11

IT WAS a sumptuous first-class dining room, crowded already with gentlemen in white tie and tails and ladies in low-cut dresses. When Julie came in and took her chair, Alex rose to assist her. Henry and Elliott, already seated opposite, also rose, and though Julie nodded to Elliott, she found herself incapable of looking at her cousin.

She turned to Alex, and placed her hand on his. Unfortunately she could not help overhearing Henry continuing to talk angrily in Elliott's ear. Something about Alex being a fool that he could not have stopped Julie from taking this trip.

Alex, staring down at the plate before him, seemed somewhat at a loss. Was this the time or place for truth? She felt she must be honest from the beginning, or matters would only become worse for Alex, and she must see that they did not.

"Alex," she said in a low voice, "I may stay in Egypt. I don't know what my plans are. You know sometimes, my darling, I think you need someone as good as you are."

He wasn't surprised by her words. He thought for only a moment before answering.' 'But how could I want anyone better than you? I'll follow you into the jungles of the Sudan if that's where you want to go."

"You don't know what you're saying."

He bent forward, his voice dropping to the most intimate whisper. "I love you, Julie. Everything else in my life I take for granted. But not you. And you're more precious to me than all the rest put together. Julie, I mean to fight for you, if that's what must be done."

What could she possibly say to him that would not wound him? He looked up suddenly. Ramses and Samir were here.

For a moment, she was speechless. Ramses was a vision in her father's white boiled shirt and beautifully cut tailcoat. As he took his seat, his every gesture seemed more graceful and more decorous than those of the Englishmen around him. He veritably glistened with vigor and well-being. The smile he flashed was like a light.

Then something happened. He stared at Julie's bare shoulders, at the plunging neck of her gown. He stared in particular at the tiny shadow between her half-naked breasts. And Alex stared at Ramses hi polite outrage. And Samir, taking a seat to the left of the Earl, was obviously already alarmed.

She must do something. Still staring at her, as if he'd never laid eyes on a woman before, Ramses took the chair on her left.

Quickly, she opened his napkin for him, whispering:

"Here, in your lap. And stop staring at me. It's a ball gown, quite proper!" She turned at once to Samir opposite. "Samir, I'm so glad you could make this journey with us."

"Yes, and here we are," Elliott said immediately, filling the silence. "All having dinner together exactly as I'd planned. Isn't mat marvelous! Seems I got my way after all."

"So you did." Julie laughed. She was relieved suddenly that Elliott was there. He would smooth over one awkward moment after another; he did it instinctively. In fact, he probably couldn't stop himself. It was this buoyant charm among other things which kept him perpetually in demand.

She dared not look directly at Henry, but she could see he was hopelessly uneasy. He was already drinking. His glass was half full.

The waiters brought the sherry now, and the soup. Ramses had already reached for the bread. He had torn off a very large piece from the small loaf and eaten it whole.

"And tell me, Mr. Ramsey," Elliott continued, "how did you enjoy your stay in London? You weren't with us very long."

Why the hell was Ramses smiling?

"I found it an overwhelming place," he said with immediate enthusiasm. "A curious blending of fierce wealth and inexplicable poverty. I do not understand how so many machines can produce so much for so few, and so little for so many. . . ."

"Sir, you're questioning the entire Industrial Revolution," Alex said, laughing nervously, which for him was most certainly a symptom of ill ease. "Don't tell me you're a Marxist. It's rather seldom that we encounter radicals in our circle."

"What is a Marxist! I am an Egyptian," Ramses said.

"Of course you are, Mr. Ramsey," said Elliott smoothly. "And you're no Marxist. How perfectly ridiculous. You knew our Lawrence in Cairo?"

"Our Lawrence. Briefly I knew him." Ramses was staring at Henry. Julie quickly lifted her soup spoon and, giving him a gentle nudge with her elbow, demonstrated how the soup was to be eaten. He didn't so much as glance at her. He picked up his bread, dipped it in the soup and began eating it, glaring at Henry again.

