Pyramid Scheme

by Eric Flint

  The seasickness and accompanying nausea had gone and Jerry was wishing he had a horse to eat—or even a bowl of cornflakes. But at least the next stop was Aeaea, where Odysseus had promised to get them a good feasting with plenty of meat and sweet wine from Circe. Tastes had changed a tad from Homer's day, thought Jerry. What he was really craving was a peanut butter sandwich and a cup of coffee. It had been good of the paratroopers to share some of their rations which had survived the transition—but split six ways, and being conservative, it wasn't a lot.

  On reflection, Odysseus was being very obliging. It made Jerry extremely suspicious. But he was so tired . . . he'd just rest a bit. They'd be safe for a while now, anyway.

  * * *

  He awoke to find that the wind had dropped. The sea was glassy, and the only sound was the arrhythmic sound of oars. Odysseus' crew seemed to be struggling to row in time. No one was calling the stroke. Jerry concluded it was the silence that had woken him. The Achaeans were always talking, and if they rowed, they called the stroke. Now they rowed in silence. It had also become cool and the coastline was shrouded in a soft clinging mist. The sandy point and marram-clad dunes were gray and ghostly, even though Odysseus' ship lay barely a hundred yards off the shore.

  "It's eerie, isn't it?" said Liz, from her post in the bow. "It's almost as if someone is singing in the distance."

  It struck Jerry like a bucket of cold water. He was suddenly very wide awake. "Sirens!"

  Only Lamont knew exactly what Jerry meant. But it didn't need much explaining. The singing was clearer now. And the Achaeans rowed stolidly on.

  "The bastards have got beeswax in their ears!" snapped Jerry. The cunning Odysseus had hit on a novel way to get rid of his debts.

  "Do we try to block our ears?" asked Lamont.

  "I don't think it'll work. But I'll tie you to the mast." Jerry looked around for a rope.

  "And then?" Liz asked sarcastically. "What's going to happen to you?"

  Jerry shrugged. "It's my fault. I presume I'll jump overboard."

  Cruz shook his head. "That Odysseus isn't going to untie us, Dr. Lukacs, no matter who does the tying. We might as well stay loose."

  "And without you we haven't anyone who can speak Greek," pointed out Liz.

  Lamont stared intently at Jerry. "Listen, didn't somebody else get past the sirens? I'm trying to remember."

  "The Argonauts. Orpheus sang a song far sweeter than theirs. I can't carry a tune in a bucket, Lamont. And I've heard you `singing.' Can anyone else sing?"

  Lamont dived for his bundle and unearthed his precious boombox. "I don't think much of their voices so far. Let's see how they shape up against some real competition."

  He pressed the play button and turned the volume up. Suddenly, Tina Turner's voice boomed across the still water. "What's love got to do with it?"

  The mist seemed to waver. The melodious, but not top quality, club-standard singing was stilled, and replaced by a squawk.

  "—but a second-hand emotion—"

  It was a pretty good "I-am-a-bantam-and-have-just-laid-an-ostrich-egg" squawk. The sunlight suddenly cut through the mist, revealing a sandy marram meadow, flanked by three raised tumuli. The rank marram grew through the white bone piles that studded the meadow.

  "What's love got to do—"

  In the midst of this sat two very large birds—rather like overgrown penguins. They sported human heads. Female, to judge by the pale complexions and lack of beard. Hideous-looking things, really.

  "—got to do with it—"

  Expressions of surprise—then shock—then total outrage—and then rabid envy flighted across their gargoyle-ugly countenances.

  Jerry wasn't looking at the legendary sirens that had lured sailors to their death with their sweet voices. He was looking at the boombox.

  A golden nimbus clung about it. In the dancing shadows above the CD player you could see the singer. Tina Turner, her inimitable legs flashing and prancing, strutting her stuff. Big as life, and just as loud.

  "That's not a CD," he said in a choked voice to Liz. "That's the real thing. It's . . . it's a summoning or something."

  Liz laughed. "No wonder the sirens are outclassed! Real singing must be rare in these days. Nonexistent, I'd say. And will you look at those damn Achaeans!"

  Not even the wax in their ears could keep Odysseus and his men from hearing Tina Turner. But judging from their bulging eyes, Jerry thought it was her legs which had them mesmerized.

