The Falcon at the Portal - Elizabeth Peters [74]
The children began work on our north cemetery next day. Daoud and several of our other trained men were with them, and Emerson had taken on thirty unskilled workmen and the like number of basket carriers. According to Jack, their group had excavated a large mastaba in this area the previous February. There was no trace of it now; drifting sand had filled the hollow again. If I hadn’t seen the same thing so often before, I would not have believed how quickly the feeble efforts of man can be expunged by the hand of nature. I was a little surprised that Mr. Reisner had not continued excavating in this area, since his mastaba had produced fragments of handsome hard-stone vessels inscribed with the name of a hitherto unknown king. However, this was paltry stuff compared to the elegantly decorated tombs he was finding at Giza. One would not expect him to give something of that sort to another excavator.
I went first to the little shelter I had caused to be set up nearby. I always make it a point to arrange a rug and a few chairs and a table and other modest comforts in a shady place so that we can retire to it for refreshment and occasional rest periods. Unnecessary discomfort is inefficient as well as foolish. Usually I was able to find an empty tomb or cave, but here the terrain was so flat I had to content myself with an awning of canvas. Removing my coat and discarding my parasol, I rolled my sleeves to the elbow and loosened my collar. It is always warm inside pyramids.
Going in search of Emerson I found him with Ramses and Nefret, their heads bent over one of the plans. “Here, then,” Emerson was saying, as he jabbed at the paper with the stem of his pipe. “Make sure you—“
“Emerson!” I said rather loudly.
Emerson jumped, dropped his pipe, and said a bad word. “What do you want?” he demanded.
“You. You said I could go inside today. If you do not care to accompany me I will take Selim, but I thought it only fair to inform you that I am about—”
“Oh, damnation,” said Emerson. “I am coming. I only wanted to—”
I turned on my heel and marched off. Selim, who had been watching with a grin, fell in step with me. We had not gone two yards before Emerson caught us up. He was wiping the dust off his pipe with his shirttail.
“Peabody,” he began, in a voice like thunder.
“Leave Ramses alone, Emerson.”
“I only wanted to—”
“Is he competent to do the job?”
“Curse it, I trained him myself!”
“Then let him do it.”
We stamped along side by side in silence. Then Emerson said, “Have I mentioned recently that you are the light of my life and the joy of my existence?”
“And have I mentioned that you are the most remarkable man of my acquaintance?”
Emerson chuckled. “We will elaborate on those statements at a later time, my dear. At the present time I can best demonstrate my affection by taking you into your pyramid.”
However, when we reached the shaft we met an unexpected and ominous check.
Our men had been pulling the filled baskets up by hand, an increasingly onerous task as the shaft deepened, until Selim had employed his engineering talents in constructing a more efficient apparatus. A framework of stout beams supported a series of pulleys and a roller onto which the rope could be wound by means of a handle. Attached to the end of the rope was a sort of box, open on top, which served as a container for filled baskets or for people. A foot lever pushed something or other that would stop the rope unwinding too suddenly. Selim would have explained it all to me—indeed, I had a hard time stopping him from explaining it all to me. I had assured him I had complete confidence in him and that I would take his word for it that the device was entirely safe.
It was no longer there. With an emphatic swearword Emerson knelt on the edge of the chasm and looked down. Then he looked up. He pronounced another even more emphatic swearword. “Damnation! Clear out, everyone. Get back.”
“What has happened?