"Great pot of nonsense, you want my inebriated expert's opinion. On the other hand, if you demand sober-er-er experts, come…"
He picked up his beer and peanuts, then hooked my arm to tow me back to his table, introducing me as the renowned fellow pyra-midiot, Sir Hidden Chambers-Pott. "On with our pith helmet, Sir Hidden; give these loutish clods an eyeful of the real archaeological élan!"
They were five in alclass="underline" the Real Englishman, a burly black-bearded American about my age, a suave old German wearing tinted glasses and a white linen suit, and two apprentice experts from the University of Cairo. The loutish clods barely noticed me, for all my élan. They went right back to their interrupted conversation concerning the deeply significant sociopolitical, teleological, and religious ramifications of the upcoming heavyweight title fight in Zaire.
"I don't care if Ali takes up Tibetan Yoga and learns to levitate," the American proclaimed. "Foreman is still going to waste him. Kayo-pow! Guar-an-teed."
He had a virile delivery and build, burly arms and neck squeezed into a T-shirt. A stencil across the chest declared him a member of the Stanford Linear Accelerator Computer Spacewar Team, their motto: Never Say Hyper!
"Sure, Ali was great, a goddamned saint of a fighter. But what made him great wasn't his faith. It was number one his speed – which has slowed considerably – and number two his needle. If anything esoteric gave him special powers it was his goddamn needle, right?"
"Just so," said the Real Englishman. "His bloody needling blacky's mouth -"
"But he tries to pull his needle on this man – 'Yo' gonna fall in nine, you honky-lovin shine!' – it simply is not going to work. Not on Big George. This ain't no Uncle Liston! This ain't no paranoid cub scout Floyd Patterson! This is a bona fide bright-eyed one-track-minded Jeezus freak and could give less a shit about what the black crowd thinks of him."
He was speaking toward the two students, but I had the impression that it was really for the benefit of the older man.
"So if Ali can't psyche him then what's it come back to? Physical ability. Speed, size, and strength. And Foreman is faster bigger younger. I don't care what country he's fighting in."
"Just so," agreed the Englishman. "Modern tactics over heathen superstition. Guaranteed kayo."
This stirred the German professor to rebuttal. "So?" He chuckled softly and shook his head at the Englishman. "Just so like your modern British tactics kayoed the heathen Nasser?"
"Not fair!" the Englishman flared back, stung. "But for that bloody Eisenhower we would have -"
"I must again remind you young gentlemen: this battle will be taking place in the middle of the African continent at three in the morning under the full Scorpio moon."
The American told the old man he'd been reading too much Joseph Conrad. "Maybe a few years ago Ali could've put the whammy on Foreman, but this is 1974. Things've changed, as old Ali's gonna find out. Just because the guy he's fighting is black ain't no guarantee anymore the African whammy's gonna work on him."
"Neither is being Christian a guarantee of the certain kayo," the professor reminded them, smiling. "As we in Germany found out."
"Been a mystery to me ever since, now you bring it up," the Real Englishman said, pouting over his peanuts. "Damned unlike him, meddling in over here."
"Unlike Ali? Not really, not if you followed Ali's career. Ali's style -"
"Not Ali, you Yankee dimwit," the Englishman snapped. "Eisenhower!"
This provoked such a fit of mirth that the American tipped over his drink, laughing. Then, scooting back to avoid the spill, he fell out of his chair. The students helped him back up and set him in his chair, still laughing. This time he drew the German's sting; the moment the tinted glasses fixed him the giggle hushed. The German took off his coat and folded it in his lap deliberately. A tense quiet fell over our table – over the entire room, in fact. The drinkers at the other table sipped in thoughtful silence while the Moslems moved their lips, thanking Allah for forbidding them the evil of alcohol.
True, all three scientists were soused to their Ph.D.s, but that didn't explain the tension. After a minute I asked how the cosmic ray probe was coming. "Very satisfactory," the American told me. "On Chephren and Mykerinos, damned satisfactory!" He took a drink of my gin-and-tonic and hulked again over the table, attempting to rally from the old German's strange sting. He admitted they'd found nothing earthshaking in these two, but for the Great Pyramid they had great expectations.
"Going to scan from the outside, this time, goddammit! Set the receiver up inside the Queen's Chamber. The holiday crowds should have dwindled enough to install it by tomorrow afternoon, the next day for certain!"
The Real Englishman disagreed. "Device worth upwards a million pounds sterling? Want some camel driver micturating in it? These people are wild! Unpredictable!"
I asked them what they hoped to find, their best hope? The American said what he wanted was a chamber of filthy hieroglyphs. The German said he also hoped to find a chamber, but one containing that dream of every Egyptologist: an unrobbed coffin. The students said the same. The Englishman, regaining some of his puff, said that what he hoped to find was an end to all this bloody tommyrot and twaddle, once and for all.
"Likely all we'll grub out of that sanctified hill of beans will be a couple of carved geegaws worth about three and six on the geegaw market. But at least that'll be an end to it."
"So why risk it?" I had to ask. "A device worth a million pounds sterling? What justifies such an investment?"
"Careful." The German laid his kindly smile on me like the tip of a whip. "This is not the kind of question to ask in the field."
"True enough," the American agreed. "That's the kind of question that'll be asked a-plenty back at the home office. For what it's costing to send me over here Stanford could build a pyramid."
"Exactly! What's the home office's best hope? Why do -" I didn't finish. The German's linen jacket had slid from his lap, disclosing the explanation for the table's mysterious vibes: he was holding not only the American's beefy paw in one of his long-nailed hands, he was also holding the hand of the Egyptian student seated next to him in the other. All eyes averted diplomatically from the little hand show, to drinks, peanuts, etc. The Englishman chose to turn his attention to me and my question.
"You mean what's it worth, don't you, duck? What's in the pot? Right-o, then; let's put our pyramid stakes on the table." He swept a space clear of shells.
"First, let me list some of the Known Negotiable Assets: It's a multidimensional bureau of standards, omnilingual and universal, constructed to both incorporate and communicate such absolutes as the bloody inch (a convenient ten million of which equals our polar axis) plus our bloody damned circumference, our weight, the bloody length not only of our solar year and our sidereal year but also our catch-up or leap year… not to mention the bloody distance of our swing around our sun, or the error in our spin that produces the wobble at our polar point that gives us the 26,920-year Procession of the bloody Equinoxes. This is the dawning of the age of Aquarius, you see.