Phaester Osiris The door slammed shut and the psi-projectors locked on maximum as soon as he was in the capsule. There was no meeting, no dissuasion, no concession. A trick to lure Osiris into the pyramid and then launch it into s.p.a.ce.

Osiris looked round the bare interior of the capsule and felt the floor shudder under his feet. It was just an empty sh.e.l.l. There were no sensors, no projection dome, no psi-tronic particle accelerators. It was a plain pyramid structure powered by a remote psi projection.

The mind of Sutekh.

'A childish stratagem, my brother,' Osiris hissed, shaking his jackal-head. It was a mere thought to project himself back to Phaester Osiris.

His eyes glowed with the trivial effort. Then flared angrily as he felt another mind reach out like a hand and smother his thought in a fist of malevolent mental energy. It was unshaking, constant and solid. He was trapped.

The atmosphere was becoming noticeably thinner. For all his powers, Osiris needed to breathe. He gasped and clawed for air as he considered the options. It could not be happening. Sutekh's mental power was projecting the capsule. Great though his powers were, he could not project the capsule through s.p.a.ce and cloud Osiris's mind at the same time. He had to have an accomplice, another Osiran was helping Sutekh.

But who would dare? Who would risk everything by a.s.sisting Sutekh the Destroyer, the Lord of Death?

As he felt the faint chuckle of laughter in his mind's ear, Osiris knew. He fought to suppress the sound.

The walls of the capsule were blurring before his eyes as he struggled to breathe. Isis would come after him, of course. But by then it would be too late. All his sister-wife would find would be his body, the mind wrenched from it by death. Unless there was another receptacle close enough for him to project into. He could not break free of the grip enough to project his whole form, but perhaps his mind...

Osiris sank to his knees. And the laughter of his sister Nephthys rang unhindered in his head.

Chapter Seven.

Bakr was suddenly awake. He knew he had been sleeping with the clarity of thought and senses that only comes in the second of re-awakening.

Immediately he was on his feet, and looking round.

Something had disturbed his rest. Probably it was just a gust of wind, but it might be a jackal or some other potential danger. Since he was the lookout, he should be aware of whatever it was. If he failed to give the alarm in good time, he could forfeit some or all of his meagre wages. And that was all the money he and his family would have to live on for the next month at least.

All seemed in order. The breeze was getting up now after the calm earlier in the evening. Bakr completed a second tour of the camp without incident, and made his way finally towards the excavations. He paused on the ridge above the entrance to the pyramid, and peered down into the pit.

Again, all was quiet. But just as Bakr was about to move away, a faint glow caught his eye. It was coming from the doorway into the pyramid. A trick of the light surely, a star reflecting from the darkly polished stone. But he had better check. There was nothing else to do, after all.

Bakr stumbled his way down the steep side of the pit, his bare feet sinking into the soft ground and sending warm sand skidding down ahead of him.

He was forced to increase speed as he made his way down, and almost pitched over when he arrived at the bottom.

Regaining his balance, Bakr saw that the door into the pyramid was standing ajar. The faint glow he had noticed earlier was growing steadily brighter, and the wind rolled around the bottom of the excavations, moaning and buffeting its trapped way round the hollow.

Bakr edged closer to the doorway, stepping lightly and feeling the fear rising in his stomach. He leaned forward and peered round the edge of the door into the corridor beyond. With a sigh of relief that was lost in the sound of the wind, he saw that the glow came from an oil lamp held by the leading figure of a group of people heading down the corridor towards him.

a.s.suming that the party inside the pyramid consisted of Kenilworth and his colleagues, Bakr pushed the door fully open and raised a hand in greeting.

He was keen to show that he had been keeping his vigil efficiently enough to know that they were there. But as the figure carrying the lamp reached the entrance, Bakr could see that it was not Kenilworth.

It was Simons. Simons with skin so pale it almost glowed in the lamp light.

Simons with deep, dark sunken eyes which reflected nothing. Simons with sunken cheeks and dried blood down the side of his face and staining his jacket. Simons who had been dead for days.

Bakr was still struggling to understand what was happening, when Simons gave a short nod to the figure behind him. It stepped forward, out of the pyramid and in front of the light so that all Bakr could see was the silhouette. The silhouette of a huge frame, arms outstretched as they reached towards him. The enormous bandaged hands closed like clamps round Bakr's neck, and he felt the edges of the linen wrappings as they bit into his throat.

