starting to feel "asphinxiated." The joke would normally fall on irritable ears, but CCF has wisely arranged for so much "iced tea" that everyone is beginning to feel very much at their ease. I am addressing CCF, Mitchell, Roger Lathorp, Julius Padraig
O'Toole, and Heinz Kovacs. Lathorp is the owner of an enormously profitable construction firm of some sort. The last two guests have been very vaguely introduced, financial partners of CCF's in other ventures. They say very little, though Kovacs has a ferocious cough loud enough to end all conversation in the room whenever it strikes. When he speaks, on the other hand, his voice is so quiet that everyone (even O'Toole immediately to his left) must lean towards him. Kovacs's eyes run almost constantly, the result of some infection, and he uses several different pocket kerchiefs in the course of our meeting, tossing each saturated, monogrammed silken cloth in turn into the gaping black mouth of CCF's Rameses-colossus rubbish bin. O'Toole, an Irishman
of undefined occupation, spends much of the meeting filing his nails and occasionally making notes with a tiny golden pencil in a small leather book. They, all of them, wear their money on their clothes and shoes. Scholars they are not, admittedly, but their passion for art is be• yond question. There is a downside in dealing with institutions such as certain leading museums, and often private investment offers unique benefits to the explorer.
"Gentlemen," I begin, "let's for a moment put the question of money to one side so that— "
"I never do that!" japes Kendall Mitchell, to his and Lathorp's ex• plosive glee. Kovacs coughs.
"You sell yourself short, Mr. Mitchell. Let's put the money aside for just a moment and consider what this expedition could bring you on top of financial reward. The history of Egypt carries us back to the very dawn of recorded human history, nearly 5000 years ago."
"Right you are. Back to Jesus Christ Himself."
"That certainly provides a context, Mr. Lathorp, and shows your aptitude for historical method, as it is wise to approach the past through familiar landmarks. But consider that Jesus was born 1922 years ago, and Atum-hadu reigned 1640 years before that, and Egypt in all its glory existed 1500 years before that, and one begins to sense the vast stretches of Time we are discussing."
"Of course," agrees Lathorp. "Familiar landmarks."
"Now listen, Pushy," Kendall chimes in, interrupting almost at once the careful presentation I had outlined. "I hear old Egypt's tapped out. Nothing left under the sands. All the other big fellows nabbed the good stuff already. What do you have to say to that?"
I ask them to open their prospecti to the page labelled "Odds of Success." "I think it extremely unlikely. We know the names of several hundred ancient kings, and have found the tombs of only several dozen. There are expeditions uncovering extraordinary treasure right now, even as we speak, though the digging season is mostly ended for Egyptian summer. In the case of Atum-hadu, three fragments of his writings have been found in approximately the same area, yet no relics of his burial have ever appeared on any antiquities market. Which im• plies that his tomb is intact, luxuriously equipped, and in the Deir el Bahari region shown on this map." I helped them open their prospecti to the map, which matched the larger version I had on an easel teeter• ing in front of a large oil painting of Margaret holding a rabbit or a rabbit-fur muff.
The men peered at the map, which gave me, in the claws of my re• current personal curse, the opportunity to visit CCF's Pharaonic water closet, where I strained under an untimely attack of explorer's gut, which has tormented me ever since the War, dysentery a nasty little camp follower in Egypt.
Upon my return, CCF was still squinting at the map, indecipherable lines and legends to him, but the others had broken into two distinct groups: Mitchell and Lathorp, giggling
O'Toole, and Heinz Kovacs. Lathorp is the owner of an enormously profitable construction firm of some sort. The last two guests have been very vaguely introduced, financial partners of CCF's in other ventures. They say very little, though Kovacs has a ferocious cough loud enough to end all conversation in the room whenever it strikes. When he speaks, on the other hand, his voice is so quiet that everyone (even O'Toole immediately to his left) must lean towards him. Kovacs's eyes run almost constantly, the result of some infection, and he uses several different pocket kerchiefs in the course of our meeting, tossing each saturated, monogrammed silken cloth in turn into the gaping black mouth of CCF's Rameses-colossus rubbish bin. O'Toole, an Irishman
of undefined occupation, spends much of the meeting filing his nails and occasionally making notes with a tiny golden pencil in a small leather book. They, all of them, wear their money on their clothes and shoes. Scholars they are not, admittedly, but their passion for art is be• yond question. There is a downside in dealing with institutions such as certain leading museums, and often private investment offers unique benefits to the explorer.
"Gentlemen," I begin, "let's for a moment put the question of money to one side so that— "
"I never do that!" japes Kendall Mitchell, to his and Lathorp's ex• plosive glee. Kovacs coughs.
"You sell yourself short, Mr. Mitchell. Let's put the money aside for just a moment and consider what this expedition could bring you on top of financial reward. The history of Egypt carries us back to the very dawn of recorded human history, nearly 5000 years ago."
"Right you are. Back to Jesus Christ Himself."
"That certainly provides a context, Mr. Lathorp, and shows your aptitude for historical method, as it is wise to approach the past through familiar landmarks. But consider that Jesus was born 1922 years ago, and Atum-hadu reigned 1640 years before that, and Egypt in all its glory existed 1500 years before that, and one begins to sense the vast stretches of Time we are discussing."
"Of course," agrees Lathorp. "Familiar landmarks."
"Now listen, Pushy," Kendall chimes in, interrupting almost at once the careful presentation I had outlined. "I hear old Egypt's tapped out. Nothing left under the sands. All the other big fellows nabbed the good stuff already. What do you have to say to that?"
I ask them to open their prospecti to the page labelled "Odds of Success." "I think it extremely unlikely. We know the names of several hundred ancient kings, and have found the tombs of only several dozen. There are expeditions uncovering extraordinary treasure right now, even as we speak, though the digging season is mostly ended for Egyptian summer. In the case of Atum-hadu, three fragments of his writings have been found in approximately the same area, yet no relics of his burial have ever appeared on any antiquities market. Which im• plies that his tomb is intact, luxuriously equipped, and in the Deir el Bahari region shown on this map." I helped them open their prospecti to the map, which matched the larger version I had on an easel teeter• ing in front of a large oil painting of Margaret holding a rabbit or a rabbit-fur muff.
The men peered at the map, which gave me, in the claws of my re• current personal curse, the opportunity to visit CCF's Pharaonic water closet, where I strained under an untimely attack of explorer's gut, which has tormented me ever since the War, dysentery a nasty little camp follower in Egypt.
Upon my return, CCF was still squinting at the map, indecipherable lines and legends to him, but the others had broken into two distinct groups: Mitchell and Lathorp, giggling
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