Tomb of the Golden Bird (5 page)

Emerson. We have no idea where the individual in question may be, and we are as anxious as you to locate him." "So you agree that the attackers were searching for—er—that individual?" "It seems likely," Wetherby said cautiously. Lowering his voice and glancing over his shoulder, he went on. "It has been almost six weeks since his last report." "And he was at that time where?" It goes against the grain for anyone in the secret service to give up any information whatever. Reluctantly he murmured, "Syria." "Doing what?" "Now really, Mrs. Emerson, you cannot expect me to answer that." "The Official Secrets Act? Such an unnecessary nuisance, these rules. Answer this, then. Who might his adversaries be?" "God only knows," said Mr. Wetherby, in a burst of genuine feeling. "You ought to be in a position to hazard a guess, since you know the nature of his mission," I persisted. "I know what he was supposed to be doing, Mrs. Emerson." "And you will say no more? I see." I glanced at my lapel watch. "I have not time to continue the conversation, Mr. Wetherby. You have been singularly unhelpful." "Believe me, Mrs. Emerson—" "Yes, yes. If it were up to you . . . Please remind Mr. Smith that he once offered to do anything possible to assist me or my family. We are in need of that assistance. I don't like to be spied on and harassed." The rosebud mouth broadened into a smile. "I don't blame you," Wetherby said. "I believe I can safely promise that my superior will take steps to relieve you of that inconvenience. A few false trails . . . You will let us know if you should hear from the individual in question?" "If you will do the same for me." "You have my word." For what that is worth, I thought. At least Mr. Wetherby had a sense of humor, which was more than I could say for Smith. Regretfully I abandoned the remains of my apricot tart, leaving Mr. Wetherby to pay the bill. I arrived at the railroad station in good time. All in all, it had been a profitable day, and after a leisurely meal in the dining car I sought my swaying couch in the consciousness of duty well done. I have never understood why I should dream of Abdullah at such irregular and seemingly unrelated occasions, nor why I always saw him as a young man, black-bearded and vigorous, instead of as the white-haired patriarch he had been at the time of his death. He scarcely ever turned up when I had a particular reason for wanting to consult him, and his remarks were, for the most part, enigmatic. Sometimes he reassured me when I was worried, sometimes he dropped vague hints that only made sense when it was too late to act on them; often he scolded me for behaving foolishly. It would have been nice to receive more practical advice; after all, when one has a close acquaintance on the Other Side, where all is known and understood, one has a right, in my opinion, to expect a helpful suggestion or two. However, it was enough just to see and hear him, to know that, in some way and in some dimension, he continued to exist. He was waiting for me at the usual place and time, the cliffs above Deir el Bahri at Luxor, at sunrise. He seemed to be in an affable mood, for he greeted me with a smile instead of a scowl; and for a few moments we stood side by side looking out over the valley, watching the light flow across river and fields and desert until it brightened the colonnades of Hatshepsut's temple below us. "So," I said. "No dead bodies this year, Abdullah." It was an old joke between us. Abdullah grinned. "Not yet," he said. "Whose?" I did not expect an answer, nor did I receive one. "There is always a dead body." There was the faintest show of emotion, a suggestion of moisture in his dark eyes, when he added, "Last time it was almost yours, Sitt." "Oh, that was months ago," I said dismissively. "Have you any news for me?" Abdullah stroked his beard. "Hmmm. You will soon have a visitor whom you expect and do not wish to see. And Emerson will be proved right when he hoped he would be wrong." It was a more informative answer than I usually got, even though it did sound as if Abdullah had been prompted by a spiritualist medium. I took it for granted that the unwanted visitor must be Sethos. The second tidbit could only refer to ... "Aha," I exclaimed. "So there is a new royal tomb in the Valley of the Kings?" "I told you there was." "You told me there were two." "I did," said Abdullah agreeably. "Where . . . Never mind, you won't tell me, will you? What about the attack on Ramses and Emerson? Are they still in danger from those people?" "They were never in danger. It was a foolish gesture, made by foolish men." "What men?" "Their names would mean nothing to you. They have gone back whence they came." "Who sent them? Will there be others like them?" "I have told you," said Abdullah, with exaggerated patience, "that the future is not set in stone. Your actions affect events. The actions of others also do so." "Ah," I said interestedly, "so we do have free will. That subject has been debated by philosophers down the ages." "I will not debate it, Sitt." "As I expected." I turned to face him. "Is all well with you, my dear old friend?" "How could it be otherwise?" His broad chest rose as he drew a deepbreath of the fresh morning air. "May it be well with you and those we love till we next meet, Sitt." Without farewell he walked away, along the path that led to the Valley. It was always so. Emerson was at the station when the train pulled into Luxor next morning. I did not see him at first, since he was sitting cross-legged on the platform engaged in animated conversation with several of the porters. Seeing me at the window, he hurried to help me down the