The Chickens of Atlantis and Other Foul and Filthy Fiends Read Online Free Page B

upon reaching the far doorway, we espied them.
    Nubians!
    I knew them to be such because I had most recently read an article in The Times newspaper penned by Mr Hugo Rune concerning the construction of ancient monuments. I will not tire the reader here with Mr Rune's theories on the subject as they may be found written up in considerable detail elsewhere. * The article in The Times had been profusely illustrated. A Nubian slave was pictured beneath a paragraph that claimed the Great Pyramid was merely the capping stone of a far larger obelisk that had sunk into the desert sands due to inadequate foundations.
    ‘Nubians,’ I whispered to Mr Cameron Bell.
    ‘Nubians indeed,’ this fellow whispered back to me. ‘And take a peep to see what they are doing.’
    I took such a peep and noted well that they had formed a human chain, which stretched through the doorway and off into the distance towards the Egyptian Gallery. The human links in this chain were passing from hands to hands what must surely be the contents of the British Library.
    ‘There are dozens of Nubians,’ I further whispered.
    ‘Hundreds,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘And all in the employ of the Pearly Emperor.’
    I must confess that the sight of so many Nubian slaves, so very far from the Nile Delta and stripped to the waist upon such a chilly night, caused me not only considerable concern, but did tend to lend credibility to Mr Bell's suspicions. Which should, of course, have caused me to give credit where credit was due, had it not been for the obvious thought that they were so many and we so few in number.
    This obvious thought was in turn followed by another. That the explosively inclined Mr Bell might well choose to even up the odds through the employment of dynamite.
    ‘What do you suppose they are chanting?’ I whispered, perhaps in the hope of distracting him from any such thinking.
    ‘ Aom eeom Aten ,’ said my friend. And, surprising me with his arcane knowledge, he added, ‘In the ancient Egyptian sacred tongue, the chant means “living spirit of the Aten” and is spoken in praise of the God-Pharaoh Akhenaten.’
    ‘He of the mysteriously stolen sarcophagus,’ I remarked.
    ‘Precisely.’
    ‘And how do you know of such stuff?’
    ‘I did my research,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘Here amongst the tomes of the British Library.’
    I was about to ask further questions, but Mr Bell once more put his finger to his lips and then beckoned with it that I should follow him.
    We crept forward to gain a better view of the nefarious goings-on and caught sight of a mysterious yellow glow emanating from the Egyptian Gallery, many yards and many book-passing Nubians in the distance.
    ‘Do you have that new-fangled portable telephone,’ I asked, ‘which Mr Tesla gave you as a reward for sorting out that delicate affair concerning the actress, the bishop and the collie dog called Daisy? You might well now employ it and call for police reinforcements.’
    Mr Bell offered me a certain glance, which I observed but briefly in the flashings of the lightning. ‘I fear not,’ said he, ‘for it has yet to be invented.’
    And I mused upon this.
    Mr Bell delved into his pocket.
    And brought forth, to my great relief, his ray gun.
    ‘Ah,’ whispered I. ‘Then blast away, do, Mr Bell. I shall wait here for your victorious return.’
    ‘You will accompany me,’ said the great detective. ‘But in truth I wish no harm to come to you, so climb up onto my shoulders for now, but be prepared to take cover.’
    I took off my sou'wester and mittens and tucked them away into my Ulster coat, then clambered onto the shoulders of Cameron Bell. ‘What precisely is your plan?’ I whispered at his ear.
    ‘Each floor's galleries are joined together to form a quadrangle,’ Mr Bell replied. ‘We will retrace our steps, then skirt all the way around the building and enter the Egyptian Gallery from its most distant door rather than its nearest. Do you understand what I