by Dave Freer
Jerry gaped. Flanders eyed him speculatively.
Fortunately, Lamont was more quick-witted. "Everything they can eat," he said immediately. "Starting now."
Flanders started bellowing orders. In the chaos and confusion, logic began to return. A number of the Luxor's employees starting racing back to the casino.
"Okay," said Flanders. "That's that. What else?"
Lamont's knowledge of Las Vegas contract negotiations had clearly reached its limit. He stared at Jerry. Jerry shook his head, trying to clear away his own confusion.
"Mr. Flanders, could we continue this inside? And later?" Jerry took Liz by the uninjured arm. "We need to get her to a doctor right away. And I'd better tell Uncle Sam that we're home."
"No sweat." Flanders started hustling him and Liz and Lamont toward the entrance. A squad of security guards cleared a path.
"You've all got contracts, you want 'em. Top billing every night, for six months running. How we escaped the alien menace. I can get half a dozen top singers and comedians—easy—to warm up the crowd."
Jerry goggled at him. Liz burst into laughter. Lamont grinned and said: "First, Mr. Flanders, I intend to clean you out of several million dollars. I'm feeling very lucky."
The Luxor's general manager grinned back. "If you can do it, without cheating, more power to you. And if it's pure luck you're counting on, the fastest way to make money is with baccarat. Or the hundred-dollar progressive slots. But I'll give you fair warning—those games can gobble up your own money faster than anything, too."
The rest of the party had caught up with them by now. Cruz, hearing Flanders' last remark, smiled evilly and fingered his credit card. "The rest of you guys want in on this? I'll front you the stake."
The fact that everyone nodded like puppets didn't seem to faze Flanders in the least. After a moment's careful assessment of them, he cocked his head toward one of his assistants. "Andy, better get a press release ready. I have a feeling we'll be announcing some big new winners."
Another of his assistants looked worried. "Uh, Hank . . . You remember that time MGM Grand had an entire quarter's profits taken in one night by a guy at the baccarat table?"
Flanders nodded. "Fifteen million bucks. And we lost almost two million not so long ago at the progressive slots. So what?" He jerked his head to the north. The great blue edifice of the MGM Grand was easily visible. "They're still there, aren't they? Making money hand over fist."
And that was apparently as much argument as the Luxor's general manager was willing to accept. "Do it, Andy," he growled. "The publicity'll be fantastic. By tomorrow morning, the Luxor's going to be the most famous casino in the whole world."
Jerry caught side of Throttler and the two dragons, still in the plaza. For such huge and fearsome creatures, they looked amazingly like abandoned puppies. The reproach in their eyes, watching their human companions leave, was almost heartbreaking.
"Hang tight!" Jerry shouted. "We'll be back! And there's food on the way!"
That seemed to mollify them. A little boy edged his way closer to Throttler, holding out a little bag. "You like peanuts?"
The sphinx stared at the bag. "What are 'peanuts'?"
Seconds later, Throttler was beaming. "These are great!" she announced to Smitar and Bitar. "You should try some!"
A moment later, the sphinx and the dragons were being mobbed by tourists offering peanuts and candy bars.
"Gonna ruin their appetite," muttered Lamont. "Thank God."
* * *
Flanders seemed like a human bulldog. Before they knew it, he had them halfway up a curving ramp leading toward the casino itself. To their left, a huge replica of Harmakhis loomed overhead, fronting onto the Strip.
"The color scheme's off, y'know," commented Liz. From the pinched look on her face, Jerry thought she was trying to hold off the pain with whimsy. He put his arm around her waist and squeezed gently.
"She's right," he said, more to keep her mind off the pain than because he cared. "Close, but . . . the real Harmakhis is painted red, too."
Flanders was bellowing to yet another assistant before Jerry finished the sentence. "Kenny! Get me some painting contractors!"
"Does anything make you pause?" demanded Liz.
Flanders' grin seemed an immovable part of his face by now. "That's why I get paid the big bucks, ma'am."
"Tell 'em to give you a raise," she snorted.
"I intend to. Unless they fire me." Needless to say, the last remark was said without the slightest pause.
