'Good Christ,' said Doyle, as they moved forward to examine the lids.
'Weapons, defensive actions,' said Sparks, studying the pictographs. 'These were warriors' graves. Coffins of similar size and design, identical hieroglyphs: These bodies were the royal household guard, entombed en masse. When Pharaoh died, it was custom to kill and bury his garrison alongside, an escort to the Land of the Ancients.'
'There's service above and beyond the call,' said Larry.
They looked at each other.
'Makes you wonder, doesn't it?' said Sparks with a strange grin.
'What should we do?' asked Doyle.
Before he could answer, the room was electrified with the expressive screech of rusty iron hinges from far across the chamber.
'For the moment,' said Sparks, instantly on the alert, 'I strongly suggest that we run.'
Run they did, as far and as fast from the iron doors as their legs and limited light would carry them. The storeroom's fabulous inventory was reduced to an ill-defined blur. Moving along the wall, they searched for an exit and finally found one in the farthest corner—double oaken doors, exceptionally stout. Larry lit his candle and examined the locks.
'Dead bolts,' said Larry, sizing up his opposition. 'No access to 'em.'
Throwing their collective weight against the doors did not cause so much as a quiver in the wood.
'Chains on the other side for good measure,' said Larry. 'Guess they don't want tourists wandering in unannounced.'
'Blasted museum,' said Doyle.
'Shall I have a skivvy for another way?' asked Larry.
'No time,' said Sparks, casting a sharp eye around. 'Larry, we need loose metal, rocks, steel, scrap iron, whatever you can find, a whole mass of it—'
'On it,' said Larry, as he moved off.
'We passed some cannon a while ago, Doyle, can you remember where that was?'
'I remember seeing them. Back a ways, I think.'
'Then look for them as if our lives depended on it. Because they do.'
Heading back into the open room, they tried as best they could to retrace their steps through the motley collection. The passage looked frustratingly unfamiliar. Another cry of rusty hinges found its way across the vasty chamber, but as yet there was no other sign of their attackers.
'Jack, provided we find one, what do you propose to do with a cannon?'
'That depends on which of our needs arises with more urgency.'
'Our needs?'
'Much as I hate the defacing of government property, we shall have to blast our way out through those doors or turn and defend ourselves. Whichever comes first.'
Doyle kept his opinion about his preferred alternative to himself. Each new protest from the hinges pounded a spike of fear deeper into his mind.
Their search seemed to last an eternity but took no more than five minutes, by which time the hinges had ceased their soundings. Save for the echoes of the two men's footsteps, the room grew ominously silent. They did find cannon, masses of cannon, cannonades of cannon. The difficulty now was in choosing one to suit their purpose: Sparks quickly settled on a Turkish sixteen-pounder attached to a caisson. They lifted either side of the hitch and muled it behind them, negotiating through the storeroom as rapidly as their haphazard path and the gun's ungainly weight would allow.
'How do we know it works?' asked Doyle as they ran. 'We don't.'
Doyle would have given the shirt off his back for enough grease to silence the caisson's squeaky wheels, for behind them in the direction of the iron doors they heard boxes and crates toppling over, crashing; their pursuers were in the room, ignoring the aisles and taking the shortest route to their quarry. Sparks stopped and looked around. 'Is this the way we came?' he said. 'I was following you. I thought you knew.' 'Right. Grab a couple of those sabers while they're handy, will you, Doyle?' said Sparks, pointing to an overflowing cache of weapons nearby.
'Do you really think we'll need them?' 'I don't know. Would you rather find yourself at a point where you regret not having them?'
Doyle took two of the long, curved blades, and they resumed hauling the cannon. Please God, let him know which way we're going, prayed Doyle, and not into the arms or claws of whatever it is that's behind us—if they are behind and not in front of us—please God, let them be far behind us and more hopelessly lost in this labyrinth than we are. There, that statue of Hercules slaying a lion—one of the Twelve Labors, he had to muck out a stables as well: What a time to think about that!—at any rate we definitely passed Hercules on our way to the cannons—
'We're going the right way!' announced Doyle.
Larry was waiting for them near the double doors beside a heap of collected debris: bricks, broken lances, fragments of metal.
' 'Fraid I had to vandalize a touch, pulling odd bits off this and that,' Larry said, with a slightly stricken conscience.
'You're absolved,' said Sparks. 'Give us a hand.'
They maneuvered the cannon into position: point-blank at :he oaken doors ten feet away.
'Doyle, find something to anchor the base,' said Sparks, 'or the recoil will neutralize the thrust. Larry, front- load the muzzle, pack it in tight, heaviest and sharpest items last, we'll only have one shot at this.'
They fell to following orders. Sparks took one of the vials from his chemistry bench out of his vest, set it gently on the ground, pulled the shirt from his pants, and began tearing a strip off the hem. Doyle returned to the clearing moments later, dragging a rusty chain and anchor.
'Will this do?' he asked.
'Splendid, old boy.'
They wrapped its chain securely around the cannon as Larry tamped the payload into the barrel with a Venetian barge pole.
'Ready here,' said Larry.
'How do we set it off?' asked Doyle.
'Thought I'd use this nitroglycerin,' said Sparks, as he uncorked the vial and lowered it gingerly into the cannon's breach.
'You've been carrying nitroglycerin around in your pocket this entire time?' asked Doyle, retroactively alarmed.
'Perfectly harmless; detonation requires ignition or a direct blow—'
'My God, Jack! What if you'd fallen in the tunnel?'
'Our worries would have been over by now, wouldn't they?' said Sparks, stuffing the strip of linen into the fuse hole.
Boxes crashed only a hundred yards behind them.
'Here they come,' said Larry, unsheathing his knives.
'Stand back,' said Sparks.
Larry and Doyle took cover to the rear. Sparks set the torch :o the fuse and joined them. They sank down behind some
crates, closed their eyes, covered their ears, and waited for the explosion as the fabric burned down into the hole. Nothing.
'Will it go?' asked Doyle.
'Hasn't yet, has it?' said Sparks.
More boxes fell, moving relentlessly closer.
'Better hurry, then,' said Larry.
Sparks moved carefully forward to inspect the cannon. Doyle took a firmer grip on the scimitar, looking down at it for the first time; he felt as if he were caught in a dream holding a prop from the Pirates of Penzance. Sparks peered down into the fuse hold, then quickly sprinted back toward their hiding place.
'Still burning—' He dove for safety.
