He Shall Thunder in the Sky - Elizabeth Peters [135]
“How did you find it?” I asked, scrambling along the surface to a point where I could look down into the chamber. Enough of the fill had been removed to define the inner side of the walls. Only one of the original roofing stones remained. A scattering of chips on the surface of the rubble inside the room suggested that the others had fallen and shattered.
“I happened to notice that what had appeared to be only a crack in the wall was suspiciously regular, so I dug outside it and found stonework.” Running his fingers through his hair, he went on, “The plan of the mastaba is more complex than we realized; there is an extension of as yet indeterminate size to the south. As for the serdab, you can see why I want photographs before we continue emptying it.”
“You think there is a statue down there?”
“One can only hope.”
“Yes, yes,” I exclaimed. “Hurry, Nefret, get the camera.”
We arranged measuring sticks along the walls and against them, and Nefret took several exposures. I was all for continuing, but a general outcry overruled me.
“We ought to wait for Father,” Ramses said, and Nefret added, in a fair imitation of Miss Molly’s best whine, “I’m hungry!”
An explosive sigh from Selim expressed his opinion, so I gave in. Scarcely had we begun unpacking our picnic baskets when I beheld Emerson approaching.
There was something very strange about his appearance. For one thing, he was still wearing the tweed coat and trousers I had made him put on. To see Emerson in a coat at that time of day, on the dig, indicated a state of mental preoccupation so extreme as to be virtually unprecedented. Further evidence of preoccupation was provided by his blank stare and his frequent stumbles. He looked like a sleepwalker, and it appeared to me that he was in serious danger of falling into a tomb, so I shouted at him.
His eyes came back into focus. “Oh, there you are,” he said. “Lunch? Good.”
“We have found the serdab, Emerson,” I announced.
“The what? Oh.” Emerson took a sandwich. “Very good.”
Visibly alarmed, Nefret took him by the sleeve and tried to shake him. The monumental form of Emerson was not to be moved thus, but the gesture and her exclamation did succeed in getting his attention.
“Professor, didn’t you hear? A serdab! Statues! At least we hope so. Is something wrong? Did the General have bad news?”
“I cannot imagine,” said Emerson stiffly, “what makes you suppose I am not listening, or what leads you to surmise that there is bad news. A serdab. Excellent. As for the General, he was no more annoying than usual.” He put the rest of his sandwich in his mouth and chewed. I had the impression he was employing mastication to give him time to invent a story. Inspiration came; he swallowed noisily, and went on, “The damned fools are talking about a corvée—forced-labor battalions.”
Ramses, who had not taken his eyes off his father, said, “That would be disastrous, especially at the present time.”
“And a direct violation of Maxwell’s assurance that Great Britain would not demand aid from the Egyptian people in this war,” Emerson agreed. “I hope I persuaded them to give up the idea.”
“That is all?” Nefret demanded.
“It is enough, isn’t it? An entire morning wasted on a piece of bureaucratic bombast.” Emerson pulled off his coat, tie, waistcoat, and shirt. I picked them up from the ground and collected several scattered buttons. “Back to work,” Emerson went on. “Have you taken photographs? Ramses, let me see your field notes. Peabody, get back to your rubble!”
Emerson’s exasperation at discovering he had been in error about the plan of the mastaba was so extreme I was unable to get a private word with him for some time. After further excavation had exposed the head of a statue, and Nefret was