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〃Ever see this before； sir？〃
Be calm。 There is not a scintilla of evidence to connect you to anything。 Let indignation serve you as well as it always has。
〃Why； that's from my uncle's collection。 The Ramses collection。 How did you get it？ It ought to be under lock and key。〃
〃The question is；〃 said the one called Trent；〃 how did Mr。 Sharpies get it？ And what was he doing with it on his person when he was killed？〃
Henry ran his hands back through his hair。 If only the pain would stop。 If only he could excuse himself for a minute； get a good stiff drink and have some time to think。
〃Reginald Ramsey！〃 he said； looking Trent in the eye。〃 That's the fellow's name； wasn't it？ That Egyptologist！ The one staying with my cousin。 Good God； what's going on in that house！〃
〃Mr。 Ramsey？〃
〃You have questioned him； haven't you？ Where did he e from； that man？〃 His face coloured as the two men stared at him in silence。〃 Do I have to do your job for you？ Where the devil did the bastard e from？ And what's he doing with all that treasure in my cousin's house？〃
For an hour Ramses walked。 The morning was cold and dreary。 The great imposing houses of Mayfair gave way to the dingy tenements of the poor。 He roamed narrow unpaved streets； like the alleyways of an ancient city…Jericho； or Rome。 Tracks of the horse carts here； and the reek of damp manure。
Now and then some poor passerby would stare at him。 Surely he should not be dressed in this long satin robe。 But that did not matter。 He was Ramses the Wanderer again。 Ramses the Damned only passing through this time。 The elixir still had its potency。 And the science of this time was no more ready for it than the science of any other。
Look at this suffering； these beggars sleeping in the alleyway。
Smell the filth of that house； as if the door is a mouth that spews its foul breath while gasping for clean air。
A beggar man approached him。〃 Spare a sixpence； sir； I haven't eaten in two days。 Please； sir。〃
Ramses walked on by； his slippers damp and dirty from the puddles in which he had stepped。
And now es a young woman； look at her； listen to the cough rattling deep from her chest。
〃Want to have a good time； sir？ I have a nice warm room； sir。〃
Oh； yes； he did want her services； so very much that he could feel himself hardening immediately。 And the fever made her all the more fetching； she thrust out her small bosom gracefully as she forced a smile despite her pain。
〃Not now； my fair one；〃 he whispered。
It seemed the street； if it was in fact a street； had carried him into a great wilderness of ruins。 Burnt…out buildings reeking of the smoke； with windows empty of drapery or glass。
Even here the poor camped in alcoves and shallow doorways。 A baby cried desperately。 The song of the hungry。
He walked on。 He could hear the city ing alive around him； not the human voices； those he'd heard all along。 It was the machines which awoke now as the dirty grey sky grew brighter and became almost silver overhead。 From somewhere very far away； he heard a deep…throated train whistle。 He stopped。 He could feel the dull vibration of the great iron monster even here through the damp earth。 What a beguiling rhythm it had； those wheels rolling on and on over the iron tracks。
Suddenly a spasm of shrill noise threw him into a panic。 He turned in time to see an open motor car hurtling towards him； a young man bouncing on the high seat。 He fell back against the stone wall behind him as the thing rattled and bumped over the ruts in the mud。
He was shaken； angry。 A rare moment in which he felt helpless； exposed。
Dazed； he realized he was looking at a grey dove lying dead in the street。 One of those fat dull grey birds which he saw everywhere in London； nesting on the windowsills and on the rooftops； this one had been struck by the motor car； and part of its wing had been crushed under the wheels。
The wind stirred it now； giving it a false semblance of life。
Suddenly a memory； one of the oldest and most vivid； caught him off guard； ripping him from the present； cruelly； and planting him squarely in another time and place。
He stood in the cave of the Hittite priestess。 In his battle garb； his hand on the hilt of his bronze sword； he stood looking up at the white doves circling in the sunlight under the high grate。
〃They're immortal？〃 he asked her。 He spoke in the crude； guttural Hittite tongue。
