Miggy Tremelo was amused by Melvin Steinmetz's sangfroid. The head of one of the nation's premier think tanks—an academic on steroids, so to speak—was handling the discussion with a Greek sphinx and an Egyptian dwarf-god as if he were sitting around a conference table in the Future Enterprise Institute or participating in a university seminar—instead of being perched on a mechanic's stool in the maintenance garage attached to Miggy's headquarters. They were having the meeting in the cavernous garage, of course, because Throttler wouldn't fit anywhere else.
"If I understand this correctly, what this lady,"—Steinmetz nodded at the sphinx—"has just proved is that it is possible to travel though the Ur-Mythworlds without going through the pyramid."
"Some of them, it would be better to say," cautioned Miggy.
"But if I also have this correctly, the pyramid showed no growth as a result."
Tremelo nodded. "That's right, Melvin. That could be because the Krim is no longer active in those Mythworlds as a result of Dr. Lukacs and the rest of his group's efforts."
"But—" Steinmetz looked almost cross-eyed, for a moment. The thinktank president shook his head. "Miggy . . . have you considered the implications?"
Tremelo chuckled. "I'd make a wisecrack here about people teaching their grandmothers to suck eggs, except I'm way too polite."
Melvin winced, but half-smiled also, acknowledging the hit. "All right, point taken. You don't need to rub salt into my wounds. Obviously you have considered them"—he cocked his head a little—"and may I presume you came to the same conclusions I'm coming to?"
"That the Mythworlds have an independent existence? That they are—in some sense, at least—real and not simply virtual constructs of the Krim?"
"Or Krim constructs that have taken on a life of their own," Steinmetz said. "That strikes me as the most likely possibility."
Miggy nodded. "Me, too." He jabbed a thumb at one of the university maintenance vans parked alongside a wall of the garage. "The fact that that vehicle was made by human beings doesn't mean that it's simply a figment of our imagination. It was before it was made, sure enough. Just a gleam in an automobile designer's eye, so to speak. But now it's as real as—"
Grinning, Bes slapped his chest. "Me! I can prove it, too. You want me to crumple up the van?"
A bit hastily, Tremelo said, "That won't be necessary, I think."
Steinmetz was studying Bes a lot more intently than Miggy was comfortable with. As often as he and Melvin had clashed over policy issues in times past, Miggy was well aware that the man had a very keen mind. Until he was sure that Steinmetz was actually switching sides in the current dispute with the PSA, Tremelo really didn't want him probing too deeply into some of the other mysteries and conundrums that surrounded the pyramid and the Mythworlds.
Right at the top of that list was the problem that Miggy himself had been wrestling with since the day after Jerry Lukacs and the others returned from the Greek Mythworld, bringing with them Bes and Athena.
Why had Bes retained his powers—and Athena hadn't? The Greek goddess was still in police custody in Las Vegas, since no one had been able to figure out what else to do with her. Former goddess, rather, it would seem. If she had any divine powers they were not evident at all. She just seemed to be a spiteful, nasty middle-aged woman.
There were a number of possible answers to that question. All of them were uncomfortable, and some were downright scary.
Steinmetz now turned that sharp, considering gaze on Throttler. "So . . . she can operate from any sphinx image where there is even a modicum of belief in that universe. What that would seem to imply is that the sphinx, yes, and Bes, have acquired at least demi-god status in our universe. We're still in the realm of guesswork here but belief seems to be very powerful stuff, not constrained by the terms of ordinary logic."
Miggy hesitated. Melvin had seized upon the most obvious of the possible explanations, and one that was unsettling but not nearly as disturbing as some others. Tremelo was tempted to leave it at that. But his innate honesty rebelled a little. Clash as they might, from time to time, he and Steinmetz were basically colleagues. You didn't leave colleagues needlessly groping in the dark.
"I don't think that theory holds up, Melvin. Yes, you might be able to explain Bes' continued powers as being due to the fervor of wrestling fans. Just as you could explain Athena's lack of such being due to the fact that she has no equivalent . . . let's call it 'fan base.' The problem is Lamont Jackson."
Steinmetz narrowed his eyes. "Explain, please. I'm not following you."
"It's simple. Why did Lamont Jackson keep his Tyche-bestowed luck for a time—but only for a time? That he still had it when he came out of the pyramid was blindingly obvious by the wealth he piled up so rapidly. Within two days, he'd been banned from every casino in Las Vegas; within a week, any in the world; within two weeks, every state lottery in the U.S. had done the same. By then, of course, Lamont was a multimillionaire several times over. But then that same luck vanished overnight, when his wife Marie turned out to be dying from a particularly virulent form of cancer. And if that didn't prove the luck had gone, having himself and most of his family snatched back into the pyramid surely did."
Miggy made a groping motion with his hand, in midair. "How do you explain that, Melvin? It certainly can't be from any lack of faith in the country—the whole world over—in luck."
"Maybe . . ." Steinmetz ran fingers through his thick gray hair. "Argh. I swear, Miggy, a particle physicist like you may be used to it. But this stuff makes even a hard-bitten old nuclear war theorist like me feel like a fish out of water—and you know how screwball most of our theories were."