  Lamont, McKenna and Cruz didn't notice. They were too busy leaning over the gunwale, laughing as the plump sirens tossed their double flutes aside and waddled in haste towards the sea. They were flapping their wings frantically, but they were far too big to do more than short hops into the air. They plunged into the sea, swimming ducklike after the departing ship.

  Lamont reached a hand behind him and clicked the golden voice off. "Let's give them a bit of rap, boys, whaddaya say?"

  McKenna and Cruz grinned. A moment later, Lamont and the two soldiers were shuffling back and forth at the stern, doing an impromptu rap session.

  "Yo—bitch! I'm talking to you!

  "Swim all you want! Flop all you want!

  "Ain't getting none o' my—"

  Jerry found himself consumed by a deep longing for Bach's Brandenburg Concertos. Or Tina Turner. Anything.

  16

  The Enchanted Isle:

  no tradesmen or hawkers.

  By order: the management.

  Naturally enough, Odysseus had understated the distance to Aeaea. It was another cold, hard-decked night at sea before they saw Circe's isle. Having to scrounge food made Jerry uncomfortable in the extreme. He was glad when a forested island loomed out of the distance. It was green and pleasant looking in the bright midmorning sunshine.

  "Aeaea," said Odysseus, with all the air of a kindly gentleman who is doing you an enormous favor. "It is a safe place with kindly and hospitable people."

  "We won't mention beeswax in people's ears, will we," said Jerry, sarcastically. "We know about Circe, Odysseus." That was true enough. What they weren't sure about was how to persuade her to help them.

  "What's he saying?" demanded Salinas.

  After Jerry explained—and passed on his own misgivings about Odysseus' intentions—Salinas shook his head. "Meaning no disrespect, Dr. Lukacs, but I think you're taking much too negative an attitude here. These men are soldiers and they respect rank. And likewise we must respect rank. I've been doing my best to get onto good terms with Prince Odysseus. He's a powerful and influential man. We'd do well not to get on his bad side."

  Jerry blinked. There was no point in arguing with this guy. "You should concentrate on learning some classical Greek. And I think you should watch Odysseus."

  "Oh yes," said Salinas earnestly. "I'm planning to stick very close to him. Learn his ways, as it were."

  Toady up to him, you mean, thought Jerry sourly, but held his tongue. Instead, abruptly, he muttered a phrase in Greek. Then repeated it, more slowly and aloud.

  "That's the first classical Greek phrase you should learn, Lieutenant." He uttered the phrase again, this time slowly enough so that Salinas could follow. "What it means is: you are my friend."

  Salinas repeated it carefully, several times, until he thought he had it down. Nodding sagely all the while. "Yes! That's the very same phrase that Prince Odysseus has spoken to me. Several times, now. I was sure that's what it meant!"

  Jerry turned hastily to look at the sea. "We'll be on the beach in a few minutes. I think we want to stick together. This could be a dangerous place."

  "But I thought you said Prince Odysseus spent several months here?" asked Salinas.

  "He did indeed. I meant it could be dangerous for us," said Jerry dryly.

  Salinas scurried away. As soon as he left, Lamont approached.

  "What did that son of a bitch want, Jerry?"

  Jerry raised his eyes to heaven. "He's just telling us—again—how we ought to buddy up to Odysseus
."

  "Ha!"

  "Exactly," said the mythographer.

  * * *

  It was obvious, from the minute they'd hauled the ship up on the tiny beach next to an even tinier stream, that Odysseus and his crew had plans. A party of five set off, then and there, to show them the way to Circe. The rest of the crew was left on the beach. Pretending not to snigger.

  And it was Jerry, to his own irritation, who gave them the opening they were looking for.

  The path next to the small stream became steep quite rapidly. The island was heavily treed and the gorge was in deep shade. It was the kind of place that would have been heaven for a leisurely ramble. It was pure hell in hot pursuit of wiry and fit Achaeans, especially when you aren't in particularly great shape. The sun had been searing outside the little gorge. Here the rocks were clad in velvety moss, and the trail was hung with ferns beaded with droplets from the tiny waterfalls. Beautiful. It was also as slippery as an expensive lawyer.