His choked cry drifted away, lost in the sound of the wind.

Atkins was awakened by the noise. He glanced at his pocket watch, laid out neatly on the chair beside his camp bed. It was early, too early for the camp to be rousing. But he could hear the Egyptians shouting to each other, though not clearly enough to make out what they were saying. He pulled on his clothes, checked his tie in a small shaving mirror resting beside a bowl of cold water, and set off towards the sound.

The Egyptian workers were all gathered round the supply tent. They seemed to be having a conference of some sort, huddled together and all talking at once. Kenilworth and Macready stood nearby, obviously having dressed hurriedly. Atkins guessed they too had been roused by the noise.

They were conversing in low tones with the Doctor, whose attire seemed as casually immaculate as ever.

'I'm sorry, sir, I failed to appreciate that there was an incident until just now.'

Kenilworth nodded to Atkins and completed his words to the Doctor. 'We still have some blasting dynamite from the excavations. I could arrange to blow the sand down into the pit and cover the entrance completely.'

The Doctor shook his head. 'No point, really. I think whatever it was has already happened. The desert will close up the excavation site and seal up the pyramid again in a week or two anyway.'

'We shall be long gone by then,' Macready said. 'Too late for - what did you say his name was?'

'Bakr,' Kenilworth said.

Atkins listened to the exchange in puzzlement. Bakr was one of the workers, a second cousin of Nebka. He was lazy and slept when he should be on watch, but neither of those traits marked him out to Atkins as unusual.

'May I ask what has occurred?' Atkins asked when it became clear that n.o.body was going to enlighten him.

'One of the workers got himself killed last night,' Macready said.

'Murdered,' Kenilworth added.

As Kenilworth said the word, everything round them went quiet, giving it emphasis and volume. Atkins could remember once chiding one of the maids about her sloppy service at table just as there was a lull in the dinner conversation so that his reprimand carried clear and loud across the dining room. The effect now was the same.

'Sir?'

'Strangled,' the Doctor said. 'Though it's a moot point whether he asphyxiated first or died of a broken neck.'

'The Egyptians aren't pleased.' Macready wiped his glistening brow.

'They're having some sort of debate about it.'

Kenilworth was looking round, aware of the sudden silence. 'Good job we're leaving today. Wake the others, would you Atkins. Tell them to pack up so we can leave as soon as possible.'

'Of course, sir.' He turned to go, and almost collided with Tegan as she ran up to them. Behind her Atkins could see Nebka standing alone by the supply tent.

'Hey,' said Tegan, 'what's going on? I was nearly knocked down just now by a herd of Egyptians running into the desert.'

They all looked towards the supply tent, where Nebka was shaking his head, waving his hands up and down, and starting towards them. Atkins knew now why it had become so quiet, knew what enthusiastic debate had been so vocal to begin with.

The Egyptians had gone.

Despite the dryness of the air, Simons' body was starting to smell. Ra.s.sul a.s.sumed that the heat did not help, and tried to keep upwind of him. The huge, bandaged service robots lumbered onwards without discomfort, and when they paused it was for Ra.s.sul and the two Egyptians to rest.

Simons periodically stopped and stared at the sky, as if taking bearings.

His cracked lips moved slightly as he spoke beneath what had been his breath.

On the third day following Kenilworth's expedition, Simons stumbled and almost fell. He gathered himself together immediately and continued. After the next time he paused to consult the heavens, he turned to Ra.s.sul.

'The power relay is not functioning at full capacity,' he said. 'Probably the sand that now buries so much of it is impeding its efficiency.'

'Is that why you are weakened?' Ra.s.sul asked. He had noticed Simons dragging his left foot slightly over the last few miles. Looking back, the marks Simons had left in the soft sand were skewed lines rather than imprints.

Simons nodded in reply. 'As the relics are taken from the tomb, so the power is dissipated.'

'What must we do?'

'The time is not yet,' Simons said, his bloodshot eyes drifting upwards again. 'When the time comes, as it must and will, you will collect the relics together with the mummy. But until then, to preserve the power, we must return at least some of them to the tomb to act as a focus for the psionic particle accelerator.'

