By Tim Powers
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Extra info for Anubis Gates (Fantasy Masterworks 47)
Oh well, he thought—I still get five thousand and a return ticket. Darrow nodded, seemingly pleased. “You say what you think, that’s good. One old fraud I talked to yesterday would have agreed that the moon is one of God’s stray golf balls if I’d said it was. Hot for the twenty grand, he was. Well, let’s give you a shot. ” The old man sighed, ran his fingers through his thinning hair, and then gave Doyle a hard stare. “Time,” he said solemnly, “is comparable to a river flowing under a layer of ice.
After tossing aside some handfuls of crumpled paper he carefully lifted out a little wooden box tied up with string. He set it on the table. Turning back to the crate, he knocked away the rest of the loosened boards and, grunting with effort, lifted out a paper-wrapped package which he laid on the floor. It was roughly square, three feet on each side and six inches thick. He looked up and said, “The Book,” unnecessarily, for Amenophis Fikee knew what it was. “If only he could do it, in Cairo,” he whispered.
He got to his feet and tossed back the last of his brandy. “And you can keep your five thousand, but I’ll take the return ticket and a ride to the airport. ” Darrow was still frowning, but the parchment skin around his eyes was beginning to crinkle. Doyle, though, was too angry to sit down again. “Get old Nostrand back here and tell him about the water weeds and the rest of your crap,” Darrow stared up at him. ” The old man was grinning. “He advised me against approaching you, by the way. ” Doyle opened his mouth to riposte furiously, then just sighed.