"Lawrence's death came as a shock to me, as I'm sure it did to everyone," he said, dipping another enormous piece of bread. "A Marxist is a type of philosopher? I do remember a Karl Marx. I discovered this person in Lawrence's library. A fool."

Henry had not touched his soup. He drank another deep gulp of his Scotch and motioned for the waiter.

"It's unimportant," Julie said quickly.

"Yes, Lawrence's death was a terrible shock," Elliott said soberly. "I was sure he had another good ten years. Maybe twenty.''

Ramses was dipping yet another enormous piece of the bread into the soup. And Henry was now staring at him with veiled horror, careful to avoid his eyes. Everyone was more or less quietly watching Ramses, who wiped up the very last of the soup now with another chunk of bread, and then downed the sherry, and wiped his lips with the napkin and sat back.

"More food," he whispered. "It's coming?"

"Yes, it is, but slow down," Julie whispered.

"You were a true friend of Lawrence?" Ramses said to Elliott.

"Absolutely," said Elliott.

"Yes, well, if he were here, he'd be talking about his beloved mummy," said Alex with that same nervous laugh. "As a matter of fact, why are you taking this trip, Julie? Why go back to Egypt when the mummy lies there in London waiting for examination? You know, I don't really understand. ..."

"The collection's opened several avenues of research," Julie said. "We want to go to Alexandria and then perhaps Cairo. . . ."

"Yes, of course," Elliott said. He was clearly watching Ramses' reaction as the waiter set down the fish before him, a small portion in a delicate cream sauce. "Cleopatra," he went on, ' 'your mysterious Ramses the Second claimed to have loved and lost her. And that happened in Alexandria, did it not?"

Julie had not seen this coming. Neither had Ramses, who had laid down his bread and was staring at the Earl with a blank expression on his face. There came those dancing points of color beneath the smooth skin of his cheeks.

"Well, yes, there is that aspect of it," Julie struggled. "And then we're going to Luxor, and to Abu Simbel. I hope you're all in fine form for an arduous journey. Of course if you don't want to continue ..."

"Abu Simbel," Alex said. "Isn't that where the colossal statues are of Ramses the Second?''

Ramses broke off half the fish with his fingers and ate it. Then he ate the second half. A curious smile had broken out on Elliott's face, but Ramses didn't see it. He was staring at Henry again. Julie was going to start screaming.

"Statues of Ramses the Great are everywhere, actually," Elliott said, watching Ramses mop up the sauce with the bread. "Ramses left more monuments to himself than any other Pharaoh."

"Ah, that's the one. I knew it," said Alex. "The egomaniac of Egyptian history. I remember now, from school."

"Egomaniac!" Ramses said with a grimace. "More bread!" he said to the waiter. Then to Alex: "What is an egomaniac? If you please?"

"Aspirin, Marxism, egomania," Elliott said. "These are all new ideas to you, Mr. Ramsey?"

Henry was becoming positively agitated. He had drunk the second glass of Scotch and now sat plastered to the back of his chair, merely staring at Ramses' hands as he ate.

"Oh, you know," Alex said blithely. "The fellow was a great braggart. He built monuments to himself all over the place. He bragged endlessly about his victories, his wives and his sons! So that's the mummy, and all this time I didn't realize."

"What in the world are you talking about!" Julie said suddenly.

"Is there any other Egyptian King in history who won so many victories," Ramses said heatedly, "and pleasured so many wives, and fathered so many sons? And surely you understand that in erecting so many statues, the Pharaoh was giving to his people exactly what they wanted."

"Now, that's a novel view!" Alex said sarcastically, laying down his knife and fork. "You don't mean the slaves enjoyed being flogged to death in the burning sun to build all those temples and colossal statues?"

"Slaves, flogged to death in the hot sun?" Ramses asked. "What are you saying! This did not happen!" He turned to Julie.

"Alex, that's merely one theory of how the monuments were completed," she said. "No one really knows ..."

"Well, I know," Ramses said.

"Everyone has his theory!" Julie said, raising her voice slightly and glaring at Ramses.

