“I want two six-inch, one-kilowatt Mole Babies in the corner, there,” Loftus was saying. “Will somebody move that jar?”
Nora quickly stepped up. “Mr. Loftus?”
He turned to her, squinting over the tops of his John Mitchell glasses. “Yes?”
She gamely stuck out her hand. “I’m Dr. Nora Kelly, curator of the exhibition.”
“Oh! Of course. Randall Loftus. Delighted.” He began to turn away.
“Excuse me, Mr. Loftus? You mentioned something about moving a jar. I’m sure you’ll understand that nothing can be moved—or even touched—except by museum staff.”
“Nothing moved! How am I supposed to set up?”
“You’ll just have to work around things, I’m afraid.”
“Work around things! I’ve never been asked to perform in such conditions. This tomb is like a straitjacket. I can’t get any good angles or distance. It’s impossible!”
She gave him a brilliant smile. “I’m sure, with your talent, you’ll find a way to make it work.”
The smile had no effect, but at the word talent Loftus seemed to pause.
“I’ve admired your work,” Nora continued, sensing her opening. “I’m personally thrilled that you agreed to direct the show. And I know that, if anyone can make it work, you can.”
Loftus touched his bow tie. “Thank you indeed. Flattery will get you everywhere.”
“I wanted to introduce myself, see if there’s anything I can do to help.”
Loftus spun abruptly, shouted to someone in a dim corner teetering on a ladder, “Not that one, the other light, the LTM Pepper spot! I want it mounted on that ceiling rack on a three-sixty.”
He turned back to her. “You’re a dear, but we simply must move that jar.”
“I’m sorry,” said Nora. “There’s no time to move anything even if we wanted to. That jar is three thousand years old and invaluable—you can’t just pick it up and move it. It takes special equipment, specially trained conservators… As I said, you’ll just have to work with what’s here. I’ll help you any way I can, but that’s one thing I can’t do. I’m sorry.”
Loftus drew in a long breath. “I can’t work around that jar. It’s so fat and horrible.”
When Nora didn’t reply, the director waved his hand. “I’ll talk to Menzies about it. Really, this is impossible.”
“I’m sure you’re as busy as I am, so I’ll leave you,” she replied. “As I said, if you need anything, let me know.”
He turned away instantly, zeroing in on another hapless production assistant laboring in the shadows. “The low crankovator goes where the tape is. On the floor. You’re standing on it! Look down, it’s between your legs, for heaven’s sake!”
Nora moved out of the Hall of the Chariots toward the burial chamber, leaving the gesticulating Loftus behind. The conservators had finished placing all the objects in the chamber—the last to be done—and Nora wanted to check the label copy against her master design. A knot of technicians was working on the fog machines inside the great stone sarcophagus. Earlier in the day, they’d run through a dress rehearsal of the entire sound-and-light show, and Nora had to admit that it was more than good. Wicherly may have been an ass, and possibly deranged, but he was also a brilliant Egyptologist and—what was more—an excellent writer. The script was an amazing tour de force; and the finale, when Senef came suddenly to life, rising out of a bubbling pool of mist, hadn’t seemed hokey at all. Wicherly had managed to slip quite a lot of good, solid information into the show. People would leave not just entertained, but educated.
She paused. It was strange how such a competent archaeologist could crack up so quickly. Unconsciously, she rubbed her throat, still raw and bruised. She still felt uncomfortable going back into her lab after what had happened. It was bizarre, tragic, inexplicable… But once again, she tried to push the attack from her mind. She would digest it all after the opening.
She felt a light tap on her shoulder.
“Dr. Kelly, I presume?” The voice was a dusky, cultured English contralto.
She turned to find herself face-to-face with a tall woman with long, glossy black hair, dressed in old canvas pants, sneakers, and a dusty work shirt. One of the workers, evidently, but one she hadn’t seen before: she would have remembered someone with such striking looks. And yet, as she looked at this stranger, she sensed she had seen her before.
“That’s me,” Nora said. “And you are—?”
“Viola Maskelene. I’m an Egyptologist and the new visiting curator for the show.” She stuck out her hand, seized Nora’s, and gave it a very vigorous shake. The grip was strong, the hand a little callused. This was someone who spent a lot of time outdoors—judging from her tan and her lean, one might even say weather-beaten, look.