Adventures

by Mike Resnick

  And then, cursing so loud we could hear him while he was still outside the building, the Dutchman was dragged up onto the auction block.

  “Lot Number 27,” announced the auctioneer. He tried to show the Dutchman's teeth to the crowd and almost got his finger bitten off for his trouble.

  “There he is!” screamed the Dutchman, catching sight of me. “There's the son of a pig who's responsible for this!”

  I stood up and waved to the crowd, who cheered raucously and threw a few coins in my direction.

  “You don't understand!” bellowed the Dutchman. “He's supposed to be up here being sold! I'm supposed to be down there!”

  “The man's obviously gone off the deep end, Lord protect him,” I said somberly. “I ask you, brothers, to compare our appearances. Do I look like a man who's been dragged through the desert to stand on the block? Or, better still, ask my host and good friend Ali ben Ishak.”

  That quieted everyone down for a while, and the auctioneer went back to telling the crowd how much work the Dutchman would be happy to do in a thirty-hour day. But Ali ben Ishak paid no attention; instead, he just stared long and hard at me.

  “Is something troubling you, Brother Ali ben?” I asked at last.

  “I'm just wondering how you did it,” he purred.

  “Did what?”

  “Managed to trade places with the Dutchman. I know who he is, of course.”

  “I don't suppose you'd like to let that little tidbit of knowledge remain our personal secret, would you?” I said.

  “If I tell what I know, you will be put on the auction block,” he said, more to himself than to me. “And if I were to bid on you...” His voice trailed off and he looked thoughtfully at me.

  “Brother Ali ben, I know what you're thinking, and while it's immoral and disgusting and unChristian as all get-out, I just can't bring myself to hold it against you, given that I'm doubtless the handsomest young buck you've ever run across. But a lot of these other guys have been looking at me just the way you have, and it's only fair to warn you that if I go on the block I'll probably cost you a million dollars or more. I have it on good authority that the Sultan of Graustark himself has authorized his agents to go that high for me.”

  “Oh?” he said, knitting his brows.

  “Whereas a rum-soaked, foul-mouthed old sex fiend like the Dutchman ought to go for five thousand dollars tops.”

  “But he's so ... so...” Ali ben Ishak searched for the right word.

  “I know,” I said. “But dry him out for a month, starve him for a couple more, and buy him a wig, and you'll be surprised at the change in him. I mean, he'll never look as good as me, Lord knows, but you can make yourself one hell of a bargain.”

  He lowered his head, lost in thought, for about three minutes. When he rejoined the land of the living, the price on the Dutchman was eight hundred dollars and rising by ten-dollar increments. Ali ben Ishak put in a bid of three thousand, and got him before the opposition could muster a rally.

  Then they marched out my seventy porters, and while they were showing off each one's teeth in turn, a big one on the end gestured to me to come up to the platform. I did so, and he leaned over and whispered in my ear.

  “It is not commonly known that I speak English,” he said.

  “It ain't even uncommonly known,” I replied in surprise. “Why in tarnation didn't you ever speak to me during that whole goddamned long trek through the desert?”

  “I never had anything to say,” he replied.

  “And now you do?” I asked.

  “Oh, yes,” he said with a grim smile. “And if you do not find a way to free me and my fellow tribesmen, I am going to say it to everyone in this room. I am sure the auctioneer would like to know that since the Dutchman is in no position to make any claims, he can keep one hundred percent of the proceeds he could realize from your sale, rather than merely his commission.”

  The auctioneer walked over and gave me an inquiring look, which I answered with a sick little grin. Then I returned to my seat.

  “The bidding is open!” announced the auctioneer.

  “Four thousand for the lot,” said one potentate.

  “Five,” said another.

  “Seven,” offered a bejeweled rajah.

  “Eight thousand,” I said, wondering if my remaining eight thousand was enough to start my tabernacle.

  “Nine,” said the rajah.

