Pyramids

ceremonial measuring rod.
    Ptaclusp leaned over.
    “What?” he demanded.
    “I said, please to come at once, O master!”
    On the pyramid itself, on the working surface about halfway up, where some of the detailed work on the inner chambers was in progress, the word “impressive” was no longer appropriate. The word “terrifying” seemed to fit the bill.
    Blocks were stacking up in the sky overhead in a giant, slow dance, passing and re-passing, their mahouts yelling at one another and at the luckless controllers down on the pyramid top, who were trying to shout instructions above the noise.
    Ptaclusp waded into the cluster of workers around the center. Here, at least, there was silence. Dead silence.
    “All right, all right,” he said. “What’s going…oh.”
    Ptaclusp IIb peered over his father’s shoulder, and stuck his wrist in his mouth.
    The thing was wrinkled. It was ancient. It clearly had once been a living thing. It lay on the slab like a very obscene prune.
    “It was my lunch,” said the chief plasterer. “It was my bloody lunch. I was really looking forward to that apple.”
    “But it can’t start yet,” whispered IIb. “It can’t form temporal nodes yet, I mean, how does it know it’s going to be a pyramid?”
    “I put my hand down for it, and it felt just like…it felt pretty unpleasant,” the plasterer complained.
    “And it’s a negative node, too,” added IIb. “We shouldn’t be getting them at all .”
    “Is it still there?” said Ptaclusp, and added, “Tell me yes.”
    “If more blocks have been set into position it won’t be,” said his son, looking around wildly. “As the center of mass changes, you see, the nodes will be pulled around.”
    Ptaclusp pulled the young man to one side.
    “What are you telling me now?” he demanded, in a camel whisper *
    “We ought to put a cap on it,” mumbled IIb. “Flare off the trapped time. Wouldn’t be any problems then…”
    “How can we cap it? It isn’t damn well finished,” said Ptaclusp. “What have you been and gone and done? Pyramids don’t start accumulating until they’re finished. Until they’re pyramids , see? Pyramid energy, see? Named after pyramids. That’s why it’s called pyramid energy.”
    “It must be something to do with the mass, or something,” the architect hazarded, “and the speed of construction. The time is getting trapped in the fabric. I mean, in theory you could get small nodes during construction, but they’d be so weak you wouldn’t notice; if you went and stood in one may be you’d become a few hours older or younger or—” he began to gabble.
    “I recall when we did Kheneth XIV’s tomb the fresco painter said it took him two hours to do the painting in the Queen’s Room, and we said it was three days and fined him,” said Ptaclusp, slowly. “There was a lot of Guild fuss, I remember.”
    “You just said that,” said IIb.
    “Said what?”
    “About the fresco painter. Just a moment ago.”
    “No, I didn’t. You couldn’t have been listening,” said Ptaclusp.
    “Could have sworn you did. Anyway, this is worse than that business,” said his son. “And it’s probably going to happen again.”
    “We can expect more like it?”
    “Yes,” said IIb. “We shouldn’t get negative nodes, but it looks as though we will. We can expect fast flows and reverse flows and probably even short loops. I’m afraid we can expect all kinds of temporal anomalies. We’d better get the men off.”
    “I suppose you couldn’t work out a way we could get them to work in fast time and pay them for slow time?” said Ptaclusp. “It’s just a thought. Your brother’s bound to suggest it.”
    “No! Keep everyone off! We’ll get the blocks in and cap it first!”
    “All right, all right. I was just thinking out loud. As if we didn’t have enough problems…”
    Ptaclusp waded into the cluster of workers around the center. Here, at least, there was silence. Dead silence.
    “All right, all right,” he said. “What’s going…oh.”
    Ptaclusp IIb peered over his father’s shoulder, and stuck his wrist in his mouth.
    The thing was wrinkled. It was ancient. It clearly had once been a living thing. It lay on the slab like a very obscene prune.
    “It was my lunch,” said the chief plasterer. “It was my bloody lunch. I was really looking forward to that apple.”
    Ptaclusp hesitated. This all seemed very familiar. He’d had this feeling before. An overwhelming sensation