"Well, for heaven's sake," Alex said, "the man built enormous statues of himself from one end of Egypt to another. You can't tell me the people wouldn't have been a lot happier tending their flowerbeds. ..."

"Young man, you are most strange!" said Ramses. "What do you know about the people of Egypt? Slaves, you speak of slaves when your slums are filled with starving children. The people wanted the monuments. They took pride in their temples. When the Nile overflowed its banks there could be no work in the fields; and the monuments became the passion of the nation. Labor wasn't forced. It didn't have to be. The Pharaoh was as a god, and he had to do what his people expected of him."

"Surely you're sentimentalizing it a bit," said Elliott, but he was plainly fascinated.

Henry had turned white. He was no longer moving at all. His fresh glass of Scotch stood untouched.

"Not in the least," Ramses argued. "The people of Egypt were proud of Ramses the Great. He drove back the enemies; he conquered the Hittites; he maintained the peace in Upper and Lower Egypt for sixty-four years of his reign! What other Pharaoh ever brought such tranquility to the land of the great river! You know what happened afterwards, don't you?"

"Reginald," Julie said under her breath, "does this really matter so much!"

"Well, apparently it matters to your father's friend," said Elliott. "I suspect the ancient Kings were perfect tyrants. I suspect they beat their subjects to death if they didn't work on those absurd monuments. The pyramids, how for example-"

"You are not so stupid, Lord Rutherford," said Ramses. "You are ... how do you say ... baiting me. Were Englishmen whipped in the streets when they built your St. Paul's or Westminster Abbey? The Tower of London, this is the work of slaves?"

"No one knows these answers," Samir said meekly. "Perhaps we should attempt to-"

"There's a great deal of truth in what you say," Elliott said, ignoring Samir. "But with regard to the great Ramses, you must admit, he was an exceptionally immodest ruler. The stele which brag of his accomplishments are laughable."

"Sir, really," Samir said.

"They are nothing of the sort," said Ramses. "This was the style of the times, the way the people wanted their ruler to represent himself. Don't you understand? The ruler was the people. For the people to be great, the ruler had to be great! The ruler was the slave of the people when it came to their wishes, then-needs, their welfare."

"Oh, surely you don't mean the old fellow was a martyr!" Alex scoffed. Never had Julie seen him so aggressive.

"Perhaps it's not possible for a modern mind to comprehend an ancient mind so easily," Elliott conceded. "I wonder if the opposite is true. Whether a man of ancient times, brought to life again, in this era, could understand our values."

"You're not so difficult to understand," Ramses said. "You've learned to express yourselves too well for anything to remain veiled or mysterious. Your newspapers and books tell everything. Yet you are not so different from your ancient ancestors. You want love, you want comfort; you want justice. That is what the Egyptian farmer wanted when he went out to till his fields. That is what the laborers of London want. And as always the rich are jealous of what they possess. And greed leads to high crimes as it always has."

He turned his eyes mercilessly on Henry, who was now staring back at him directly. Julie looked in desperation to Samir.

' 'Why, you speak of this era as if you have nothing to do with it!" Alex said.

"So what you're saying," Elliott said, "is that we're no better and no worse than the ancient Egyptian.''

Henry reached for his drink and suddenly knocked it over. Then he reached for the wine and drank it down. His white face was now moist all over. His lower lip was trembling. He looked for all the world like a man about to be seriously ill.

"No, that is not what I'm saying," Ramses said thoughtfully. "You are better. Better in a thousand ways. And yet you're still human. You haven't found all the answers yet. Electricity, telephones, these are lovely magic. But the poor go unfed. Men kill for what they cannot gain by their own labor. How to share the magic, the riches, the secrets, that is still the problem."

"Ah, there you have it. Marxism, I told you," Alex said. "Well, at Oxford they told us Ramses the Second was a bloody tyrant."

"Be quiet, Alex," said Elliott dismissively. He turned to Ramses. "Why does this concern you so, these questions of greed and power?"

