uh . . . not quite as bad as all that,' he said quietly.

'What do you mean?'

The accountant laid a dozen copper coins on the table.

'Well, er,' he said. 'You see, eh, it occurred to me, since there's all this movement in time, that it's not just people who can be looped, and, er, look, you see these coins?'

One coin vanished.

'They're all the same coin, aren't they,' said one of his brothers.

'Well, yes,' said the IIa, very embarrassed, because interfering with the divine flow of money was alien to his personal religion. 'The same coin at five minute intervals.'

'And you're using this trick to pay the men?' said Ptaclusp dully.

'It's not a trick! I give them the money,' said IIa primly. 'What happens to it afterwards isn't my responsibility, is it?'

'I don't like any of this,' said his father.

'Don't worry. It all evens out in the end,' said one of the IIas. 'Everyone gets what's coming to them.'

'Yes. That's what I'm afraid of,' said Ptaclusp.

'It's just a way of letting your money work for you,' said another son. 'It's probably quantum.'

'Oh, good,' said Ptaclusp weakly.

'We'll get the block on tonight, don't worry,' said one of the IIbs. 'After it's flared the power off we can all settle down.'

'I told the king we'd do it tomorrow.' The Ptaclusp IIbs went pale in unison. Despite the heat, it suddenly seemed a lot colder in the tent.

'Tonight, father,' said one of them. 'Surely you mean tonight?

'Tomorrow,' said Ptaclusp, firmly. 'I've arranged an awning and people throwing lotus blossom. There's going to be a band. Tocsins and trumpets and tinkling cymbals. And speeches and a meat tea afterwards. That's the way we've always done it. Attracts new customers. They like to have a look round.'