Pen-Meru beat his forehead against the dirt and she let this go on for some time. “Enough. The queen requires you to cease stealing. She has, after all, an empty tomb in which to store your living body, should you disobey.”

“I obey,” whispered Pen-Meru.

Renifer walked into the women's rooms. She would worry about Pharaoh another day. Today she would see her mother, take a hot bath, throw the dreadful gold into a pile by the bed. And maybe she would spend it one day, and maybe she would not. And maybe she would marry one day, and maybe not.

She would not worry. The gods held her in the palm of their hands.

STRAT

He was buried only up to his ankles, and he shook that sand away, and was aware of raw skin, burning eyes and the terrific heat that rose up to slap him now that the wind had passed. Beyond him stood three Pyramids. One Sphinx. A dozen tents.

Eternity, however desirable, was not here.

Strat was a prisoner of Time. His own.

There was no sign of Annie Lockwood. Instead, he was facing the same group he had left, thousands of years, or only an hour, ago. There stood the girl reporter, his father's hireling, Miss Matthews. How tall she was, her straight spine so unusual. Most females had terrible posture, being desperate to stand lower than their men. The only other girl he knew who was proud of her backbone was Annie herself.

I will never wed, thought Strat. I will never say vows of perpetual love. I will never look for a girl to equal Annie. For there is none.

Dr. Lightner said in an odd voice, “Strat. How can you be holding that gold sandal?”

Strat brushed sand from his eyebrows and hair and tried to focus on the world in which he was about to be beaten once more. I've just convicted myself, he thought ruefully, staring down at the gold in his hand. I would rather have her lock of hair. This gold sandal is not Annie. And if I learned one thing in the sands of Time, it is that gold has no value. Only decency toward others is to be valued.

“I myself opened the tomb,” said Dr. Lightner. “There was but one sandal, Strat, and I hold that in my hand. Where did you find that other one?”

Strat was aware of his father's bulk on his left. The shifting confused figures of the other members of the dig on his right. The flapping of tents and the whisk of brooms, the smack of shovels. There had been a sandstorm. The crew was digging them out.

How could I have let go of Annie, he thought, sunk in misery, and kept my grip on a worthless piece of metal? “It was lying in the rubble,” said Strat finally, “up in the hills.”

Water was brought, and Strat drank gratefully. Sweet cool water. Now that was treasure.