  “Ten,” I said. “And that's all those lazy bastards are worth!”

  “Eleven,” said the rajah.

  “I told you ten was all they were worth!” I shouted. “You got wax in your ears or something? Twelve, and that's my last bid.”

  “Thirteen,” said the rajah.

  “Fourteen,” I said. “Maybe I can get that much out of them before the law discovers I own ’em.”

  “The law?” asked one of the potentates.

  “They ate their chief,” I answered.

  The rajah walked up to the platform and looked them over long and hard. “They really ate their chief?”

  “Would I lie to you?” I said.

  “Fifteen,” he said after much hesitation.

  “Sixteen,” I said. “They're also homosexual rapists.”

  Ali Ben Ishak jumped to his feet to make a bid, but I stomped on his toe and he sat back down, cursing. The rajah took another long hard look, shook his head, and walked back to his seat.

  “Sold, for sixteen thousand dollars,” cried the auctioneer.

  I looked at my English-speaking porter, who just grinned at me.

  “Turn ’em loose and point ’em south,” I said. “I changed my mind. They're just too dangerous to keep.”

  The auctioneer shrugged, and I heard a voice in the back of the room say, “Well, you know those big-shot American millionaires: easy come, easy go.”

  The auction ended in another hour, and, once again penniless, I took my leave, more than willing to let Ali ben Ishak keep the auction money I should have been paid for the Arabs and the Dutchman in exchange for his silence.

  Well, not quite penniless. He did pay me two hundred dollars for presiding at the ceremony that wed him, once and forever, to Caesare Tobur, alias Winston Riles, alias Hans Gerber, alias Horst Brokow, alias the Dutchman. It may have been a little irregular, but I did my usual heart-rending job. At least, I don't recall ever seeing any bride cry and carry on quite as much as the Dutchman did.

  Chapter 5

  THE MUMMY

  There are worse things than being in Cairo in the summer.

  You can, for example, be in Cairo in the summer with no money, no food, no friends, one suit of clothes, and a crazy Dutchman spreading vile and terrible lies about you to anyone who will listen.

  Or you can be in Cairo in the summer with no money, no food, no friends, one suit of clothes, a crazy Dutchman spreading vile and terrible lies about you to anyone who will listen, and be stalked down a lonely alleyway by a tall dark figure that keeps just out of sight.

  Which I was.

  In point of fact, the street, which was pretty well lit, was just a few short yards away, but it was presently populated by a trio of young men with whom I had recently indulged in certain games of chance involving laminated cardboard rectangles with interesting and intricate markings on both sides. Not wishing to bring up bitter memories, I felt it wise to remain off the beaten track, so to speak, when it suddenly came to my attention that my particular track wasn't quite so unbeaten as I might have wished.

  Every time I took a step so did this shadow behind me, and every time I stopped it stopped too. At first I didn't pay it much attention, since I had nothing anyone could possibly want, but then I got to thinking, and decided that any civilized man might well have something some of these Egyptians might want, if only his shoes.

  Well, this cat-and-mouse business went on for the better part of twenty minutes, at the end of which time I would have traded my soul for a cold bottle of beer, inasmuch as being stalked through the slums of Cair
o is mighty thirsty work, when finally this figure stepped out of the shadows holding a wicked-looking dagger in its hand.

  “It's all a mistake!” I hollered, throwing my hands up over my head. “This resemblance between me and Rudolph Valentino is purely superficial! I ain't made away with no Egyptian women that I can recall.”

  “Aw, goddamnit, it's you!” muttered a deep voice. “What the hell are you doing here at this time of night, Lucifer?”

  I edged closer to get a better look. It turned out to be the English-speaking porter.

  “Why ain't you back with your tribesmen, hightailing it for Uganda?” I asked when I'd finally recognized him.

  “I decided to stay here and seek fame and fortune,” he replied, lowering his dagger.

  “You expect to find them in an alley at four in the morning?” I asked.