* * *
Once they were inside the casino, Jerry's eyes had to make an adjustment. The interior combined dim lighting with, off a bit in the distance, the flashing colors and cheerful sounds of the slot machines and gambling tables. As Flanders hustled them past the long reception desk slanting along the right side of the huge and cavernous space, Jerry got only glimpses of the Egyptian decor. The only thing that registered were two statues of hieracosphinxes.
Then he spotted a bank of phones, next to a coffee bar. The words "International Grounds" registered on his eyes, but not his mind.
"Stop! I've got to make some calls!"
Flanders chortled and shook his head. He guided all of them into a railed-off area in front of the coffee bar. A moment later, all of them were sitting at some round black tables.
"Use my cell phone," he offered, pulling the instrument out of his suit pocket. Then, to Liz: "I'll get you a doctor right away."
Flanders gave some quick orders to yet another assistant. By now, he seemed to have a little mob of them surrounding him, along with at least a dozen security guards. His eyes fell on Arachne, huddled in McKenna's sheltering arms. Now that the excitement of the moment was over, the Greek girl was clearly abashed by her nudity.
The general manager jerked his thumb at a nearby boutique. Luxor Logo Shop, it was called. "Get her a bathrobe, Linda," he ordered. "Now. Comp it. Then go over to the boutique in the Galleria and get her something fancier."
The female assistant's eyes gave Arachne's body a quick and expert size measurement and she was on her way. Not quite running.
"Run!" bellowed Flanders.
He didn't wait to see if she obeyed. He was hauling a large cigar out of one jacket pocket and a Zippo out of another. "Been saving this for a special occasion." A moment later, Flander's still-grinning face was shrouded with blue smoke.
"Best day I've ever had," he announced cheerfully. He eyed Lamont and Cruz, and pointed the cigar toward the gaming tables. "Thattaway, gentlemen. Let's see if you can make good your boast."
Lamont looked at Jerry uncertainly. Jerry paused from punching numbers into the cell phone and smiled. "Go ahead, Lamont. It'll take me a while to get through to somebody, anyway. I'll see the word gets passed to Marie. You might as well take care of your retirement."
Lamont rose from the chair, almost giggling. "No more rusted bolts for me!" A moment later, he and Cruz were gone. Medea began to rise, about to follow her new man. Then she relaxed into her chair and hugged her two children close.
"See?" she demanded. "A good provider! Not like that worthless father of yours!"
From the cloud of blue smoke, Flanders' booming voice issued. "Pedro! Get this lady a divorce lawyer. Best one in town. Comp it."
Perched on his own chair, looking a bit like a squat, lion-headed kid, Bes' voice boomed even louder.
"Where are these dwarf-tossing contests I heard about?"
"Alice!" boomed Flanders. "You heard him—book the act."
Jerry had finally gotten through to the Oriental Institute. But all he got was a message: this number is no longer in service. So he overheard the exchange between Bes and Flanders, which caused him to go slightly pale.
"Uh, Mr. Flanders . . . that's likely to be a little tough on the dwarf tossers. Would-be tossers, I should say." He eyed Bes uncertainly. "Unless he's lost his powers."
Bes stood up and transformed his wrought-iron chair into a modernistic sculpture. In three seconds
.
"Guess not," muttered Jerry.
"Better yet!" boomed Flanders. "Rita! Get hold of the World Wrestling Federation! Book half a dozen top figures. Villain types, you hear? The Little Guy's Revenge, we'll call it."
A doctor came rushing up. "Thank god," murmured Liz, holding out her arm. "Something in this place isn't showbiz."
"Wendy!" boomed Flanders. "Get the best illustrator in town! I want this lady's cast to be a piece of art!"
From the direction of the gambling area, a loud and excited murmur was beginning to arise. As if someone was beginning to win big.
"Freddie!" boomed the voice out of the blue clouds. "Tell Andy to get moving on that press release!"
All the numbers Jerry tried to dial seemed out of service. He suddenly remembered that the phones involved had been close to the Krim pyramid. He turned toward Flanders and started to speak. "How much has that thing grown since we were snatched?"
Flanders didn't answer the question directly. "Forget the phone! You're about to go on national TV. Everybody'll get your message."