"Oxford? What is Oxford?" Ramses asked, glancing at Alex. Then he stared again at Henry, and Henry moved his chair abruptly backwards. He appeared to be hanging on to the table as if to steady himself. The waiters, meantime, had taken the fish away and were setting down the roast chicken and potatoes. Someone poured another drink for Henry, which he emptied at once.

"You're going to be ill," Elliott said to him under his breath.

"Wait a minute," Alex said. "You've never heard of Oxford!"

"No, what is it?" Ramses asked.

"Oxford, egomania, aspirin, Marxism," Elliott said. "Your head is in the clouds, Mr. Ramsey."

"Yes, like that of a colossal statue!" Ramses smiled.

"But you're still a Marxist," Alex said.

"Alex, Mr. Ramsey is not a Marxist!" Julie said, unable any longer to contain her rage.' 'And as I recall, your favorite subject at Oxford was sports, wasn't it? Boat races and football? You've never studied Egyptian history or Marxism, am I right?"

"Yes, darling. I don't know a thing about ancient Egypt," he conceded, a bit crestfallen. "But there is that poem, Mr. Ramsey, that poem about Ramses the Great by Shelley. You have heard it, have you not? Let's see, some damnable old teacher made me memorize it."

"Perhaps we should return to the question of the journey," Samir said, "It shall be very hot in Luxor. Perhaps you will want to go only as far as-"

"Yes, and the reasons for the journey," Elliott said. "Are you investigating the claims made by 'the mummy'?"

"What claims? " Julie asked weakly. "I don't know what you mean specifically. ..."

"You know. You told me yourself," Elliott answered. "And then there was your father's notebook, which I read, at your behest. The mummy's claim to be immortal, to have lived and loved Cleopatra."

Ramses looked down at his plate. Deftly he broke off a joint of the chicken and ate half of it in two quick, delicate bites.

"The museum will have to examine those texts," Samir said. "It's too early to draw conclusions."

"And is the museum content that you've left the collection locked up in Mayfair?" asked Elliott,

"Frankly," Alex said, "the whole thing sounded perfectly absurd to me. Romantic twaddle. An immortal being, living for a thousand years and then falling tragically in love with Cleopatra. Cleopatra!"

"I beg your pardon," Ramses said. He devoured the remaining chicken and wiped his fingers again. "At your famous Oxford, they said mean things about Cleopatra as well."

Alex laughed frankly and cheerfully.

"You don't have to go to Oxford to hear mean things about Cleopatra. Why, she was the trollop of the ancient world, a spendthrift, a temptress and an hysterical woman."

"Alex, I don't want to hear any more of this schoolboy history!" Julie said.

"You have many opinions, young man," Ramses said with a chilling smile. "What is your passion now? What interests you?"

There was a silence. Julie couldn't help but notice the curious expression on Elliott's face.

"Well," Alex said. "If you were an immortal-an immortal who'd once been a great King, would you have fallen in love with a woman like Cleopatra?"

"Answer the question, Alex," Julie said. "What is your passion? It's not history, not Egyptology, not government. What would you say it is that makes you want to wake up in the morning?" She could feel the blood rising in her face.

"Yes, I would have fallen in love with Cleopatra," said Ramses. "She could have charmed a god. Read between the lines of your Plutarch. The truth is there."

"And what is the truth?" Elliott asked.

"That she was a brilliant mind; she had a gift for languages and for governing which defied reason. The greatest men of the time paid court to her. Hers was a royal soul in every sense of the word. Why do you think your Shakespeare wrote about her? Why do your schoolchildren know her name?"

"Oh, come now. Divine right?" said Alex. "You sound much better when you are talking Marxist theory."

"Which is what, precisely?"

"Alex," Julie said sharply. "You wouldn't know a Marxist if one punched you in the face."

"You must understand, my lord," Samir said to Alex. "We Egyptians take our history rather seriously. Cleopatra was by any standards a formidable Queen."

"Yes, well said," Ramses said. "And Egypt could use a Cleopatra now to rid it of British domination. She'd send your soldiers packing, you can be sure."