  The place Jerry chose to lose his footing was about as bad a spot as possible. They'd climbed up a steep section, away from the stream, because the stream bed was choked with a couple of enormous boulders. They'd just got to the point where the path had leveled out slightly, and they were traversing in towards the stream above the boulders. Below the path the slope wasn't actually a cliff—because it was so thickly vegetated. It was still at about an eighty-degree angle.

  The leaf-mould edge beneath Jerry's feet gave way. He had a brief moment of frantically grabbing handfuls of vegetation, and then the slope disappeared into a blur of snapping small trees and cascading plants. Then he felt a sharp pain in his leg and then . . . blessed oblivion.

  * * *

  He awoke against a soft and mammaceous cushion. It smelled slightly sweaty but somehow . . . feminine. He opened his eyes. Liz was peering down at him. It was her breast that he was cradled against. "Are you all right?" she asked.

  Pain lanced up from the leg that rough hands were manipulating. "My leg."

  "I don't think it's broken," said McKenna, squatting nearby. "Some nasty lacerations. I'm not so sure about your ankle."

  Jerry moved it, warily. It was sore but it moved. He tried to stand up. His head was definitely still whirly.

  "Stay still," said Liz gruffly. Jerry wondered if he'd cracked his skull. The tough cookie looked like she'd been crying.

  Cruz and Lamont came up the slope. Lamont was severely out of breath. Cruz wasn't. "Lost them, I'm afraid," he said grimly.

  "Not"—pant—"a sign of them." Lamont looked at Jerry. "You okay, Dr. Lukacs?"

  It was strange how the formalities slipped in again. Jerry blinked. "Fine, Lamont. Well. A bit sore and a bit dizzy. I think I hit my head."

  "You're lucky to be alive," snapped Liz.

  "Um. I'm sorry," Jerry apologized humbly.

  She smiled. "S'all right. I don't think you were alive on purpose, somehow. Actually, I think Ody helped you on your way."

  Jerry looked up at the slope that he'd obviously glissaded down. "Where is Odysseus?"

  Liz shrugged. "Gapped it. Along with the lieutenant."

  Jerry swallowed. His mouth tasted of blood. "They took Salinas?"

  Cruz snorted and shook his head. " `Took him,' my ass. He scampered right after them, Doc."

  "Chickened out on us," said Lamont grimly. "Wanted to stick to `Prince Odysseus.' "

  Jerry managed a weak grin. "He chickened out? What a fowl fellow."

  Liz groaned. "The puns have started again. He must be feeling better."

  Jerry felt a sudden sharp reluctance to move his head. The cushion was—splendid. Duty calls. He forced himself to sit erect. "Yes. I am."

  "What do we do now?" asked McKenna.

  Liz stood up. "Well, there's no sense in chasing after Odysseus. They know their way around here, and we don't. And I'll bet the ship isn't on the beach any more either. So: I'm going to have a bath. And I suggest you put that ankle into the stream. The water is pretty cold. That'll reduce the swelling a bit. I've got some soap in my bag and a couple of sachets of shampoo, if anyone else wants to wash."

  "And then?" asked Lamont.

  Liz shrugged. "And then we'll strap up that ankle and go looking for Circe, or something to eat. Whichever comes first."

  When Liz had made up her mind on a course of action, you might as well follow it. It was too much like hard work not to. Besides . . . at least she was decisive.

  * * *

  As she walked away, Liz allowed the knot in her stomach to ease slightly.

  She was scared, unhappy, and—worst of all—confused. She didn't like being out of her depth. But, as she'd learned the hard way on that first two-month stint as an observer on a Spanish vessel down in the Southern Ocean, you didn't let it show. And you didn't let yourself get upset. Get angry instead. This place was making her positively waspish. Ichneumonid wasp, to judge by the effect it was having on her waistline.

  That thought led to another. She was sick of being filthy.

  Besides, she decided, a bath always cleared her thoughts. She was starting to think like a stupid schoolgirl. Her idle attraction to McKenna was one thing. She'd always had a bit of a soft spot for tall, handsome men and had, now and then, indulged herself. Not that she'd had any intention at all of doing so, under these circumstances, because it would be sure to create problems. She had precious little respect for women, or men for that matter, who let lust overpower their brains. Still, she found Mac physically very attractive.