Sure enough. A TV news crew was hustling forward through the mob in the casino, their way being cleared for them by security guards and policemen.
51
Not hiring or taking applications.
Miggy Tremelo sat at his desk staring at the pages of Henri's "diary of events," desperately trying to find something that could convince the Powers That Be to cancel the use of the tactical nuke which was scheduled to take place in—
He glanced at his watch. Nine hours. The scowl on Miggy's face deepened. They'd have to evacuate the area themselves before much longer. Granted, the bomb was the nuclear equivalent of a shaped charge. Nor did Miggy doubt the claims of the nuclear technicians that the device would create minimal destruction everywhere except the target. "Minimal," at least, by nuke standards.
But he was even more certain that the effect on the alien intruder would be catastrophic. Every time energy had been applied to the black pyramid in the hopes of destroying it, the thing had simply grown—and in direct proportion to the energy involved. Tremelo saw no reason to assume that the tac nuke would cross some magic threshold. He expected the pyramid to expand enormously, which, among other things, would engulf his own office in the snatch radius. He wasn't worried about that from his own point of view, but there was no way he was going to risk Marie being snatched. With Lamont already gone, the Jackson kids would be orphans.
"Idiots!" he hissed.
* * *
One of Miggy's technicians burst into Tremelo's office without stopping to knock. He hardly stopped to open the door. "The alien object has just reduced in size!" he squeaked. "Registered on all our instruments!"
Tremelo's eyes narrowed. "I wonder if someone just got away . . . "
* * *
Marie burst into the cluttered office through another door. "They're back! It just came on the news!"
* * *
A moment later, Miggy and Marie were part of the small crowd standing in front of the little television in the nearby lunch room. The man being interviewed on the screen bore a startling resemblance to Indiana Jones. Except he seemed smaller, dirtier, more disheveled, and a lot smarter.
" . . . not try to attack the thing," he was saying. "I repeat—DO NOT launch any kind of attack on the Krim device. The material element involved in its construction is minute and essentially impervious to damage. The Krim device is a probe, essentially. I don't know how it works, because the science involved is way beyond our knowledge. But I do know that the thing survived passage through an interstellar wormhole. Check with any reputable astrophysicist and I'm sure they'll tell you that the energies and stresses involved in such a wormhole passage far exceed anything we're capable of creating."
"Get Milliken on the phone," growled Tremelo to Marie. "No—to hell with Milliken! Get me the damned President!"
Marie nodded, but made no move to comply. Her face seemed almost pale with strain. Belatedly, Miggy realized that the man on the TV screen—Professor Lukacs, obviously, even if he didn't look much like his photographs—had so far said nothing about the survivors.
"Not right now, Marie," he murmured, putting a comforting arm around her shoulders. "It'll keep for a while."
Lukacs was blithering on about the Krim device. For all his own desperate desire to learn as much as he could, Tremelo felt a sudden flash of anger at the mythologist. Damn all absent-minded professors, anyway! What about Marie's husband? Is he still alive, you—you jerk!
" . . . only thing we can do is quarantine the pyramid. Evacuate everybody far enough away that its powers—the Krim call it prukrin, which seems to refer to some kind of psychic energies, which bears some similarities, as near as I can determine, to Jung's notions concerning the collective unconscious although—"
Blither, blither—damn all scholars, anyway!
" . . . hasten to add that I'm just speculating. But what I do know is that it relies on psychic input from the people it snatches. And it can only snatch people within a certain range. So evacuation—quarantine—is an effective way—"
Tremelo saw Liz De Beer come up behind Jerry, cradling her arm. She was scowling at him. The expression held an odd mixture of fondness and exasperation, almost like that of a wife dealing with one of her husband's foibles.
"Stop lecturing, Jerry!" she said firmly. "You're supposed to tell Lamont's wife about him, remember? And if you blather all day you'll blow our date." She planted a kiss on his neck and moved away from the camera.
The scientist on the TV screen jerked to a sudden halt in his logorrhea. A look of surprise and chagrin crossed Lukacs' face.
