Pyramids

“There’s drinks,” he stuttered. “And a silver trowel that you can take away with you. Everyone shouts hurrah and throws their hats in the air.”
    “Certainly,” said Dios. “It will be an honor.”
    “And for us too, your sire,” said Ptaclusp loyally.
    “I meant for you,” said the high priest. He turned to the wide courtyard between the base of the pyramid and the river, which was lined with statues and stelae commemorating King Teppicymon’s mighty deeds, * and pointed.
    “And you can get rid of that,” he added.
    Ptaclusp gave him a look of unhappy innocence.
    “That statue,” said Dios, “is what I am referring to.”
    “Oh. Ah. Well, we thought once you saw it in place, you see, in the right light, and what with Hat the Vulture-Headed God being very—”
    “It goes,” said Dios.
    “Right you are, your reverence,” said Ptaclusp miserably. It was, right now, the least of his problems, but on top of everything else he was beginning to think that the statue was following him around.
    Dios leaned closer.
    “You haven’t seen a young woman anywhere on the site, have you?” he demanded.
    “No women on the site, my lord,” said Ptaclusp. “Very bad luck.”
    “This one was provocatively dressed,” the high priest said.
    “No, no women.”
    “The palace is not far, you see. There must be many places to hide over here,” Dios continued, insistently.
    Ptaclusp swallowed. He knew that, all right. Whatever had possessed him…
    “I assure you, your reverence,” he said.
    Dios gave him a scowl, and then turned to where Teppic, as it turned out, had been.
    “Please ask him not to shake hands with anybody,” said the builder, as Dios hurried after the distant glint of sunlight on gold. The king still didn’t seem to be able to get alongside the idea that the last thing the people wanted was a man of the people. Those workers who couldn’t get out of the way in time were thrusting their hands behind their back.
    Alone now, Ptaclusp fanned himself and staggered into the shade of his tent.
    Where, waiting to see him, were Ptaclusp IIa, Ptaclusp IIa, Ptaclusp IIa and Ptaclusp IIa. Ptaclusp always felt uneasy in the presence of accountants, and four of them together was very bad, especially when they were all the same person. Three Ptaclusp IIbs were there as well; the other two, unless it was three by now, were out on the site.
    He waved his hands in a conciliatory way.
    “All right, all right,” he said. “What are today’s problems?”
    One of the IIas pulled a stack of wax tablets toward him.
    “Have you any idea, father,” he began, employing that thin, razor-edged voice that accountants use to preface something unexpected and very expensive, “what calculus is?”
    “You tell me,” said Ptaclusp, sagging onto a stool.
    “It’s what I’ve had to invent to deal with the wages bill, father,” said another IIa.
    “I thought that was algebra?” said Ptaclusp.
    “We passed algebra last week,” said a third IIa. “It’s calculus now. I’ve had to loop myself another four times to work on it, and there’s three of me working on—” he glanced at his brothers—“quantum accountancy.”
    “What’s that for?” said his father wearily.
    “Next week.” The leading accountant glared at the top slab. “For example,” he said. “You know Rthur the fresco painter?”
    “What about him?”
    “He—that is, they —have put in a bill for two years’ work. Oh.”
    “They said they did it on Tuesday. On account of how time is fractal in nature, they said.”
    “They said that?” said Ptaclusp.
    “It’s amazing what they pick up,” said one of the accountants, glaring at the paracosmic architects.
    Ptaclusp hesitated. “How many of them are there?”
    “How should we know? We know there were fifty-three. Then he went critical. We’ve certainly seen him around a lot.” Two of the IIas sat back and steepled their fingers, always a bad sign in anyone having anything to do with money. “The problem is,” one of them continued, “that after the initial enthusiasm a lot of the workers looped themselves unofficially so that they could stay at home and send themselves out to work.”
    “But that’s ridiculous,” Ptaclusp protested weakly. “They’re not different people, they’re just doing it to themselves.”
    “That’s never stopped anyone, father,” said IIa. “How many men have stopped drinking themselves stupid at the age of twenty to save a