'When do we need to do this?'

'Tonight.' Simons turned, and Ra.s.sul followed his gaze. In the middle distance, the four mummies continued their ponderous march forwards. 'I shall take the servicers and recover the relics.'

'And the woman,' asked Ra.s.sul, 'the mummy?'

'Her destiny is already charted.'

They were one day out from Cairo and Margaret Evans could not sleep.

She lay awake, knowing that she needed to sleep. But somehow that made it even more difficult to relax. The full moon outside shone in through the canvas of her tent, so that she could see the outline of the interior lit with a pale glow of diffuse light.

She stared at the low folding table on which her most precious belongings were laid out and tried to distinguish them in the gloom. Her mother's ring lay beside her day book. She could not see it, but she knew that sticking out slightly from the book, marking the current page, was the edge of a photograph. It was the only photograph she possessed and one of the few she had ever seen. It showed her father standing outside the Royal Society just before his acclaimed lecture on the discoveries at Saqqara in 1893.

And beside him, on the steps, stood Nicholas Simons. Margaret Evans took the photograph everywhere. And those who knew, quietly admired her quiet dedication to, and love of, her father.

As she struggled to make out the strip of card, imagining its faded sepia tones and remembering the occasions she had cried herself to sleep clutching it, Margaret Evans felt the edges of sleep beginning to come over her. She relaxed slightly, trying not to be aware that she was drifting off, afraid that if she admitted to herself that she was falling asleep she would be instantly awake again. The pillow was soft under her head and her night-gown and the blankets held the warmth to her. She felt herself slipping away, sinking into the thin mattress. Her view of the dim interior of the tent softened and darkened, the effect of falling asleep emphasized by the dark shadow cast against the far wall of the tent.

Someone was walking past the tent, their shadow cast by the moon against the canvas. It was stretched and distorted by the irregular shape of the material as it lurched its way past.

Margaret watched the figure's progress, barely aware that she was wide awake again. She pushed back the covers and pushed herself off the bed.

She had recognized the figure's shape.

She reached the front of the tent just as the figure pa.s.sed and continued its slow progress through the small camp. She called out, called him by name, and the figure stopped, turned, and walked slowly back towards her.

'It is you, I was sure it was. Oh I'm so relieved. What happened? Are you all right?' The figure stopped in front of her. His face was illuminated by the light from the moon, and Margaret could see the sunken eyes and the pallor of the skin. She was vaguely aware of the smell, too, but did not a.s.sociate the stench of rotting flesh with the man standing in front of her.

Simons said nothing. His expression did not alter.

Margaret sniffed, then shook her head to dispel the odour. Part of her mind was wondering how they could have been so wrong in their diagnosis of Simons' condition and wondered where he had been; most of it did not care. She shook her head, wiped her eye, and laughed in relief. 'I've missed you so much. So very much. We thought you were dead.'

She reached out for him, but Simons took a step backwards.

'I'm sorry. You're nervous, I know. But you seemed so confident as you walked past just now, so a.s.sured. I thought you were looking for me. I thought that you knew - that you understood -' She broke off and looked closer at Simons' gaunt face. The smell was stronger now and she was finding it difficult to breath without coughing.

Simons blinked, once. The skin round his eyes seemed to tighten and his brow creased as if in concentration. Had the light been better, Margaret might have seen the skin of his forehead cracking and breaking as it furrowed. Had her concentration not been entirely focused on Simons'

eyes, she might have smelled the colourless, viscous fluid which trickled down his cheek.

'Margaret,' he said. His voice was quiet and husky, and it sounded as if the word had been forced out of him. 'You are Margaret.'

'Of course,' she said. She stretched out her arms to him. 'Don't be nervous, don't avoid me. Not now.'

Simons moved forward, his hands reaching out. Margaret stepped back as he took her shoulders. She retreated into her tent, feeling the cold of his grasp through the material of her night-gown. She felt the camp bed against the backs of her knees and sat down on it.

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Simons lifted his hands slowly to her neck, and she closed her eyes, lifting her head towards his. She tried not to flinch when the stench grew stronger as he leaned forward, pushing her back on to the bed. Any moment she expected to feel his lips on hers, though she knew they would be pale and cold as death.

And when she opened her mouth, it was not to kiss, but to gasp desperately for breath.