  “This wasn't my first choice,” he admitted sheepishly. “But did you ever try to rob a bank with only a knife?”

  “So why didn't you buy a gun?” I asked with a certain detached curiosity.

  “With what?” he demanded. “All I have is this damned loincloth. Lucifer, I'm freezing to death!”

  “Well, brother,” I told him, “freezing to death is one thing I don't have to worry about.”

  “No?” he said skeptically.

  “No,” I assured him. “I'm gonna starve to death long before that.”

  “Well, sorry to have bothered you,” he said, walking off.

  “Hold on!” I called after him. “Maybe we ought to pool our resources and form a partnership.”

  “I don't know about that,” he said after some thought. “Your last partner is probably drinking my wife's blood at this very moment.”

  “But he's happy and well-fed,” I pointed out. “You gotta consider exactly who and what my last partner was.”

  “True,” he said slowly. “But none of this poor black heathen crap. We're equal partners or the whole thing's off and I'll probably rob you of your clothes.”

  “Brother,” I said sincerely, “you got me all wrong. The Good Lord explicitly forbids me to take advantage of partners of any race, especially when they got me beat by six inches and a good fifty pounds. By the bye, what's your name?”

  “You couldn't pronounce it,” he said haughtily.

  “Try me,” I said.

  “Kanchupja,” he said.

  “That being the case, I will call you Friday,” I told him.

  He shrugged in assent.

  “Friday it is, then,” I said. “And now, Friday, my partner and cherished friend, I don't suppose you've got any foodstuffs to toss into our mutual pool of resources?”

  He held his naked arms above his near-naked body and turned once around. “Just where do you suppose I'd be hiding them, Lucifer?” he asked.

  “Just curious,” I said.

  “I see that you've got an undershirt and a top shirt on,” said Friday. “I don't suppose you'd care to turn one of them over to me?”

  “Ain't no sense both of us freezing,” I replied. “You ain't using your head at all tonight, Friday. It occurs to me that just based on brainpower alone, a fifty-fifty partnership may not be the most equitable arrangement ever to come down the pike.”

  “You can be an equal partner or a naked victim,” said Friday seriously “I don't recall offering you a third alternative.” He placed his hand meaningfully on the hilt of his dagger.

  “Well, partner, as long as you put it that way, I guess everything is settled,” I said quickly.

  We decided to set off in search of food and clothing. By sunrise we still weren't exactly the best-dressed or fattest men in town, so when a crowd began forming on one of the main thoroughfares, we just naturally followed them, hoping for a handout or two, or at least a couple of bulging and unprotected pockets.

  What we found was a caravan filled to the brim with golden statues and other baubles, all of them worth a pretty penny or two. Some fellow in khaki shorts and shirt and an oversized pith helmet was standing next to all this stuff, answering questions that a bunch of reporters was tossing up at him.

  “What seems to be causing all the commotion, brother?” I asked a European who was standing on the outskirts of the crowd, trying to get a peek of the goings-on.

  “Why, don't you ever read a newspaper, friend?” he replied. “This is the first load of treasure to be removed from King Tut's tomb.”

  “And where might I find this King Tut?” I asked, figuring that any king who gave away gold in such quantities ought to have a little food and a couple of suits left over for a young and modest Christian gentleman who had just undergone months of privation on the Dark Continent.

  “I guess you don't read the papers at that!” laughed the European. “King Tutankhamen has been dead for more than three thousand years.”

  “Just settling the estate now, are they?” I asked, not wishing to appear unduly ignorant.

  My companion shook his head with a smile. “King Tut's tomb was discovered on December 1 of last year by an Englishman named Lord Carnarvon and an American named Carter. It's the greatest archaeological find in history.”

  “Yeah?” I replied. “What all did they find?”

  “All kinds of antiques: gilt couches and alabaster vases covered with hieroglyphics. And of course they found Tut himself, the boy king who had been buried with all these marvels millennia ago.”