"Still are," grunted Tremelo humorously. "But if it makes you feel any better, this hard-bitten old particle physicist feels the same way."
Steinmetz sat up a little straighter. "All right. But no matter what theories you lean toward, the thing that now seems very apparent—"
Tremelo cut him off. "—is that directly intervening in the pyramid is at least possible, because there has got to be some basis for reality in there that doesn't depend on the Krim. Yes, I understand that, Melvin. And I'm willing, for the first time, to start considering the matter. But I've got one condition, and it's absolute."
"You run the show. Not the PSA."
"Yes. If you agree to that, we can keep talking."
"Agreed," came Steinmetz's immediate reply. "You understand, I can only speak for myself. Well, and the institute. I sided with the defense industry and their political spokesmen, but I never had their vested interest in the answer. They did and still do—and they don't call them 'vested interests' for nothing. They're not going to let up, Miggy."
Tremelo shrugged. "No—but they just took a bad hammering in Congress, too. Senator Larsen tells me he doesn't think he can get APSA repealed outright, but he's dead sure he can get the worst provisions altered. And he also thinks he's got a very good chance of getting all operational efforts involving the pyramid placed clearly and unequivocally under the authority of the Pyramid Scientific Research Group."
It was his turn to bestow a sharp, considering gaze—on Steinmetz. "It would help . . ."
"If the Future Enterprise Institute weighed in publicly in support of that. I'll point out to you that it would give us still more weight if one of us—that'd be me—were formally added to the Pyramid Scientific Research Group's board of directors."
"Agreed," said Miggy, without hesitating. Leaving aside the fact that it would be a shrewd political move, having Melvin Steinmetz on the board probably would be helpful. The man's way of looking at everything, from that incredibly dark perspective that came with being a nuclear war strategist, rubbed Miggy the wrong way. But there was no denying that Steinmetz was as shrewd as they come—and the truth was, Miggy himself was scared by all the possible implications of the pyramid. Having Steinmetz with them was probably a good idea, now that he'd broken from the PSA crowd.
"In that case, your newest board member will give you his first piece of advice. Change the damn name. I'd recommend the Pyramid Control Agency."
Miggy scowled. "Don't you think there are enough 'agencies' floating around already?"
"It's the way it is, Miggy," said Melvin, shrugging. " 'Research Group' is a title that has elbow patches on it. You might as well hang a sign around your neck that says 'kick me, I'm a professor.' There's no way most people—and nobody at all in the so-called 'intelligence community'—is going to believe that an outfit that calls itself a 'research group' is capable of doing serious operational work."
"Well . . . yes. You're probably right."
Melvin's mouth twisted into a wry smile. "I presume you intend to use the dragons as part of your . . . can I call it a 'commando unit'?"
"I suppose it's as good a term as any. Yes, Bitar and Smitar—and Bes has agreed. So have Sergeant Cruz and Corporal McKenna. And their wives, for that matter."
"You realize the 'pros' are going to have a fit, I hope."
Tremelo snorted. "You mean the 'real experts' on commando operations like the SEALs and Delta Force and whatever cowboys the spook outfits round up? I will point out two things. First, the scorecard still stands."
Steinmetz's wry smile became a grimace. "Yes, I know. The remaining two members of the PSA, Bott and Stephens, finally came out dead. What little was left of Stephens, anyway—but there was enough to identify his DNA. And none of your people have. The talk shows are having a field day with it. Sometime I'll explain to you my theory—well, not mine, but I subscribe to it—of America's Humphrey Bogart syndrome. What's the second point?"
"Any 'real pro' who gets too obstreperous will simply be required to prove their superior skills at unarmed combat against Bes here."
Bes grinned.
Steinmetz looked a bit disconcerted. Tremelo chuckled. "I'm throwing the security establishment a big bone, though. I've talked it over with the military and they've agreed—seeing as how Cruz and McKenna are already in the unit anyway—that the 101st will be officially designated as the force assigned to provide whatever military personnel are needed for pyramid operations. There's a Lieutenant Rich Evans who seems quite promising. Cruz and McKenna tell me that Evans won't have any trouble understanding that everything has to be done differently in the Mythworlds. And he's got a Private Henderson that Cruz and McKenna think highly of, as well."
"Tough soldier, I take it."
"No, it's not that. He got arrested for pizza."
Melvin frowned. "I don't get it."
Tremelo shrugged. "Neither do I. But Cruz and Mac figure anybody who can get arrested for pizza will probably manage just fine in the weirdness of the pyramid. And if there's one thing I've learned, it's to trust the instincts of the only people in the world who can really claim to be 'pyramid pros.' "
"Fair enough," said Steinmetz. "I'll back you up on that point, for sure, after watching Garnett's fiasco." He took a long, slow breath. "I just wish we knew what was happening now with your people in the Norse Mythworld."
"We'll find out soon enough. But there's one thing we already know for sure. This isn't over yet. In fact, I think the . . ."
Steinmetz chuckled. "Call it a 'war,' why don't you, Miggy? That's what it is, you know."
"Yes," sighed Tremelo. "The first skirmishes are over. The Krim pyramid war is just starting."