The Lost World MEGAPACK®. Lin Carter

spend yours in gettin’ married.”

      “Not just yet,” said I, with a rueful smile. “I think, if you will have me, that I would rather go with you.”

      Lord Roxton said nothing, but a brown hand was stretched out to me across the table.

PEOPLE OF THE PYRAMIDS, by William P. McGivern

      First published in the December 1941 issue of Fantastic Adventures.

      “Come, come,” the fat, brown-skinned proprietor of the gaudy little shop in Cairo cried with more enthusiasm than coherence. “Lukka, lukka,” he said proudly, waving a fat arm at the piles of merchandise stacked in the interior of his shop.

      Neal Kirby grinned good-naturedly and allowed himself to be half-dragged, half-led into the establishment. He knew he was perfectly secure against the wiles of the fat shop-keeper for he only had one American dollar in his pocket. And his appetite had already staked a claim on that dollar for dinner.

      With the proprietor pattering hopefully at his heels he browsed up and down the narrow aisles examining the ropes of cheap beads, the gayly colorful silks and satins and the thousand-and-one sleepy-looking Buddhas, of all sizes and shapes, that stared at him from the shelves.

      He was turning to leave when a steely glitter in a corner caught his eye. Looking closely he saw that it was a narrow silver casket with a glass top that had caught the light. Through the glass top he could see a slim stiletto-like knife resting on a pad of red silk. Strangely, it excited his curiosity. He wondered vaguely why a piece of merchandise of such obvious value should be tucked away in the darkest corner of the shop.

      “How much?” he asked, pointing to the casket.

      The proprietor shook his head until his fat jowls quivered like cups of jelly.

      “No sale, no sale,” he said breathlessly. He grabbed Neal by the arm. “Come, come,” he waved to the displays on the opposite side of the shop. “Lukka, lukka.”

      Neal shook his head. Stubbornness had been added to his curiosity now. Disregarding the angry squeals of the fat shopkeeper, he bent and picked up the casket. Opening the casket, he almost gasped at the incredible beauty of the knife.

      The blade, about eight inches long, gleamed as if it had been delicately forged from pure silver and the handle was formed in the shape of a man’s torso, from some strange red metal that glowed with a fiery luminescence. A small, cunningly chiseled head topped the handle of the knife, and at the neckline where it joined the torso, it was circled by a cluster of small, but perfect diamonds.

      Neal whistled in admiration. He was no judge of precious stones and metals but anyone could see that the knife would be worth a Rajah’s ransom. So absorbed was he in the contemplation of the fabulously beautiful knife that he did not hear the sudden sharp exclamation that sounded from the wheezing proprietor. He didn’t hear the footsteps behind him, but he did hear the quiet, sibilant voice that cut through the silence.

      “Give me that knife!”

      Neal turned in surprise. Two people stood behind him.

      One was a man of medium height with a thin, arrogant face and sandy hair but Neal did not take time to notice anything else about him, for he was too busy staring in admiration at the girl who was with him.

      She was tall, with hauntingly blue eyes, and fine blonde hair that cascaded in graceful waves almost to her shoulders. Her slender, charmingly feminine figure was accentuated by the smartly tailored white gabardine suit she wore. She looked cool and fresh and American.

      Neal smiled suddenly. Just seeing a girl like this made him feel certain that Cairo was a fine place after all.

      “It’s a small world, isn’t it?” he said to her.

      She looked anxiously at the man she was with and murmured something under her breath that he didn’t hear. Neal’s smile faded as he looked closely at the girl. There was a hidden fear lurking in the depths of her eyes and he saw that the small handkerchief in her hands had been twisted into a small, crushed ball.

      Her companion held out his hand imperiously.

      “Will you give me the knife?” he snapped. “Or must I summon the police?”

      Neal stiffened at the man’s tone. There was something so definitely insulting in it that he felt a hot flush of anger staining his face. His big hands closed spasmodically over the knife in his hands.

      “You might get better results,” he suggested as coolly as he could, “if you’d stop snarling at people and improve your manners. The word ‘please’ can work wonders in a lot of cases. You might look it up some time.”

      The man swallowed a reply and his jaw clamped shut. His face had drained white and his small, steel-blue eyes hardened into pin-points of angry light.

      “Will you give me that knife?” he almost whispered. His hand slipped slowly into the outside pocket of his coat, where a suspicious bulge showed.

      Neal straightened slowly, his eyes narrowing to mere slits. He had not missed the gesture or its significance. In spite of the tenseness of the situation he was able to realize that the incident was strange in every respect. The man’s rage and impatience were wholly unreasonable, completely out of proportion to the trifling affair. The girl was looking imploringly at her companion and her hands were clasped tensely together as if in silent supplication.

      THE fat, waddling shopkeeper shoved himself between them at that instant, stammering breathless apologies. And as suddenly and abruptly as that the incident was over. The thin man with the arrogant face withdrew his hand from his pocket and went about the business of lighting a cigarette. Neal relaxed slowly. He couldn’t quite convince himself that it was all over. One instant, he knew, the man opposite him was ready to draw his gun and fire. And now he was placidly lighting a cigarette with fingers that were as steady as rocks.

      The girl had been talking to the shopkeeper, showing h i m a withered paper in her hand, and now he turned to Neal, smiling nervously.

      He pointed to the knife which Neal still held in his hand.

      “Give to Missy,” he said imploringly. “Belong her.”

      Neal hesitated an instant, and he was aware that the burning eyes of the girl’s companion were resting unwaveringly on him.

      “Please,” the girl said simply.

      Neal shrugged and handed the girl the knife. As his fingers met hers, he felt paper crackle under his fingers, felt a closely wadded note pushed against his palm. His fingers closed on it automatically and he shoved his fist in his pocket.

      “Thank you,” the girl said quickly.

      She dropped the brilliantly gleaming knife into her handbag, turned and left the shop. The thin, arrogant, steel-eyed man followed her without a backward glance.

      “Go,” the fat shopkeeper said nervously. “Go, please.”

      Neal pulled out the wad of paper and spread it flat against his hand. The only information it contained was the name of a hotel and a room number. Neal frowned and shoved it back into his pocket. That didn’t tell him much about the screwy business.

      He sauntered from the shop, his thoughts churning futilely. Quiet deliberation was not his most successful accomplishment and he felt queerly impotent and helpless. There was only one thing to do, he decided, after a few moments of anxious cogitation. He pulled the paper that the girl had slipped to him from his pocket and noted the address and room number. Then he walked on whistling.

      * * * *

      The soft Egyptian night had dropped its black mantle over Cairo, lending an almost mystic enchantment to the intertwined streets and the murmuring voices of natives. Under the merciful light of a full pale moon, the desert stretches surrounding the silent city, looked cool and calm and inviting. But those who knew the desert were aware of its ruthless reality, its cruelty, its danger.

      The lobby of the Hotel