'Ah, there you see, a revolutionary. And what about the Suez Canal? I suppose she'd say 'No, thank you' for that? You do know what the Suez Canal is, don't you! Well, it was British financing that accomplished that little miracle, my friend, I hope you understand."

"Oh, yes, that little trench you dug between the Red Sea and the Mediterranean. Did you whip the slaves in the hot sun to dig that trench? Do tell me."

"Touché, old fellow, touché. Truth is, I haven't the foggiest notion." Alex put down his fork and sat back, smiling at Henry. "This has been the most exhausting dinner."

Henry stared at him with the same expressionless glassy eyes with which he regarded everything else.

"Tell me, Mr. Ramsey," said Elliott. "Your personal opinion, if you will. Is this mummy truly Ramses the Great? An immortal who lived until the time of Cleopatra?"

Alex laughed softly. He looked again at Henry, and this time apparently Henry's condition shocked him. He was about to say something when Ramses went on.

"And what do you think, Lord Rutherford?" Ramses asked. "You read the notes of your friend Lawrence. Is there an immortal man in that mummy case in Julie's house in Mayfair?"

Elliott smiled. "No, there isn't," he said.

Julie stared at her plate. Then slowly she looked up at Samir.

"Of course not!" Alex said. "And it's about time somebody said so. When they take him to the museum and cut him up, they'll discover he was a scribe with a lively imagination."

"Forgive me," Julie said. "But I am so weary of all this. We'll be in Egypt soon enough, among the mummies and the monuments. Must we go on?"

"I'm sorry, my dear," Elliott said, lifting his fork and taking a small morsel of chicken. "I've rather enjoyed our conversation, Mr. Ramsey. I find your perspective on ancient Egypt absolutely riveting."

"Oh? The present era is my fascination of late, Lord Rutherford. Englishmen such as yourself intrigue me. And as you were saying, you were a good friend of Lawrence, were you not?"

Julie saw the change in Henry before she realized that Ramses was once again glaring at him. Henry shifted, lifted the empty glass in his hand, then realized it was empty and stared at it as if he did not know what to do with it, and then stared just as stupidly at the waiter who took it from him and gave him another drink.

If Elliott noticed all this, he gave no sign.

"We had our differences, Lawrence and I," he answered, "but yes, we were very good friends. And we did agree upon one thing. We hoped mat our children would soon be happily married."

Julie was stunned. "Elliott, please."

"But we needn't discuss this, you and I," Elliott said quickly. Obviously rudeness wasn't easy for him. ' 'There are other things I should like to discuss with you. Where you came from, who you really are. All those same questions I ask myself when I look into the mirror."

Ramses laughed, but he was now angry. Julie could feel it.

"You'll probably find my answers brief and disappointing. As for the marriage of Julie to your son, Lawrence believed it was Julie's choice. Let me see. How did he put it?" He turned his eyes on Henry again. "English is rather new to me, but my memory is exceptional. Ah, yes. 'Julie's marriage can wait forever.' My dear Henry, were those not the words?"

Henry's lips worked silently, but only a faint moan came out of his lips. Alex was red-faced, hurt, looking at Ramses. Julie had to do something to stop this, but what?

"Well, you certainly do seem to have been a close friend of Julie's father," Alex said almost sadly. "Closer perhaps than we realized. Was there anything else that Lawrence made known to you before he died?"

Poor, poor Alex! But this was all aimed at Henry, and in another moment things were going to explode.

"Yes," Ramses said. Julie grabbed his hand and squeezed it, but he did not acknowledge this. "Yes, that he thought his nephew was a bastard." Again he glared at Henry. "Am I right? 'You bastard.' Weren't those his last words?"

Henry rose from the chair, upsetting it. He stumbled backwards as the chair went over with a thud on the carpeted floor. He stared at Ramses, his mouth open, a low sound coming from him, half gasp, half moan.

"Good God," said Alex. "Mr. Ramsey, you go too far."

"Do I?" asked Ramses, watching Henry.

"Henry, you're drunk, old man," Alex said. "I should help you to your room."

