gaggle of his comrades in rags. “You are looking for someone,” the man repeated. “I think so.”
“Yes,” admitted Kit, instantly regretting his lapse. “I am looking for someone—an Englishman, actually.”
“You are looking for Dr. Thomas Young, perhaps,” suggested the bold fellow.
“The very man,” confirmed Kit, pulling up short. “Do you know him?”
“I know him, sir.” The Egyptian raised his voice and shouted a single word of command, and the others promptly ceased their mewling and silently drifted away. To Kit, he said, “Your friend is not far.”
“Thanks,” said Kit, much relieved. “But I don’t want to put you to any trouble. If you could point me in the right direction, I’d be much obliged.”
The man smiled, his teeth a flash of white in the tangle of his matted beard. “It is no trouble. Please, follow me.”
Despite his obviously much reduced state, the man held himself with great dignity, walking through the crumbling ruins—shattered monuments on every side—as through a palace entire, treading lightly on the stones beneath his feet. Kit trailed along behind him, stumbling now and then over the rough, uneven surface, mindful of the treasures buried only a few feet underground. He had a vague memory of having seen photos of what in his day was—or would be—called the temple complex of Karnak—a vast acreage of honey-coloured buildings inscribed with every manner of hieroglyphs imaginable. The tumbled remains of the once-great temple now trampled underfoot would one day rise again. The acres of broken blocks would be set one atop another once more, the carvings would be lovingly restored, the walls and lintels, obelisks, and innumerable statues of gods and men would be reclaimed from the waste and wilderness of uncaring eons, and the whole made accessible to the tourists who would fill the hotel boats that would be built to ply the Nile and spill their human cargo over the ancient sites in a living flood.
But this—this wracked ruin was how the place looked before excavation became a big business in the land of the pharaohs. Considering what the sprawling temple complex would eventually become—yet another heritage site swarming with short-shorts and baseball caps—Kit much preferred seeing it like this: a forest of half-fallen columns and collapsed structures, many still bearing their original paintwork, with here and there a smaller temple or storeroom completely intact, standing firm against the ravages of time. Aside from the beggars and stray dogs—did the two always go together?—there was no one. Not a single T-shirt shop or Coca-Cola sign in sight. And Kit was the only foreigner.
The beggar guide led him through the haphazard maze of devastation, past primitive campsites of squatters and mounds of garbage—the locals dumped here, obviously—and over fallen remnants of mighty Ramesses’ imperious statues, at last reaching a small, square building, the front of which was obscured by a toppled obelisk. Around the back of this structure Kit glimpsed a white flap of canvas; a ramshackle lean-to of timber and canvas had been set up over a sizeable hole. Six or eight men in dirty blue kaftans and black turbans stood around the edge of the hole, ready to receive baskets full of sand and rock that were being lifted up to them.
“Here is the man you are looking for,” said his guide.
Kit regarded the ring of workers and thought there must be some mistake, and was about to say as much when a voice called up from the hole. “Shukran! Shukran! That will be all for now!”
A white straw hat appeared at the edge of the hole, followed by a round, whiskered face, flushed red by the man’s recent exertions. The fellow took one look at Kit and put out a hand. “Greetings, friend! I am Thomas Young. How do you do?”
Stepping to the edge of the hole, Kit bent and extended his hand to receive a hearty handshake. “Kit Livingstone, sir. I am well, thank you.”
“Would you mind terribly?” asked Dr. Young, still gripping Kit’s hand. “A small assist would be most useful.”
“Not at all,” replied Kit, who gave a solid tug.
The fellow scrambled out of the pit and patted the dust from his beige linen suit. “That is better.”
He straightened and, hands on hips, stood regarding Kit, his grey eyes keen behind small round steel-rimmed glasses. A compact, tightly knit man, he gave the impression of barely contained energy, like a coiled spring. Beneath his tropical linen he wore a white shirt and a waistcoat of yellow silk. The boots on his feet were