David drew himself up to his full height, which at 5' 10" was a shade shorter than he might have liked.

The leader of the Horusite commandos halted in front of him and unveiled his face, revealing himself to be a broad-nosed black man with finely pitted skin. He stood an inch or so taller than David.

''Colonel Henry D. Wilkins, Eighth Infantry Division out of Cairo, Illinois,'' he said, snapping off a salute. ''Cobra Force.''

David returned the salute. ''Lieutenant David Westwynter of His Pharaonic Majesty's Second Paratroop Regiment, stationed on Cyprus.''

''By the light of Khons we have met…'' said Wilkins.

''… by the wisdom of Thoth may we assist one another,'' David said, completing the password sequence.

It was a kind of verbal handshake. Wilkins stuck out his hand for the real thing.

''Pleasure to meet you, Loot' Westwynter.''

''You too, sir. Related to Pastor-President Wilkins, I take it?''

Wilkins chuckled, amused. ''How'd you guess? We don't talk about him much. White sheep of the family.''

''The resemblance is marked,'' said David, also chuckling.

''Mind if I call you Dave?''

''David, preferably. I've only ever let one person call me Dave.''

''Sure. Whatever.'' This was said with a slightly dismissive air. You Brits and your formality.

''And you're late,'' David pointed out.

Wilkins bristled. You Brits…!

''Listen, Lieutenant,'' he said. ''It so happens we've been tramping around the desert for three months. Hiding from enemy patrols and Saqqara Birds. Living like animals. So we arrive a few minutes later'n we're supposed to. Cut us some goddamn slack!''