"Please do not do this," Julie whispered. Elliott was studying both of them. He had not so much as looked up at Henry, who turned now and half stumbled towards the far door.

Alex stared at his plate, his face reddening.

"Mr. Ramsey, I think there's something you must understand," Alex said.

"What is that, young man?"

"Julie's father was plainspoken with those he loved." Then something dawned on him. "But . . . you weren't there when he died, were you? I thought Henry was with him. Alone."

Elliott was silent.

"My, but this is going to be a very interesting trip," Alex said lamely. "I must confess-"

"It's going to be a disaster!" Julie said. She could take this no more. "Now, listen to me. All of you. I don't want any more talk of marriage; or of my father's death. I've had quite enough of both." She rose to her feet. "You must forgive me, but I'm leaving you now. I'll be in my cabin if you should need me." She looked down at Ramses. "But no more talk of these things, is that clear?"

She gathered up her small evening bag and walked slowly through the dining room, ignoring those who were staring.

"Oh, this is dreadful," she heard Alex say behind her. And then he was at her side. "I am so sorry, darling, really! Things just got out of hand."

"I want to go to my room, I told you," she said, walking faster.

* * *


Nightmare. You are going to wake up, back in London, safe, and none of this will have happened. You did what you had to do. That creature is a monster and must be destroyed.

He stood at the bar waiting for the Scotch, which seemed to be taking forever, and then he looked up and saw him-that thing, that thing that wasn't human, standing in the door.

"Never mind," he growled under his breath. He turned and rushed through the little carpeted corridor to the deck. Slam of the door behind him, the thing was coming after him. He turned, his face stung by the wind, and almost fell on the narrow metal steps. The thing was only a few feet away from him, those big glassy blue eyes staring at him. He ran up the steps, the wind working against him as he ran along the deserted deck.

Where was he going? How would he get away from it? He pushed open another door into a little corridor. Numbers he didn't recognize on the polished doors of the staterooms. He looked back; the thing had entered the corridor; it was pounding after him.

"Damn you." His voice was a whimper. Out on the deck again and this time the wind was so damp it was like rain. He couldn't see where he was going. He clutched the railing for a moment, looking down at the boiling grey sea.

No! Get away from the railing. He rushed along until he saw another doorway, and ducked inside again. He felt the vibration right behind him, heard the thing breathing. His gun, where the hell was his gun?

Turning, he fumbled in his pocket. The thing had hold of him. Dear God! He felt a large warm hand close over his. The gun was wrenched out of his fingers. Groaning, he slumped against the wall, but the thing held him up by his lapel, peering into his face. An ugly light flashed through the porthole of the door, illuminating the thing in irregular bursts.

"A pistol, am I correct?" the thing said to him. "I read of it when perhaps I should have been reading of Oxford, egomania, aspirin and Marxism. It fires a small projectile of metal at high speed, as the result of intense combustion within the chamber behind the projectile. Very interesting, and useless when you are dealing with me. And were you to fire it, men would come and want to know why you did it."

"I know what you are! I know where you came from."

"Oh, you do! Then you realize that I know what you are. And what you have been up to! And I have not the slightest scruple about carrying you down to the coal furnaces which fuel this magnificent ship and feeding you to the fires which drive us now into the cold Atlantic."

Henry's body convulsed. With every muscle he struggled, but he could not free himself from the hand that now locked on his shoulder, gently crushing the bones.

"Listen to me, foolish one." The thing drew in closer. He could feel its breath on his face. "Harm Julie and I shall do it. Make Julie cry and I shall do it! Make Julie frown and I shall do it! For the sake of Julie's peace of mind, you live. There is nothing more to it. Remember what I say."

The hand released him. He slumped towards the floor, only catching himself before he actually fell. He gritted his teeth, his eyes closing as he felt the warm stickiness inside his pants, and smelled his own waste. His bowels had cut loose.

The thing stood there, its face veiled in shadow as it studied the gun which it held out to the gray light from the porthole in the door. Then it pocketed the gun and turned on its heel and left him.