  She pondered on that thought idly, for a moment. It was a product of her background, she supposed. Her former husband had been, physically anyway, very similar. It had taken her nearly two years to come to terms with the fact that, other than appreciating his body, she didn't really like the guy. And now she was behaving in her typical "can you dominate me?" fashion with this corporal. Fortunately he didn't even seem to understand the game, because she really had no interest in it herself.

  But this other business, now. That was a different thing altogether. And, under the circumstances . . .

  She snorted. Sure to create problems? Say better: disaster.

  Fortunately, the water looked cold. Quite cold enough, she thought, to squelch silliness.

  She walked about thirty yards downstream, just out of sight. There was a bath-shaped pool etched out of the sandstone, complete with a miniature waterfall shower. It looked like it was meant for her. She stripped off, took the little bar of traveling soap out of her bag, and jumped in. It was even colder than she'd expected.

  The soap smelled odd. Still, it worked. The water was too cold to stay in. Freeze an improper thought solid, it would. She stood up and soaped.

  And realized somebody was leering lasciviously at her.

  Well—something, anyway. The lower half was very definitely goat, down to the cloven hooves and tangled black curly fur leggings. The protruding evidence suggested that it was as randy as one. It had devilish twisted goaty horns curling up out of the dark hair. The horns went well with the loose-lipped expression.

  Liz reacted instinctively. The shoulder bag was lying on the far bank. She grabbed the strap and swung. She swung with all her strength and screamed bloody blue murder.

  If she'd hit any harder the satyr would have had two extra Adam's apples. As it was, his flute went flying and he doubled over, lost his footing, and then fell into the pool. She leaped for the far bank, as running footsteps came pounding down from where she'd left the others.

  * * *

  As luck would have it, Cruz and McKenna were away higher up the slope, scouting. Lamont had been strapping up Jerry's ankle with a strip of shirt. He'd just finished this makeshift job, when Liz shrieked. He and Jerry both flew to the rescue. Well, tried to. Lamont, in his first three steps, peeled a section of moss off a rock and tumbled into a mess of washed-out roots. That left Jerry, hobbling and swearing, heading to the rescue in a sort of stumbling run.

  Jerry was thus first on the scene. And quite a scene it was. />
  There, against a backdrop of wild violets, was Liz. Clad only in a few soapsuds, militantly swinging her shoulder bag.

  She took a horrified look at him. Dropped her bag. Attempted to cover herself with inadequate hands, while stuttering and turning puce. And then, in desperation, as the others arrived, she jumped into the pool.

  Unfortunately, it was still rather full of groaning and spluttering satyr. Having a hundred and forty-two pounds of embarrassed girl land on his back was not at all the reception the satyr had been planning on. With a squeal, he dragged himself out of the pool and hurtled his dripping way past Cruz and McKenna before bounding off into the woods.

  "What are you staring at?" shrieked Liz.

  Jerry tried to looked away. Failed miserably.

  Outraged, Liz repeated the question. Pedantry came to his rescue.

  "Well. You."

  17

  This little piggy went to market.

  McKenna shrugged his shoulders. "Yeah. I thought it wouldn't be that hard to track them. I grew up on a farm, but it wasn't like this." He hefted the bayonet-tipped spear.

  Jerry eyed the weapon a bit skeptically. After they'd lost Odysseus, the two paratroopers had taken the time to make themselves spears of sorts. What the paratroopers called the 550 cord in their rucks was no longer nylon parachute cord. It was . . . something else. But, whatever it was, it did an adequate job of binding their bayonets to longer shafts than their useless M16s provided. But Jerry was dubious that the bayonet-tipped former branches were going to be of much use in any real fracas.

  Still—they were soldiers, and he wasn't. And, at the moment, he deeply envied their superb physical condition. Neither Cruz nor McKenna exhibited a trace of Jerry's own feeling of semi-exhaustion.

  The path had led out to a tableland of mixed forest, oaks and beech trees, trackless and silent—except for the cicadas, who made up for the absence of other sounds in spades. The trouble was that it was all alike. Jerry had no idea any longer which direction they'd even come from. His ankle was so damned sore and he was really, really hungry as well as tired. They needed to take some kind of action. Decisive action.