Dynasty it was not what it was a thousand years prior—fifteen hundred. The instructions of the original Book were not carried out. The only explanation is that the Book of the Dead was lost even then, for centuries. Ramahadin probably discovered it, deciphered it and entrusted the translation to one or two of his disciples, who followed its secrets in the preparation of Ramahadin's body—then in honor to him, or tribute, buried the Book with him."
Eric Hanley blinked and gazed in awe at the immobile features of the man on the table. "He looks as if he were only sleeping."
"He is sleeping," said Professor Shepard, "now—"
Hanley looked up sharply. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, we brought him to life. What do you think we've done here these last two weeks? Read the Book of the Dead?"
Hanley put his face down to the head of the man on the table. Yes, he was breathing, slow measured breaths. A frown creased Hanley's forehead. This man was alive. But he couldn't be—unless they were playing a trick on him, perpetrating a hoax.
He looked again at the faces of the two scientists. And slowly he shook his head. Then he inhaled deeply and appealed to Professor Blythe.
"You can't do this, Professor. You can't bring a man dead for twenty-four centuries to life, to face the modern world. You don't know what will happen! And you'll be responsible!"
"Bah!" snorted Professor Shepard. "I don't know why the devil Blythe asked you here, anyway. The responsibility's ours—and so is the credit. Remember that, Hanley!"
He caught up a small copper cylinder. "All right, Blythe!"
"Wait!" cried Professor Blythe. "Perhaps we'd better strap him down. You can't tell—"
"Nonsense," retorted Shepard. "There are three of us here. We've dilly-dallied long enough. Here—"
He held the copper cylinder to the nostrils of the sleeping man, twisted it and removed the cap. A thin stream of bluish vapor curled out of it.
Hanley felt the short hair on the back of his neck stand up. He wanted more than anything in the world to run out of that room—but couldn't. He was a scientist as well as Blythe and Shepard.
He remained, his feet rooted to the floor, head craned forward, his eyes intent on the man on the table.
For a moment nothing happened and Professor Shepard exclaimed sharply.
And then... then the body twitched and moved. The eyelids flickered up, exposing eyes as black as obsidian. They stared straight at the ceiling for a moment, then rolled sideways and fastened themselves upon Eric Hanley.
The full lips parted and air was sucked into the mouth. The mouth opened and a single word came out—a sharp, guttural word:
"Dolmacho!"
Professor Blythe took a step forward. "Dolmachin!" he cried.
The black eyes left Hanley's face and fixed themselves upon Professor Blythe's taut, white face.
"Dolmachin—sidi!" he said.
Professor Blythe whirled upon Eric Hanley and exclaimed. "He understands our debased Egyptian." He turned back to the ancient Egyptian. "Ramahadin, sidi?"
"Ramahadin, yes! Who are you? Where am I?" The Egyptian sat up suddenly and his eyes shot wildly about the laboratory. Then a groan escaped his lips. "I do not understand," he said in his harsh, ancient Egyptian tongue. "My servants—where are they?"