A wave of sickness rose; he saw blackness.

When he awoke he was crouched in the corner of the passage. No one had passed, it seemed. Trembling, dizzy, he climbed to his feet and made his way to his stateroom. And once there he stood over the small toilet vomiting up the contents of his stomach. Only then did he strip off his soiled clothes.

* * *


She was crying when he came in. She had sent Rita off to supper with the other servants on board. He did not even knock. He opened the door and slipped inside. She wouldn't look at him.

She pressed her handkerchief to her eyes, but her crying wouldn't stop.

"I'm sorry, my Queen. My gentle Queen. Believe me, lam." When she looked up she saw the sadness in his face. He stood helplessly before her, the lamp behind him filling the edges of his brown hair with an uneven golden light.

"Let it be for now, Ramses," she said desperately. "I can't bear it, the knowledge that he did it. Let it be, I beg you. I only want us to be in Egypt together."

He sat down on the settee beside her, towering over her, and gently he turned her and this time when he kissed her she melted completely, letting him enfold her, letting him breathe into her that powerful heat. She kissed his face, his cheek where the flesh was so taut over the bones, and then his closed eyes. She felt his hands tighten on her naked shoulders and she realized he was pushing her gown down and away from her breasts.

She drew back, ashamed. She had led him on and she hadn't meant to.

' 'I don't want it to happen," she said, her tears coming again.

Not looking at him, she pushed the satin sleeves upwards. When finally their eyes met, she saw only patience, and that faint half smile, now tempered by the same sadness she'd seen before.

He reached out for her, and she stiffened. But he merely adjusted the sleeves of her dress for her. And straightened the pearls around her neck. Then he kissed her hand.

"Come out with me," he said in a low, soft voice, kissing her tenderly on her shoulder. "The wind is cool and fresh. And they are playing music in the public rooms. Can we dance together to the music? Ah, this floating palace. It is paradise. Come with me, my Queen."

"But Alex," she said. "If only Alex . . ."

He kissed her throat. He kissed her hand again. He turned her hand over and pressed his lips to her palm. The heat coursed through her again. To stay in this room would be folly, unless, of course. But no. She could not let it happen, until it was really what she wanted with her whole soul.

She might lose her soul utterly; that was the horror. There was a dim sense again of her world being destroyed.

"Let's go, then," she said drowsily.

He helped her to her feet. He took her handkerchief from her and wiped her eyes with it as if she were a child. Then he picked up her white fur from the arm of the chair and put it over her shoulders.

They walked together along the windy deck and into the corridor and towards the grand ballroom-a lovely confection of gilded wood and satin wall panels, of drowsing palms and stained glass.

He moaned as he looked at the distant orchestra. "Oooh, Julie, this music," he whispered. "It enslaves me."

It was a Strauss waltz again, only there were many musicians here, and the sound was louder and richer, flooding the great room.

No sign of Alex, thank God. She turned to him, and let him take her hand.

With a great sweeping turn, he began to waltz with her, beaming down at her, and it seemed then nothing mattered. There was no Alex; there was no Henry; there had been no terrible death for her father which must be avenged.

There was only this moment of dancing with him, round and round, beneath the soft iridescent chandeliers. The music surged; the other dancers seemed perilously close around them; but Ramses' steps were perfect for all their great breadth and strength.

Wasn't it enough that he should be a mystery? she thought desperately. Wasn't it enough that he'd torn the veil away completely? Did he have to be irresistible? Did she have to fall so hopelessly in love?

* * *


Far away, from the deep shadows of the darkly paneled bar, Elliott watched them dancing. They were going into the third waltz now, and Julie was laughing as Ramsey led her recklessly and madly, driving the other dancers out of his path.

No one seemed to take offense at it. Everyone respects those who are in love.

Elliott finished his whisky, then rose to go.

When he reached Henry's door, he knocked once and then opened it. Henry sat hunched over on the small couch, a thin green robe wrapped around him, his legs naked and hairy beneath it, his feet bare. He appeared to be trembling, as if he were terribly cold.

