traveled would be greater. Once they were sixteen kilometers downstream, Ammon reduced speed to twenty knots, veered west, and headed for the Nile’s Rasheed branch.
While the boys argued about drag racing, Ava meticulously applied SPF 25 to her arms, legs, and neck. She tanned easily, but a full afternoon of direct Egyptian sun, even in the cooler February air, was too much for any Anglo. Paul took the hint, accepted a thick dollop, and slathered his exposed areas. He added a filthy baseball cap to shade his face.
When Ava gave him a look he said: “It’s my lucky cap.”
“Superstitious nonsense,” she muttered.
After three long hours on the water, Ammon cut the engine and docked near the farming village of Gezai. Paul gave the boys some Egyptian pounds and the teens jumped ashore to buy supplies. Meanwhile, Ava reclined, bathing in sunlight. Silence dominated, interrupted only by the sounds of the flowing river and regular creaks from the rope tethering them to the pier. Soon, Ammon and Sefu returned with ice, Cokes, beer, and gasoline. The cold drinks were delicious. Spirits renewed, the travelers continued across the vast delta. North of the Tamalay Bridge they entered a section of river overgrown with blue-green algae. Ammon cursed. Navigating here was a chore. The opaque algae grew thickest in the shallows, where underwater hazards lurked. Paul didn’t care for the odor. Judging from Ava’s expression, she was equally displeased. “I have a riddle,” he said, thinking to distract her.
“Let’s hear it.”
Paul reached across the skiff and lifted his olive-drab backpack. “If I tossed this into the river, would the water level rise or fall?”
Ava examined the item: sturdy canvas, leather straps, and a brass buckle worn smooth by use. She closed her eyes, crossed her legs, and arched her back. Slowly, she rolled her head from shoulder to shoulder, stretching her tired neck.
“Do we care about the boat or the water level?”
“Water level,” he said. “I’m asking: Will the water in the river go up or down?”
She concentrated for several seconds, then asked, “Does your backpack float?”
“I think so,” he answered, regarding the alga-infested channel with distaste, “but let’s not find out.”
“Provided it floats, the river’s level remains constant. If it sinks, the level drops.”
He laughed. “You nailed it.”
“Basic physics. When your backpack is tossed overboard—”
“Never mind. Want something harder?”
“Bring it.”
“You’re trapped in a castle. There are two doors. One goes to the exit, the other leads to a deadly tiger. Between the doors is a robot. Good robots always tell the truth. Bad robots always lie. The robot will answer one question. What do you ask?”
“Should I assume good and bad robots are identical in appearance?”
“Yes. Sorry, I forgot to say that. All robots look the same.”
Ava stretched both arms above her head, interlocking her fingers. She took a deep breath, held it, then slowly exhaled. She stared at the horizon for several minutes. Ammon had guided them out of the algal bloom. He was increasing speed. She turned to Paul and smiled before answering: “Pointing to either door, I’d say ‘Mr. Robot, if I asked you whether this door leads to the exit, what would you answer?’ A good robot would tell me the truth, meaning he’d say the exit was the exit and the tiger was the tiger. A bad robot would lie, but because bad robots always lie, he’d also lie about what he would say, rendering his meta-response truthful.”
“Are you some kind of witch? Who thinks of that?”
“Is it the right answer?”
“Maybe,” Paul muttered.
“Good. Now I get to ask one.” Paul made a face, but she went on. “It’s a classic. There’s an island. Every man on it has cheated on his wife.”
“Manhattan!”
Ava laughed. “No. Don’t interrupt! There are fifty couples on the island. Each woman knows instantly if a man
While the boys argued about drag racing, Ava meticulously applied SPF 25 to her arms, legs, and neck. She tanned easily, but a full afternoon of direct Egyptian sun, even in the cooler February air, was too much for any Anglo. Paul took the hint, accepted a thick dollop, and slathered his exposed areas. He added a filthy baseball cap to shade his face.
When Ava gave him a look he said: “It’s my lucky cap.”
“Superstitious nonsense,” she muttered.
After three long hours on the water, Ammon cut the engine and docked near the farming village of Gezai. Paul gave the boys some Egyptian pounds and the teens jumped ashore to buy supplies. Meanwhile, Ava reclined, bathing in sunlight. Silence dominated, interrupted only by the sounds of the flowing river and regular creaks from the rope tethering them to the pier. Soon, Ammon and Sefu returned with ice, Cokes, beer, and gasoline. The cold drinks were delicious. Spirits renewed, the travelers continued across the vast delta. North of the Tamalay Bridge they entered a section of river overgrown with blue-green algae. Ammon cursed. Navigating here was a chore. The opaque algae grew thickest in the shallows, where underwater hazards lurked. Paul didn’t care for the odor. Judging from Ava’s expression, she was equally displeased. “I have a riddle,” he said, thinking to distract her.
“Let’s hear it.”
Paul reached across the skiff and lifted his olive-drab backpack. “If I tossed this into the river, would the water level rise or fall?”
Ava examined the item: sturdy canvas, leather straps, and a brass buckle worn smooth by use. She closed her eyes, crossed her legs, and arched her back. Slowly, she rolled her head from shoulder to shoulder, stretching her tired neck.
“Do we care about the boat or the water level?”
“Water level,” he said. “I’m asking: Will the water in the river go up or down?”
She concentrated for several seconds, then asked, “Does your backpack float?”
“I think so,” he answered, regarding the alga-infested channel with distaste, “but let’s not find out.”
“Provided it floats, the river’s level remains constant. If it sinks, the level drops.”
He laughed. “You nailed it.”
“Basic physics. When your backpack is tossed overboard—”
“Never mind. Want something harder?”
“Bring it.”
“You’re trapped in a castle. There are two doors. One goes to the exit, the other leads to a deadly tiger. Between the doors is a robot. Good robots always tell the truth. Bad robots always lie. The robot will answer one question. What do you ask?”
“Should I assume good and bad robots are identical in appearance?”
“Yes. Sorry, I forgot to say that. All robots look the same.”
Ava stretched both arms above her head, interlocking her fingers. She took a deep breath, held it, then slowly exhaled. She stared at the horizon for several minutes. Ammon had guided them out of the algal bloom. He was increasing speed. She turned to Paul and smiled before answering: “Pointing to either door, I’d say ‘Mr. Robot, if I asked you whether this door leads to the exit, what would you answer?’ A good robot would tell me the truth, meaning he’d say the exit was the exit and the tiger was the tiger. A bad robot would lie, but because bad robots always lie, he’d also lie about what he would say, rendering his meta-response truthful.”
“Are you some kind of witch? Who thinks of that?”
“Is it the right answer?”
“Maybe,” Paul muttered.
“Good. Now I get to ask one.” Paul made a face, but she went on. “It’s a classic. There’s an island. Every man on it has cheated on his wife.”
“Manhattan!”
Ava laughed. “No. Don’t interrupt! There are fifty couples on the island. Each woman knows instantly if a man
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