Caps were straightened by serious chauffeurs. Heavy engines roared to life. Highly polished tires crackled on the sparkling sand. Headlights burned through the desert sun as the antique motorcade drove toward the mountains.

*     *     *     *     *

Deep within the shadows of the mountain pass, the Arabian sheikh, Al-Sharak Azlukazahum ran his hands across the inscriptions on the doors of the ancient tomb. Of sixty years of age, he wore a thawb and headdress, and he had deep, brown, sun-weathered skin and keen brown eyes.

Rock-by-rock he removed the last remaining stones from the portal and peered through the aperture into the tomb beyond. Inside all was darkness, all was mystery. Taking a lantern from the wall, he flashed it about—a feast for the eyes, for as the shadows receded, a myriad of Egyptian hieroglyphs were revealed upon the walls, and more importantly, beyond them lay the outline of a doorway, sealed an age ago, that might lead to an inner chamber. Bearing the lantern before him, he ventured within, followed in turn by several of his trusted Arabian servants.

Chapter 1

Boxes were arriving outside a new house on Charming Lane and a wooden sign that read, For Sale, now had a large sticker over it that read, Sold. House movers in uniforms were removing the contents of a large white moving truck, coming and going from the back of it, wheeling furniture and carrying boxes. Upon the sidewalk, a large balding man in a mover’s uniform regarded a clipboard bemusedly. "Hey, lady," he said, "it says here that there's only two televisions, but there's four in the back of the truck."

The lady that he was referring to was Mrs. Katherine Goodfellow—Katie to her friends. She stood on the sidewalk wearing tight-fitting sweatpants and a V-neck sweater that was rolled up to the elbows. Her hair—blond, curly, and stuck on end—would have given people the impression that she was a bedraggled Chihuahua were it not so much in fashion.

"Wonderful!" she said. She gazed hopelessly at the clipboard. "You see, they're for my husband, Bill. They're not televisions; they're computer monitors. Terribly sorry." Her face adopted a pained expression that seemed to utilize every muscle. She wrung her hands. "He's in the computer business," she said. "You know ... bits and bytes and gigawhatsits. Oh, don't mind me..." She hit the man playfully upon the shoulder. "I'm just like that! In there," she said, pointing to the doorway. "You can put them with the others."

The moving man shook his head in bemusement and wheeled the heavy boxes down the path toward the front door. He had just reached it when Mrs. Goodfellow yelled, "Charlie! Come and help us get some furniture out!"

From within the doorway, a boy peered up apprehensively at the sky. He was eleven years old, of medium height, and he had a mop of mousy, brown hair.

His mother pulled his sister’s brightly colored high chair from the back of the moving truck. "Give me a hand with this!" she said.

Charlie leapt out onto the pavement. Landing with each foot upon different paving slabs, he froze, looking down at his feet. Then, peering up at the sky suspiciously, he blinked three times. 

The moving man frowned at him. "Out of my way, sonny," he said as he struggled with a cumbersome box.