She had laughed madly。〃 They eat； but they do not need to eat。 They drink； but they do not need to drink。 It is the sun that keeps them strong。 Take it away and they sleep； but they do not die； my King。〃
He had stared at her face； so old； shrunken with its deep wrinkles。 The laughter had angered him。
〃Where is the elixir！〃 he had demanded。
〃You think it is a great thing？〃 How her eyes had gleamed as she approached him； taunting him。〃 And what if all the world were filled with those who could not die？ And their children？ And their children's children？ This cave harbours a horrid secret； I tell you。 The secret of the end of the world itself； I tell you！〃
He had drawn his sword。〃 Give it to me！〃 he had roared。
She had not been frightened； she had only smiled。
〃What if it kills you； my rash Egyptian？ No human being has ever drunk it。 No man； woman or child。〃
But he had already seen the altar； seen the cup of white liquid。 He had seen the tablet behind it covered with tiny wedgelike letters。
He stepped up to the altar。 He read the words。 Could this possibly be the formula of the elixir of life？ mon ingredients which he himself could have gathered from the fields and riverbanks of his native land？ Half believing； he mitted it to memory； never dreaming that he would never forget。
And the liquid； ye gods； look at it。 With both hands he lifted the cup and drank it down。 Somewhere for off he heard her laughing and laughing； it echoed through the endless chambers of the cave。
And then he'd turned； wiping his lip with the back of his hand； his eyes wide as the shock coursed through him； his face throbbing； his body hardening as if he were in his chariot before the battlefield； on the verge of raising his sword and giving the cry。 The priestess had taken a step backwards。 What had she seen？ His hair stirring； writhing； as if lifted by a swift breeze； the grey hairs falling away as the strong brown hair replaced them； his black eyes fading； turning the colour of sapphires…the stunning transformation that he would verify later when he held up the mirror。
〃Well； we shall see； shan't we？〃 he had cried； his heart pumping fiercely； his muscles tingling。 Ah； how light and powerful he'd felt。 He could have taken flight。〃 Do I live or die； priestess？〃
Stunned； he stared at the London street before him。 As if it were only hours ago！ The moment whole and entire； and he could still hear the flapping of those wings against the grate。 Seven hundred years had passed between that moment and the night he'd entered the tomb for his first long sleep。 And two thousand since he'd been awakened； only to go to the grave within a few years again。
And now this is London； this is the twentieth century。 Suddenly he was trembling violently。 Again； the damp smoky wind stirred the feathers of the grey dove that lay dead in the street。 He walked forward through the sludge and knelt down beside the bird and scooped it up in his hands。 Ah； fragile thing。 So full of life one moment； and now no more than refuse； though the white down fluttered on its warm； narrow little chest。
Oh； how the chill wind hurt him。 How the sight of the dead thing pierced his heart。
Holding it in his right hand； he drew out the half…full vial of the elixir with his left。 He pushed open the hinged cap with his thumb and poured the shimmering liquid over the dead creature； forcing one heavy drop after another into its open beak。
Not a second passed before the thing quickened。 The tiny round eyes opened。 The bird struggled to right itself； its wings flapping violently。 He let it go； and up it went； circling as it soared beneath the heavy leaden sky。
He watched until it had disappeared from sight。 Immortal now。 To fly forever。
And another memory came； silent and swift as an assassin。 The mausoleum； the marble halls； the pillars； and the gaunt figure of Cleopatra running beside him as he walked on； faster and faster； away from the dead body of Mark Antony lying on the gilded couch。
〃You can bring him back！〃 she screamed。〃 You know you can。 It's not too late。 Ramses。 Give it to us both； Mark Antony and me！ Ramses； don't turn away from me。〃 Her long nails had scratched at his arm。
In a rage he'd turned； slapped her； knocked her backwards。 Astonished； she'd fallen； then crumpled into sobs。 How frail she'd been； almost haggard； with the dark circles beneath her eyes。
The bird was gone over the London rooftops。 The sun grew brighter； a shocking white light behind the rolling clouds。
His vision blurred； his heart was pounding thickly in his chest。 He was weeping； weeping helples