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Authors: Mike Resnick
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“I’m going to stay on deck for an hour or two. I hate that little cabin. It smells bad and makes me feel claustrophobic.”
“Claustrophobic?” queried Mason in disbelief. “Lara Croft, who’s wiggled her way into places even smaller . . . and smellier, for that matter?”
Lara grimaced. “The last place I wiggled my way into, as you put it, collapsed on top of me and nearly killed me. I guess I haven’t gotten over it yet.”
“Give yourself some time,” said Mason, walking off. “It’s only been a few days. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Lara walked to the area at the stern that housed the three wooden chairs. She pulled one of them to within a foot of the railing, and adjusted another just in front of it. Finally she sat down, leaned back until the chair was balancing against the railing on two of its four legs, and used the other chair as a footstool.
The clouds had vanished, and she stared up at the stars, trying to assimilate everything that she’d undergone since being trapped in the tomb. Most of it still seemed like a dream to her: the unleashing of the evil deity Set, his efforts to plunge the world into total darkness, the battle, even her eventual triumph. The only thing that seemed truly real to her was being trapped, barely able to breathe or move, in the rubble of the tomb.
Finally, refusing to let the memory of her ordeal master her, she began making plans. The logical place to start looking for the Amulet was Khartoum. It had been Gordon’s home for the last year of his life. If he or one of his men actually stole the Amulet from the Mahdi, it made sense that it was brought back to Khartoum. After all, that was the only city under Gordon’s control, the only place that was safe, even temporarily, from the Mahdi’s forces.
But most of the Mahdi’s men were Sudanese. Why hadn’t they just walked in, posing as citizens of Khartoum, and kept an eye on him once they knew the Amulet was gone—and they had to know it after Gordon defeated the Mahdi at Omdurman.
You’re not thinking clearly, Lara,
she told herself. Gordon or his men stole it
before
Omdurman or he wouldn’t have defeated the Mahdi there, and it made sense that possibly excepting the Mahdi, no one knew it until the battle was over. So that was why they couldn’t watch to see where he hid it.
Still,
someone
had to know where it was. Surely Gordon knew. Perhaps Stewart, too, or one of the locals, maybe more than one. Why didn’t the Mahdi just send his spies into Khartoum and try to find out where it was?
And then she remembered all the books she had read about Gordon, in school and on her own. The Mahdi
couldn’t
send anyone into Khartoum, not so much as a single spy. Khartoum lay at the juncture of the White and Blue Niles, and Gordon had flooded a channel around the city, literally turning Khartoum into an island. That was how he’d held off a far superior army for months. The city only fell when the water level dropped during the dry season and the Mahdi’s army could finally march and ride across it.
Brilliant man, that Gordon, she concluded. Who else would have thought of flooding the plains around the city? It didn’t help in the long run—a British relief column, fully capable of standing up to the Mahdi’s forces, arrived days after the city had fallen and Gordon was dead—but still, she had to admire his creativity.
And
that
, of course, made her task all the more difficult. To find an artifact that was hidden more than a century ago in a relatively primitive country was hard enough—but to find one that had been hidden by a man of Gordon’s intellect . . . that was going to take hard work and intensive study. She’d have to read everything the man had written, everything that had ever been written about him, until she knew exactly how his mind worked. And even then, she’d need more than work and study—she’d need
luck
. Lots of it.
“It is time that we spoke, Lara Croft.”
Surprised,
“Claustrophobic?” queried Mason in disbelief. “Lara Croft, who’s wiggled her way into places even smaller . . . and smellier, for that matter?”
Lara grimaced. “The last place I wiggled my way into, as you put it, collapsed on top of me and nearly killed me. I guess I haven’t gotten over it yet.”
“Give yourself some time,” said Mason, walking off. “It’s only been a few days. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Lara walked to the area at the stern that housed the three wooden chairs. She pulled one of them to within a foot of the railing, and adjusted another just in front of it. Finally she sat down, leaned back until the chair was balancing against the railing on two of its four legs, and used the other chair as a footstool.
The clouds had vanished, and she stared up at the stars, trying to assimilate everything that she’d undergone since being trapped in the tomb. Most of it still seemed like a dream to her: the unleashing of the evil deity Set, his efforts to plunge the world into total darkness, the battle, even her eventual triumph. The only thing that seemed truly real to her was being trapped, barely able to breathe or move, in the rubble of the tomb.
Finally, refusing to let the memory of her ordeal master her, she began making plans. The logical place to start looking for the Amulet was Khartoum. It had been Gordon’s home for the last year of his life. If he or one of his men actually stole the Amulet from the Mahdi, it made sense that it was brought back to Khartoum. After all, that was the only city under Gordon’s control, the only place that was safe, even temporarily, from the Mahdi’s forces.
But most of the Mahdi’s men were Sudanese. Why hadn’t they just walked in, posing as citizens of Khartoum, and kept an eye on him once they knew the Amulet was gone—and they had to know it after Gordon defeated the Mahdi at Omdurman.
You’re not thinking clearly, Lara,
she told herself. Gordon or his men stole it
before
Omdurman or he wouldn’t have defeated the Mahdi there, and it made sense that possibly excepting the Mahdi, no one knew it until the battle was over. So that was why they couldn’t watch to see where he hid it.
Still,
someone
had to know where it was. Surely Gordon knew. Perhaps Stewart, too, or one of the locals, maybe more than one. Why didn’t the Mahdi just send his spies into Khartoum and try to find out where it was?
And then she remembered all the books she had read about Gordon, in school and on her own. The Mahdi
couldn’t
send anyone into Khartoum, not so much as a single spy. Khartoum lay at the juncture of the White and Blue Niles, and Gordon had flooded a channel around the city, literally turning Khartoum into an island. That was how he’d held off a far superior army for months. The city only fell when the water level dropped during the dry season and the Mahdi’s army could finally march and ride across it.
Brilliant man, that Gordon, she concluded. Who else would have thought of flooding the plains around the city? It didn’t help in the long run—a British relief column, fully capable of standing up to the Mahdi’s forces, arrived days after the city had fallen and Gordon was dead—but still, she had to admire his creativity.
And
that
, of course, made her task all the more difficult. To find an artifact that was hidden more than a century ago in a relatively primitive country was hard enough—but to find one that had been hidden by a man of Gordon’s intellect . . . that was going to take hard work and intensive study. She’d have to read everything the man had written, everything that had ever been written about him, until she knew exactly how his mind worked. And even then, she’d need more than work and study—she’d need
luck
. Lots of it.
“It is time that we spoke, Lara Croft.”
Surprised,
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