“You are forgetting the Book of the Dead, Sir Richard. The promises in that are very definite. And it is an inconceivably ancient book. I am strongly convinced that it was in existence in 10,000 B. C. You have read my brochure on the subject?”
Sir Richard nodded. “A very scholarly work. But I believe that the Book of the Dead as we know it was a forgery!”
“Sir Richard!”
“Parts of it are undoubtedly predynastic, but I believe that the Judgment of the Dead, which defines the judicial prerogatives of Osiris, was inserted by some meddling priest as late as the historical period. It is a deliberate attempt to modify the relentless character of Egypt’s supreme deity. Osiris does not judge, he takes.”
“He takes, Sir Richard?”
“Precisely. Do you imagine any one can ever cheat death? Do you imagine that, Mr. Buzzby? Do you imagine for one moment that Osiris would restore to life the fools that returned to him?”
Mr. Buzzby colored. It was difficult to believe that Sir Richard was really in earnest. “Then you honestly believe that the character of Osiris as we know it is—”
“A myth, yes. A deliberate and childish evasion. No man can ever comprehend the character of Osiris. He is the Dark God. But he treasures his own.”
“Eh?” Mr. Buzzby was genuinely startled by the tone of ferocity in which the last remark was uttered. “What did you say, Sir Richard?”
“Nothing.” Sir Richard had risen and was standing before a small revolving bookcase in the center of the room. “Nothing, Mr. Buzzby. But your taste in fiction interests me extremely. I had no idea you read young Finchley!”
Mr. Buzzby blushed and looked genuinely distressed. “I don’t ordinarily,” he said. “I despise fiction ordinarily. And young Finchley’s romances are unutterably silly. He isn’t even a passable scholar. But that book has — well, there are a few good things in it. I was reading it this morning on the train and put it with the other books temporarily because I had no other place to put it. You understand, Sir Richard? We all have our little foibles, eh? A work of fiction now and then is sometimes... er... well, suggestive. And H. E. Finchley is rather suggestive occasionally.”
“He is, indeed. His Egyptian redactions are imaginative masterpieces!”
“You amaze me, Sir Richard. Imagination in a scholar is to be deplored. But of course, as I said, H. E. Finchley is not a scholar and his work is occasionally illuminating if one doesn’t take it too seriously.”
“He knows his Egypt.”
“Sir Richard, I can’t believe you really approve of him. A mere fictionist—”
Sir Richard had removed the book and opened it casually. “May I ask, Mr. Buzzby, if you are familiar with Chapter 13, The Transfiguration of Osiris?”
“Bless me, Sir Richard, I am not. I skipped that portion. Such purely grotesque rubbish repelled me.”
“Did it, Mr. Buzzby? But the repellent is usually arresting. Just listen to this:
“It is beyond dispute that Osiris made his worshipers dream strange things of him, and that he possessed their bodies and souls forever. There is a devilish wrath against mankind with which Osiris was for Death’s sake inspired. In the cool of the evening he walked among men, and upon his head was the Crown of Upper Egypt, and his cheeks were inflated with a wind that slew. His face was veiled so that no man could see it, but assuredly it was an old face, very old and dead and dry, for the world was young when tall Osiris died.”
Sir Richard snapped the book shut and replaced it in the shelf. “What do you think of that, Mr. Buzzby?” he inquired.
“Rot,” murmured the curator. “Sheer, unadulterated rot.”
“Of course, of course. Mr. Buzzby, did it ever occur to you that a god may live, figuratively, a dog’s life?”
“Eh?”
“Gods are transfigured, you know. They go up in smoke, as it were. In smoke and flame. They become pure flame, pure spirit, creatures with no visible body.”
“Dear, dear, Sir Richard, that had not occurred to me.” The curator laughed and nudged Sir Richard’s arm. “Beastly sense of humor,” he murmured, to himself. “The man is unutterably silly.”
“It would be dreadful, for example,” continued Sir Richard, “if the god had no control over his transfiguration; if the change occurred frequently and unexpectedly; if he shared, as it were, the ghastly fate of a Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.”
Sir Richard was advancing toward the door. He moved with a curious, shuffling gait and his shoes scraped peculiarly upon the floor. Mr. Buzzby was instantly at his elbow. “What is the matter, Sir Richard? What has happened?”
“Nothing!” Sir Richard’s voice rose in hysterical denial. “Nothing. Where is the lavatory, Mr. Buzzby?”
“Down one flight of stairs on your left as you leave the corridor,” muttered Mr. Buzzby. “Are... are you ill?”
“It is nothing, nothing,” murmured Sir Richard. “I must have a drink of water, that is all. The injury has... er... affected my throat. When it becomes too dry it pains dreadfully.”
“Good heavens!” murmured the curator. “I can send for water, Sir Richard. I can indeed. I beg you not to disturb yourself.”
“No, no, I insist that you do not. I shall return immediately. Please do not send for anything.”
Before the curator could renew his protestations Sir Richard had passed through the door and disappeared down the corridor.
Mr. Buzzby shrugged his shoulders and returned to his desk. “A most extraordinary person,” he muttered. “Erudite and original, but queer. Decidedly queer. Still, it is pleasant to reflect that he has read my brochure. A scholar of his distinction might very pardonably have overlooked it. He called it a scholarly work. A scholarly work. Hmm. Very gratifying, I’m sure.”
Mr. Buzzby clipped and lit a cigar.
“Of course he is wrong about the Book of the Dead,” he mused. “Osiris was a most benevolent god. It is true that the Egyptians feared him, but only because he was supposed to judge the dead. There was nothing essentially evil or cruel about him. Sir Richard is quite wrong about that. It is curious that a man so eminent could go so sensationally astray. I can use no other phrase. Sensationally astray. I really believe that my arguments impressed him, though. I could see that he was impressed.”
The curator’s pleasant reflections were coarsely and unexpectedly interrupted by a shout in the corridor. “Get them extinguishers down! Quick, you b—”
The curator gasped and rose hastily to his feet. Profanity violated all the rules of the museum and he had always firmly insisted that the rules should be obeyed. Striding quickly to the door he threw it open and stared incredulously down the corridor.
“What was that?” he cried. “Did any one call?”
He heard hurried steps and the sound of some one shouting, and then an attendant appeared at the end of the corridor. “Come quickly, sir!” he exclaimed. “There’s fire and smoke comin’ out of the basement!”
Mr. Buzzby groaned. What a dreadful thing to happen when he had such a distinguished guest! He raced down the corridor and seized the attendant angrily by the arm. “Did Sir Richard get out?” he demanded. “Answer me! Is Sir Richard down there now?”
“Who?” gasped the attendant.
“The gentleman who went down a few minutes ago, you idiot. A tall gentleman wearing a blue coat?”
“I dunno, sir. I didn’t see nobody come up.”
“Good God!” Mr. Buzzby was frantic. “We must get him out immediately. I believe that he was ill. He’s probably fainted.”
He strode to the end of the corridor and stared down the smoke-filled staircase leading to the lavatory. Immediately beneath him three attendants were cautiously advancing. Wet handkerchiefs, bound securely about their faces, protected them from the acrid fumes, and each held at arm’s length a cylindrical fire extinguisher. As they descended the stairs they squirted the liquid contents of the extinguishers into the rapidly rising spirals of lethal blue smoke.