Elliott was appalled suddenly at the heat of his own anger. His voice came out hoarse and unfamiliar.

"What did our Egyptian King see?" he demanded. "What happened in that tomb when Lawrence died!"

Henry tried to turn away from him, in a pathetic moment of hysteria, as if he could claw his way through the wall. Elliott turned him around.

"Look at me, you miserable little coward. Answer my question. What happened in that tomb!"

"I was trying to get what you wanted!" Henry whispered. His eyes were sunken. There was a great bruise on his neck. "I was . . . trying to persuade him to advise Julie to marry Alex.'

"Don't lie to me!" Elliott said. His left hand clutched at the silver walking stick, ready to lift it, to wield it like a club.

"I don't know what happened," Henry pleaded. "Or what it saw! It was wrapped up in the damned mummy case. What the hell could it have seen! Uncle Lawrence was arguing with me. He was upset. The heat... I don't know what happened. Suddenly he was lying on the floor."

He slumped forward, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. "I didn't mean to hurt him," he sobbed. "Oh, God, I didn't mean to hurt him! I did what I had to do.'' He bowed his head, fingers meshed in his dark hair.

Elliott stared down at him. If this had been his son, life would have no meaning. And if this miserable creature was lying . . . But he didn't know. He simply could not tell.

"All right," he murmured. "You have told me everything?"

"Yes!" Henry said. "God, I have to get off this ship! I have to get away from it!''

"But why does it despise you? Why did it try to kill you, and why does it seek to humiliate you?"

There was a moment of silence. All he heard were Henry's desperate broken gasps. Then the thin white face was turned up again, the sunken dark eyes imploring him.

"I saw it come alive," Henry said. "I'm the only one other than Julie who really knows what it is. You know, but I'm the one who saw it. It wants to kill me! "He stopped, as if he feared losing control altogether. His eyes were dancing as he looked at the carpet. "I'll tell you something too," he said, as he slumped back again on the couch. "It's unnaturally strong, that thing. It could kill a man with its bare hands. Why it didn't kill me the first time it tried, I don't know. But it could succeed if it tried again."

The Earl didn't respond.

He turned and left the stateroom. He went out onto the deck. The sky was black over the sea, and the stars were, as always on a cloudless night over the ocean, wonderfully clear.

He leaned on the railing for a long time, and then drew out a cheroot and lighted it. He tried to reason things out.

Samir Ibrahaim knew this thing was immortal. He was traveling with it. Julie knew. Julie had been swept off her feet. And now in his sheer obsession with this mystery, he had let Ramsey know that he knew as well.

Now, Ramsey clearly felt affection for Samir Ibrahaim. He felt something for Julie Stratford, though what that something was, still wasn't clear. But what did Ramsey feel for him? Maybe he would turn on him as he had on Henry, "the only witness."

But somehow that didn't make sense. Or at least if it did, it didn't frighten Elliott. It only fascinated him. And the whole question of Henry continued to puzzle him and repel him. Henry was a convincing liar. But Henry wasn't telling the whole truth.

Nothing to do but wait, he figured. And do what he could to protect Alex, his poor vulnerable Alex, who had failed so miserably at dinner to conceal his growing hurt. He had to help Alex through this, make it clear to his son that he was going to lose his childhood sweetheart, for there was no longer the slightest doubt of that.

But oh, how he himself was loving this. How secretly and completely it thrilled him. The truth was, no matter what the outcome, he was experiencing a rejuvenation because of this mystery. He was having the best time he'd had in years and years.

If he leafed back through the happy memories of his life, there had been one tune only, when simply being alive had been this wondrous and strange. He'd been at Oxford then; he'd been only twenty; and he'd been in love with Lawrence Stratford, and Lawrence Stratford had been in love with him.

The thought of Lawrence now destroyed everything. It was as if the icy wind off the sea had frozen his heart. Something had happened in that tomb, something Henry did not dare to confess to him. And Ramsey knew it. And no matter what else happened in this dangerous little venture, Elliott was going to discover the truth of the matter.

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