"Oh. Sorry. Forgot." Lukacs leaned forward and peered intently into the camera. "Mrs. Jackson, are you there?"
Marie stiffened. Her hand covered her mouth.
Jerry Lukacs' face broke into a smile. "Well, I hope so. Anyway, I just wanted to tell you that Lamont's fine. He's back with the rest of us and in perfect health. In fact—"
Marie sobbed, once. Then, her eyes leaking tears of joy, she pressed her face into Tremelo's shoulder and began hugging the elderly physicist. He returned the hug with his own, stroking her hair, while he continued to watch Lukacs.
The disheveled, scholarly tough-looking face on the screen turned away for a moment. There seemed to be a lot of noise in the background.
"In fact, I'd say he's having a run of luck at the casino's tables. Big run of luck, from the sound of it."
A balding, shrewd-eyed, managerial face thrust itself into the camera, puffing on a huge cigar. "Made over a million bucks so far. Remember, folks—this is all happening at the Luxor casino. The Luxor. Best casino in the world!"
The face pulled away and Jerry's visage reappeared from the fading cloud of blue smoke. "Yeah, he's fine. And as you can see"—his face colored a bit—"Dr. Elizabeth De Beer made it back also, in good shape except for a broken arm. And so did Sergeant Anibal Cruz and Corporal Jim McKenna. Even got new girlfriends."
The camera panned sideways, catching Liz, Cruz and McKenna sitting at nearby tables. Liz was ignoring the camera altogether, while she practically swigged a large cup of coffee. Corporal McKenna couldn't really be seen properly, because he was fiercely kissing a young woman perched on his lap wearing nothing but a bathrobe.
Sergeant Cruz, on the other hand, was grinning at the camera. His arm was around a beautiful woman sitting on a chair right next to him. Both he and the woman had children perched on their laps.
"Yeah, that's right," he announced. "I'd like to introduce everybody to my new family. The kids are called Priones and Neoptolmeus. My old lady's name is Medea. That's the 'Medea,' by the way, so if la migra'sgot any wild ideas about deporting them 'cause they don't got papers, think again."
A new voice intruded. "Who is this La Migra?" it demanded, booming. A dwarf stepped into the camera's field of vision and stood by Cruz's side. For all its short stature, there seemed something enormously powerful about the figure. Th
e fact that the lion-looking face was scowling ferociously added to the effect.
"Someone threatens you, friend Cruz?" the leonine dwarf demanded.
The sergeant shrugged. "Immigration and Naturalization Service. We swarthy types just call it la migra." Cruz looked back at the camera, grinning widely, and jerked his head at the dwarf. "Let me introduce Bes, also. He's an Egyptian god."
Then, to Bes: "La migra are pretty much the world's champion dwarf tossers."
The camera seemed to shake a bit and move backward, as if the cameraman was staggered by the incredible roar of fury which erupted from Bes. A moment later, still a bit shakily, the camera followed the dwarf god's progress as Bes bounded over to a nearby statue of a hieracosphinx and proceeded to . . .
"He's demolishing that thing," whispered one of the technicians in the room. "Crushing a statue with his bare hands."
Tremelo gave Marie a last little squeeze. "You okay, now?" He felt her head nod, and heard the happy little gurgle. "Better get me the President, Marie. I can see we're going to need him to grant some people political asylum, too. Before those idiots at the INS get it into their heads to pull a raid."
The image on the TV switched to an outside view, from a different camera. Two giant winged snakes—dragons?—were being fed by a line of hotel employees bearing platters. A huge sphinx was practically mobbed with tourists, tossing the monster candy bars when they failed to answer its riddles properly.
"Quick, Marie!" hissed Tremelo. "The President'll have to invoke the Endangered Species Act, too."
Marie was watching the screen now. Her little gurgle of happiness turned into a riotous laugh.
"Yeah—but which species is being endangered?"
* * *
After she left, Tremelo shook his head. "Damned if I know. Oh, brave new world, that hath such people in it."
One of Miggy's assistants was staring at him. "What're we going to do, Professor?" He pointed at the TV screen, which was now filled again with the face of Jerry Lukacs, resuming his lecture. "If that guy's right, we can't touch that damned pyramid."