and the hillside was clear again.
But a faint voice lingered. 'Ooo, talk about rough trade… '
He sheathed his sword and continued down the slope. Big rocks blocked his path, and his mount scrabbled around them down to level ground. The valley of the Zinites was nearer now, but darkness hovered at the edge of the world. He decided to make camp.
The night was long. Voices wailed in the distance, naming the unnameable, invoking powers of darkness. Greenish mist choked the valley below. Vague shapes moved against the night sky. Rance thought they were dark clouds, but was not sure.
He kicked another dry stick into the fire and huddled closer to the flames.
Presently he opened his bedroll, spread it out, and lay down. He took out a parchment scroll-a back issue of Graverobbers' Forum-and read himself to sleep.
Nothing disturbed him during the night.
He stood looking up at the pinnacle of the immense burial pyramid. The structure was at least as tall as it was wide, and it was very wide indeed, and was set off in steps-he counted seven. An involved sequence of ramps, each quite steep, led to the top. A forced entrance had been cut into the west side of the thing, a gash in the stone like a wound that had never healed.
He could see that there was zero chance of recovering anything of value from this site. Hundreds of tomb robbers had plundered it, perhaps thousands. Generations. What was of value was long gone.
He looked around. And there was nothing else. All had been picked over, searched through a thousand times. He had sifted through piles of bones, skulls-remains of ancient Zinites, or squatters who had died almost as long ago? Zin's history was a muddle. There was no telling. The bones were probably those of ghouls who had succumbed to the inevitable curses and protection devices.
He tethered his mount and untied a packet of tools and other paraphernalia. He slung it over his back and strode forward toward the lowest ramp.
CHAPTER THREE
At thirty-five, Maximilian Dumbrowsky knew his life was a mess, but there was absolutely nothing he could do about it. He had tried.
In fact, he had tried: (1) psychotherapy; (2) Zen; (3) various forms of meditation; (4) good old-fashioned psychoanalysis; (5) existential therapy; (7) biofeedback training; (9) jogging; (10) running; (11) massage; (12) screaming; (13) macrobiotic and other diets; (14) drugs; (15) sex; (16) and assorted cheap thrills.
None of the above had done him any good.
He had done almost everything there was to do, gone with every fad, every New Age flimflam. He had dared to be great, tried to win through intimidation, pulled his own strings, got himself together, found his own private space, sensitized himself, desensitized himself, sought union with the cosmic Om, only to find in the end that he was… o.k.
But he didn't feel it. In truth, he was fed up, more than a little desperate, and was seriously thinking of looking into pyramid-selling schemes.
Everything was a mess. He lived with not a farthing to his name in three squalid rooms in the student/aging- hippie section of town. His career history, spaciously laid out with embarrassingly long periods of unemployment; was a sorry record of job-hopping. His present job was excremental, and his boss, Herb Fenton, was a dolt of the first water.
Regarding (15) [see above], Penny wasn't returning his calls to her phone recorder. Hadn't for three weeks. The least of his worries, actually.
And his present psychotherapist-he was back to (1) again-was giving up his private practice to work in a large university hospital upstate. He handed Max a card with the address and phone of another therapist, to whom he had referred Max's case. Max had glanced at it, slipped the card into a pocket, and promptly lost it.
He just couldn't face starting over again. He had checked with a physicians' reference service, got a few names, but hadn't done anything about getting a new shrink.
Working late again. Printer's deadline for the updated hardware catalog.
Coming back from dinner, Max snapped on the light in his cubbyhole of an office. The place was cramped, windowless, and drab. There was a desk with reams of paper and old catalogs piled around a battered typewriter and a telephone. A filing cabinet occupied one corner. The rest of the roam was stuffed to the ceiling with cardboard cartons. Max sat down at the desk. A note taped to the telephone read: MAX, CALL ME-HERB.
'I'll call you `Herb,'' Max grumbled. 'You have about as much brainpower as a sprig of parsley.'
He tore off the note, crumpled it, and threw it in the direction of the gorged wastebasket.
The phone jingled. Oh, God. Not Herb. 'Hello,' Max answered dully.
'Mr. Dumbrowsky? Maximilian Dumbrowsky?'
'Yes?'
'Hey,' the squeaky male voice said. 'I've been trying to reach you for weeks.'
'Sorry. I'm not home much. Who is this?'
'Dr. Jeremy Hochstader. You called a physicians' reference service, about a psychotherapist? You gave your work number. I traced it, and just by chance we happen to work in the same office building.'
It took a few seconds for Max to make the connection. 'Oh, right. I remember now. Um, look-'
'I was wondering if you still needed help. I'm in the business of helping people, though you might think that my methods are a little, you know, unorthodox-'
'Listen,' Max broke in, 'I'm… well, I'm really not sure I want to continue therapy at all. If I decide to, I'll give you a call. Are you in the book?'
'Uh, not really. But first, let me tell you a few things, you know, like inducements. My therapeutic techniques are very unconventional, and a helluva lot more effective than the usual mumbo-jumbo. And my fees are very low. I just happen to be in my office tonight. Why don't you drop down and we'll talk it over? Sixth floor.'
'Uh, let me think about it.'
Whoever this bird was, he sounded young. Very young. Sounded like a kid.
Hochstader babbled on for a bit, but Max cut him off, pretended to write down the phone number, and abruptly hung up. Rare bird, Max thought. Sounded like a kid selling magazines to get himself through college.
Max tried to work on the catalog. He did a few product descriptions, working from the data sheets, checked the pasteup on the graphics computer in the art room, went back and banged out two more product descriptions on his word processor, and then fell into a yawning fit.
He couldn't stop yawning.
'Sheeesh!' Max rubbed his jaw. It was sore. 'Why the hell am I so tired all the time?' He needed some chemical stimulation.
Max got up and shuffled out of his hole, went through the main office and out into the dark corridor. He paused briefly to look at the stenciled lettering on the front door.
FENTON ASSOCIATES-BROCHURES, CATALOGS,
PRESENTATIONS, ADVERTISING.
Max shook his head. A long slide from Bulmer, Lewis, and Teller, a big agency where he had worked fresh out of college. Nothing like starting at the top and working your way down.
Thinking of BLT made him think of Andrea. Long lost Andrea. She and Max had shared a Cleo nomination for their work on a Kleenex spot. So long ago.
He took the elevator down to the sixth floor, where there were some vending machines. He bought a can of soda, tore off the tab, and drank as he meandered through the gloomy halls of the old office building.
He passed a lighted office. Another exploited fool. Then he saw the name. JEREMY HOCHSTADER, P.Hd.
He did a take, noticing the spurious punctuation. P period capital H small d? Right. This joker can't even