  “So now that they found all this stuff, who are they going to sell it to?” I asked.

  “Sell it?” He looked horrified. “My good man, all of these fabulous items from antiquity will be put on public display.” He looked long and hard at me, and then added: “Under extremely heavy guard, of course.”

  “Of course,” I agreed, nodding my head thoughtfully. “And what about old Tut himself? They gonna finally give him a decent Christian burial?”

  “You must be mad!” thundered the European. “Tut is the greatest find of all! They'll be displaying his mummy all over the world.”

  “You mean to tell me, brother, that they're going to take this dead little boy all wrapped up in bandages and put him on display?” I exclaimed. “Why, it's uncivilized!”

  “They're considering bids from various countries right this moment,” said my companion.

  “Bids? Why would a country pay good coin of the realm to put a mummy on display?”

  “They'll charge tourists and recoup their money, never fear,” he replied. “But they'll be doing it for the prestige. The profits will be merely incidental.”

  I thanked him for all this information and moseyed on back to Friday, who had been busy relieving onlookers of their excess change while they were watching the caravan.

  “Look, Lucifer,” he said, holding up a wad of pound notes. “At least we won't freeze or starve.”

  “The possibility ain't never crossed my mind,” I said, looking around for a store that sold notions and similar goods. “But better still, I think I have hit upon our first business venture.”

  “First let me get something to wear,” said Friday, heading off toward a nearby haberdashery.

  I grabbed his arm, hooking it in my own, and kept walking. “Coals to Newcastle,” I said. “I'm going to dress you from head to toe.”

  “What are you talking about?” demanded Friday, with a suspicious look on his face.

  “Brother Friday, just put yourself and your economic future in my hands,” I said reassuringly. “I promise that by nightfall you'll be the warmest man in all Egypt.”

  “This isn't going to hurt, is it?” he asked warily.

  “Not a bit, Brother Friday.”

  “You're sure?” he persisted.

  “Brother, the only thing that's getting hurt around here is my feelings when I see this lack of trust on your face,” I told him. “Now let's get to work.”

  We began by hunting up a notions shop and buying a couple of hundred feet of bright white bandages. Then we found a little storefront smack-dab in the middle of the Avenue of the Pharaohs and
plunked down a pound for a week's rent.

  “Now what?” asked Friday as we unloaded our bandages into the empty store.

  “Now you take a few shillings,” I said, “and go out shopping for a couple of pieces of white cardboard and a can of paint.”

  “And what will you be doing?”

  “Friday, you are the most suspicious partner a mortal man ever did have!” I complained. “I'm just going out to do a little serious thinking. I keep feeling that we need a little something else, but I can't quite put my finger on what it is.”

  He muttered some gibberish in Swahili and stalked off to make his purchases, while I, deciding that I could think better on my feet than sitting in the store, began walking up and down the winding streets of Cairo. I guess I had gone about half a mile when a small but very rounded figure shot out of a doorway and grabbed me by the hand.

  “I have lost my heart to you, noble sir!” she breathed, her dark eyes shimmering above the veil that obscured the rest of her face—and suddenly it dawned on me exactly what our little business venture was lacking.

  “It ain't nothing to be ashamed of,” I admitted, smiling down at her. “Lots of ladies have felt even stronger emotions on less notice, me being a Christian and a gentleman, and an American to boot.”

  “I am overcome by an all-pervading desire to give of myself freely to you!” she whispered.

  “Freely, you say?” I repeated, as she began leading me into the doorway from which she had emerged.

  “Well,” she said, modestly dropping her gaze, “there is a small handling and cover charge. as well as an entertainment tax.”

  “Sister,” I said, still smiling at her, “I have a feeling that you and me were meant for each other.”

  “Good,” she said, and from the way her eyes kind of crinkled up at the corners I knew she was returning my grin. “Shall we get the crass commercial details over with?”

  “Suits me fine,” I agreed. “Of course, I ain't got any money, but...”