of Kait Bey in the City of the Dead, which had survived the Three 56 ROGER ZELAZNY
Days; he settled, though, for me taking him up in my Skimmer and flying in low, slow circles about it while he took photographs and did some peering. In the way of monuments, it was really the pyramids and Luxur, Karnak, and the Valley of Kings and the Valley of Queens that he wanted to see.
It was well that we viewed the mosque from the air. Dark shapes scurried below us, stopping only to hurl rocks up toward the ship.
"What are they?" asked Myshtigo.
"Hot Ones," said I. "Sort of human. They vary in size, shape, and meanness."
After circling for a time he was satisfied, and we returned to the field.
So, landing again beneath a glaring sun, we secured the final Skimmer and disembarked, moving across equal proportions of sand and broken pavement-two temporary tour assistants, me, Myshtigo, DOS Santos and Red Wig, Ellen, Hasan. Ellen had decided at the last minute to accompany her husband on the journey. There were fields of high, shiny sugar cane on both sides of the road. In a moment we had left them behind and were passing the low outbuildings of the city. The road widened. Here and there a palm tree cast some shade. Two great-eyed, brown-eyed children looked up as we passed. They had been watching a weary, six-legged cow turn a great sakieh wheel, in much the same way as cows have always turned great sakieh wheels hereabouts, only this one left more hoofprints.
My area supervisor, Rameses Smith, met us at the inn. He was big, his golden face tightly contained within a fine net^of wrinkles; and he had the THIS IMMORTAL 57
typical sad eyes, but his constant chuckle quickly offset them.
We sat sipping beer in the main hall of the inn while we waited for George. Local guards had been sent to relieve him. '
"The work is progressing well," Rameses told me.
"Good," I said, somewhat pleased that no one had asked me what "the work" was. I wanted to surprise them.
"How is your wife, and the children?"
"They are fine," he stated.
"The new
I pretended to study it, making the expected appreciative noises. Then, "Speaking of pictures," I said, "do you need any more equipment for the filming?"
"No, we are well-stocked. All goes well. When do you wish to view the work?"
"Just as soon as we have something to eat."
"Are you a Moslem?" interrupted Myshtigo.
"I am of the Coptic faith," replied Rameses, not smiling.
"Oh, really? That was the Monophysite heresy, was it not?"
"We do not consider ourselves heretics," said Rameses.
I sat there wondering if we Greeks had done the right thing in unleashing logic onto a hapless world, as Myshtigo launched into an amusing (to him) catalog of Christian heresies. In a fit of spite at hav-58 ROGER ZELAZNY
ing to guide a tour, I recorded them all in the Tour Log. Later, Lorel told me that it was a fine and well-kept document. Which just goes to show how nasty I must have felt at that moment, I even put in the bit about the accidental canonization of Buddha as St. Josaphat in the sixteenth century. Finally, as Myshtigo sat there mocking us, I realized I would either have to cut him down or change the subject.
Not being a Christian myself, his theological com-edy of errors did not poke me in the religious plex-us. It bothered me, though, that a member of another race had gone to such trouble doing research to make us look like a pack of idiots, Reconsidering the thing at this time, I know now that I was wrong. The success of the viewtape I was making then ("the word" which Rameses had referred to) bears out a more recent hypothesis of mine concerning the Vegans: They were so bloody bored with themselves and we were so novel that they seized upon our perennially popular problems and our classical problems, as well as the one we were currently presenting in the flesh. They
Days; he settled, though, for me taking him up in my Skimmer and flying in low, slow circles about it while he took photographs and did some peering. In the way of monuments, it was really the pyramids and Luxur, Karnak, and the Valley of Kings and the Valley of Queens that he wanted to see.
It was well that we viewed the mosque from the air. Dark shapes scurried below us, stopping only to hurl rocks up toward the ship.
"What are they?" asked Myshtigo.
"Hot Ones," said I. "Sort of human. They vary in size, shape, and meanness."
After circling for a time he was satisfied, and we returned to the field.
So, landing again beneath a glaring sun, we secured the final Skimmer and disembarked, moving across equal proportions of sand and broken pavement-two temporary tour assistants, me, Myshtigo, DOS Santos and Red Wig, Ellen, Hasan. Ellen had decided at the last minute to accompany her husband on the journey. There were fields of high, shiny sugar cane on both sides of the road. In a moment we had left them behind and were passing the low outbuildings of the city. The road widened. Here and there a palm tree cast some shade. Two great-eyed, brown-eyed children looked up as we passed. They had been watching a weary, six-legged cow turn a great sakieh wheel, in much the same way as cows have always turned great sakieh wheels hereabouts, only this one left more hoofprints.
My area supervisor, Rameses Smith, met us at the inn. He was big, his golden face tightly contained within a fine net^of wrinkles; and he had the THIS IMMORTAL 57
typical sad eyes, but his constant chuckle quickly offset them.
We sat sipping beer in the main hall of the inn while we waited for George. Local guards had been sent to relieve him. '
"The work is progressing well," Rameses told me.
"Good," I said, somewhat pleased that no one had asked me what "the work" was. I wanted to surprise them.
"How is your wife, and the children?"
"They are fine," he stated.
"The new
I pretended to study it, making the expected appreciative noises. Then, "Speaking of pictures," I said, "do you need any more equipment for the filming?"
"No, we are well-stocked. All goes well. When do you wish to view the work?"
"Just as soon as we have something to eat."
"Are you a Moslem?" interrupted Myshtigo.
"I am of the Coptic faith," replied Rameses, not smiling.
"Oh, really? That was the Monophysite heresy, was it not?"
"We do not consider ourselves heretics," said Rameses.
I sat there wondering if we Greeks had done the right thing in unleashing logic onto a hapless world, as Myshtigo launched into an amusing (to him) catalog of Christian heresies. In a fit of spite at hav-58 ROGER ZELAZNY
ing to guide a tour, I recorded them all in the Tour Log. Later, Lorel told me that it was a fine and well-kept document. Which just goes to show how nasty I must have felt at that moment, I even put in the bit about the accidental canonization of Buddha as St. Josaphat in the sixteenth century. Finally, as Myshtigo sat there mocking us, I realized I would either have to cut him down or change the subject.
Not being a Christian myself, his theological com-edy of errors did not poke me in the religious plex-us. It bothered me, though, that a member of another race had gone to such trouble doing research to make us look like a pack of idiots, Reconsidering the thing at this time, I know now that I was wrong. The success of the viewtape I was making then ("the word" which Rameses had referred to) bears out a more recent hypothesis of mine concerning the Vegans: They were so bloody bored with themselves and we were so novel that they seized upon our perennially popular problems and our classical problems, as well as the one we were currently presenting in the flesh. They
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