Cthulhu Mythos Megapack
The Ghost Story Megapack
The Second Ghost Story Megapack
The Third Ghost Story Megapack
The Horror Megapack
The M.R. James Megapack
The Macabre Megapack
The Second Macabre Megapack
The Mummy Megapack
The Vampire Megapack
The Werewolf Megapack
WESTERNS
The B.M. Bower Megapack
The Max Brand Megapack
The Buffalo Bill Megapack
The Cowboy Megapack
The Zane Grey Megapack
The Western Megapack
The Second Western Megapack
The Wizard of Oz Megapack
YOUNG ADULT
The Boys’ Adventure Megapack
The Dan Carter, Cub Scout Megapack
The G.A. Henty Megapack
The Penny Parker Megapack
The Pinocchio Megapack
The Rover Boys Megapack
The Tom Corbett, Space Cadet Megapack
The Tom Swift Megapack
AUTHOR MEGAPACKS
The Achmed Abdullah Megapack
The Edward Bellamy Megapack
The B.M. Bower Megapack
The E.F. Benson Megapack
The Second E.F. Benson Megapack
The Max Brand Megapack
The First Reginald Bretnor Megapack
The Wilkie Collins Megapack
The Ray Cummings Megapack
The Guy de Maupassant Megapack
The Philip K. Dick Megapack
The Jacques Futrelle Megapack
The Randall Garrett Megapack
The Second Randall Garrett Megapack
The Anna Katharine Green Megapack
The Zane Grey Megapack
The Dashiell Hammett Megapack
The M.R. James Megapack
The Murray Leinster Megapack
The Second Murray Leinster Megapack
The Talbot Mundy Megapack
The Andre Norton Megapack
The H. Beam Piper Megapack
The Mack Reynolds Megapack
The Rafael Sabatini Megapack
The Saki Megapack
The Robert Sheckley Megapack
OTHER COLLECTIONS YOU MAY ENJOY
The Great Book of Wonder, by Lord Dunsany (it should have been called “The Lord Dunsany Megapack”)
The Wildside Book of Fantasy
The Wildside Book of Science Fiction
Yondering: The First Borgo Press Book of Science Fiction Stories
To the Stars—And Beyond! The Second Borgo Press Book of Science Fiction Stories
Once Upon a Future: The Third Borgo Press Book of Science Fiction Stories
Whodunit?—The First Borgo Press Book of Crime and Mystery Stories
More Whodunits—The Second Borgo Press Book of Crime and Mystery Stories
X is for Xmas: Christmas Mysteries
SYMPATHY FOR MUMMIES, by John Gregory Betancourt
I brushed dust from my eyes, then zippered the tent’s flap shut. The wind was coming up again, sighing through our camp. It was a sound I had grown used to over the last two months.
“Everything locked up?” asked Linda, my wife.
“Yep,” I said. As director of the excavation, I had to make sure everything was put away before I turned in. Stretching sore muscles, I peeled off my dust-and-sweat-impregnated shirt, then washed up in a basin. “We’re getting close,” I said.
We were excavating the tomb of Atenkham, a court official in Egypt’s Valley of the Kings. Tomorrow we would reach his burial chamber. There was little chance of riches; Atenkham hadn’t been a king. But artifacts were gold, metaphorically, to archaeologists.
“Still not worried about the curse?” Linda asked.
“What Egyptian tomb doesn’t carry a curse?” I asked with a laugh. I toweled off, then leaned over and planted a kiss on her full red lips. “Besides, curses only apply to big rich tombs when the moon is full and you haven’t said your prayers by night.”
“Mmm.”
“So I get my movies mixed up.” I crawled into my sleeping bag, exhausted. It was nearly midnight. I’d be up in five hours.
“Besides,” I muttered, “what kind of curse could a bureaucrat muster?”
* * * *
At dawn the next morning, I was ready for work. Although this was my seventh tomb, I still felt a mounting sense of excitement.
I had dreamed of Atenkham’s mummy. I saw priests removing his organs and preserving them in jars. I saw them filling his veins with embalming fluids and carefully wrapping his body in layers of white cotton swathing. But mostly I had seen papyrus scrolls, thousands of them, the life’s work of this ancient Egyptian bureaucrat. Those scrolls were the sort of treasure I sought.
Now I would see what truth lay in my dream.
My grad students were sitting our breakfast table with someone. I sighed when I recognized Mr. Abdul from the Department of Antiquity. He was in charge of excavation permits.
“Mr. Abdul,” I said to him, “what brings you here?”
“Paperwork, Mr. Jones,” he said in his succinct British accent. He passed me a sheaf of papers.
“What’s this?”
“New regulations go into effect this morning,” he said. “First of the month. I told you last week, as you may recall.”
“Yes, yes,” I said. He had mentioned something of the sort.
“If you would fill it out, please.”
I stared at the forms. None were in English, of course.
“This will take me hours,” I said. I glanced over at the tomb. We were so close —
“Paperwork,” he said, “must be done properly. I shall leave you to it.” He crossed to his Jeep, got in, and drove off in a cloud of dust.
“Shall we start anyway, professor?” Neal Jameson asked me. He was a young, eager, promising grad student.
“No,” I said, imaginary bandages tightening around my chest and throat. “Mr. Abdul doesn’t like me. If we begin without the paperwork, we’ll be shut down.”
“He can’t —”
“He can,” I said.
* * * *
My Arabic was lousy, and making sense of the application was a dense process, even with an interpreter. This, I thought at one point, is the