Pyramids

accidents, until at least supper-time, when it walks with three legs—”
    “I’ve known people use two walking sticks,” said the Sphinx helpfully.
    “OK. How about: when it continues to walk on two legs or with any prosthetic aids of its choice?” The Sphinx gave this some consideration. “Ye-ess,” it said gravely. “That seems to fit all eventualities.”
    “Well?” said Teppic. “Well what?” said the Sphinx.
    “Well, what’s the answer?”
    The Sphinx gave him a stony look, and then showed its fangs.
    “Oh no,” it said. “You don’t catch me out like that. You think I’m stupid? You’ve got to tell me the answer.”
    “Oh, blow,” said Teppic.
    “Thought you had me there, didn’t you?” said the Sphinx.
    “Sorry.”
    “You thought you could get me all confused, did you?” The Sphinx grinned.
    “It was worth a try,” said Teppic.
    “Can’t blame you. So what’s the answer, then?”
    Teppic scratched his nose.
    “Haven’t a clue,” he said. “Unless, and this is a shot in the dark, you understand, it’s: A Man.”
    The Sphinx glared at him.
    “You’ve been here before, haven’t you?” it said accusingly.
    “No.”
    “Then someone’s been talking, right?”
    “Who could have talked? Has anyone ever guessed the riddle?” said Teppic.
    “No!”
    “Well, then. They couldn’t have talked, could they?”
    The Sphinx’s claws scrabbled irritably on its rock.
    “I suppose you’d better move along, then,” it grumbled.
    “Thank you,” said Teppic.
    “I’d be grateful if you didn’t tell anyone, please,” added the Sphinx, coldly. “I wouldn’t like to spoil it for other people.”
    Teppic scrambled up a rock and onto You Bastard.
    “Don’t you worry about that,” he said, spurring the camel onward. He couldn’t help noticing the way the Sphinx was moving its lips silently, as though trying to work something out.
    You Bastard had gone only twenty yards or so before an enraged bellow erupted behind him. For once he forgot the etiquette that says a camel must be hit with a stick before it does anything. All four feet hit the sand and pushed.
    This time he got it right.

    The priests were going irrational.
    It wasn’t that the gods were disobeying them. The gods were ignoring them.
    The gods always had. It took great skill to persuade a Djelibeybi god to obey you, and the priests had to be fast on their toes. For example, if you pushed a rock off a cliff, then a quick request to the gods that it should fall down was certain to be answered. In the same way, the gods ensured that the sun set and the stars came out. Any petition to the gods to see to it that palm trees grew with their roots in the ground and their leaves on top was certain to be graciously accepted. On the whole, any priest who cared about such things could ensure a high rate of success.
    However, it was one thing for the gods to ignore you when they were far off and invisible, and quite another when they were strolling across the landscape. It made you feel such a fool.
    “Why don’t they listen?” said the high priest of Teg, the Horse-Headed god of agriculture. He was in tears. Teg had last been seen sitting in a field, pulling up corn and giggling.
    The other high priests were faring no better. Rituals hallowed by time had filled the air in the palace with sweet blue smoke and cooked enough assorted livestock to feed a famine, but the gods were settling in the Old Kingdom as if they owned it, and the people therein were no more than insects.
    And the crowds were still outside. Religion had ruled in the Old Kingdom for the best part of seven thousand years. Behind the eyes of every priest present was a graphic image of what would happen if the people ever thought, for one moment, that it ruled no more.
    “And so, Dios,” said Koomi, “we turn to you. What would you have us do now?”
    Dios sat on the steps of the throne and stared gloomily at the floor. The gods didn’t listen. He knew that. He knew that, of all people. But it had never mattered before. You just went through the motions and came up with an answer. It was the ritual that was important, not the gods. The gods were there to do the duties of a megaphone, because who else would people listen to?
    While he fought to think clearly his hands went through the motions of the Ritual of the Seventh Hour, guided by neural instructions as rigid and unchangeable as crystals.
    “You have tried everything?” he said.
    “Everything