steps. "I came on the chance that you might be on this train," he explained. "Chance indeed. I told you I would be. Dust off your trousers, Emerson. Where is your hat?" Emerson brushed vaguely at the oily stains on his trousers and ignored the question, to which he probably did not know the answer. I had sometimes wondered whether it was his habit of going about bareheaded in the noonday sun that had kept his handsome black hair so thick and untouched by gray, except for two picturesque white streaks at the temples. I knew he didn't employ any variety of hair coloring, since I would have found it—and I kept my own little bottle well hidden. Taking my arm, he said, "What luck?" "Luck had nothing to do with it. Everything worked out as I anticipated." "Hmph," said Emerson. "What about you?" Emerson took my valise from the porter and led me toward the carriages that waited for customers. "Carter starts work tomorrow." "Good Gad, Emerson, is that all you can think of?" Evidently it was. He asked no further questions and did not even protest when I said I would wait to make my full report to the assembled group that evening. Travel by train leaves one dusty and rumpled. After Emerson had gone off to the West Valley I enjoyed a nice long soak in my tub, washed my hair (and applied just a bit of coloring) and assumed comfortable garments. I spent the rest of the day on the veranda putting my notes in order and watching, without appearing to do so, for unfamiliar persons. We were accustomed to seeing the villagers around and about the house, for Fatima and the others of our household staff had kin all over the West Bank, and these individuals were in the habit of dropping in for gossip and a meal. I had no objection to this arrangement, nor to Fatima's habit of feeding many of the local beggars. Like that of Islam, our faith tells us to share our bounty with those whom (for reasons of His own) the Almighty has not favored. And these individuals often possessed interesting information, which they passed on to Fatima and she passed on to me, thus verifying the undeniable fact that virtue has its rewards. I had got to know most of the beggars, by sight at least; some were considered holy men. One of them wandered past the veranda that afternoon, a ragged fellow with a long gray beard and a stick that supported his bent frame. He gave me a vague smile and a murmured blessing, which I acknowledged with a bow, before he went on toward the kitchen. He could not be considered unfamiliar, since I had seen him often before. The same applied to the child who came up the road sometime later. I kept an eye on him, since some of the lads tried to sneak into the stableyard to admire the motorcar (and remove bits of it), but he squatted down some distance away and stayed there. I had asked Fatima to serve tea early. My intuition was correct. Ramses and Nefret were the first to arrive, with the rest close behind them: Cyrus, Bertie, Jumana, Selim and Daoud, and, after a brief interval, Emerson himself. I plunged at once into my report, since I knew I would not be able to make myself heard once the children joined us. "I have seen Mlle. Malraux's portfolio, which was first-rate. Both she and Mr. Farid impressed me with their qualifications." "So you hired them?" Cyrus inquired. "Gracious no, I would never do that without your approval and that of Emerson." "If they suit you, Amelia, they're fine with me," Cyrus declared. "Emerson?" Emerson started and spilled his tea. "What? Oh, yes, certainly, my dear." I was pleased to hear this, since I had informed both young Egyptologists that we would take them on. "M. Lacau has been most accommodating," I continued. "He offered us several sites: the royal mortuary temples along the cultivation, with the exception of Medinet Habu—" "There's nothing left of them," Cyrus protested. "Just heaps of rubble." "Kindly allow me to finish, Cyrus. The far western valleys, where the tombs of Hatshepsut and the three princesses were found, and the site of Tod, south of here." "Too far away," Cyrus said promptly. "There will be time to consider these possibilities," I concluded. "M. Lacau wishes us to finish this season in the West Valley." From the gleam in Cyrus's eyes when I mentioned tombs, I knew what his choice would be. Emerson said vaguely, "Yes, yes, Peabody, well done. We will—er—consider the possibilities." The appearance of the dear little children put an end to the discussion. They went straight for their grandfather, both talking at once. Under cover of their sweet but penetrating voices, Ramses said softly, "Did you see Smith?" "He sent his assistant, Mr. Wetherby, to meet with me, instead of coming himself." "Wetherby?" Ramses frowned slightly. "Do you know him?" "No. He must be new since my time. Did he explain why Smith snubbed you?" "In the intelligence business, a snub is not a snub but excessive caution. According to Wetherby, his superior did not feel it advisable for us to be seen together. The Department still has not heard from Sethos." Ramses's raised eyebrows indicated a strong degree of skepticism. "I believe he was telling the truth about that," I said. "He did say thatSethos was in Syria when last heard from, but that is about all I got out of him. Except that he promised he—Smith, rather—would take steps to draw any possible watchers away from us. 'Laying a few false trails' was how he put it." "Not very satisfactory," Ramses muttered. "Oh, and he also said he would inform us if and when he heard from Sethos, providing we do the same. I agreed, of course." "Of course," said Ramses. He turned away to greet his son, who offered him a somewhat battered biscuit. "I brought you this, Father, since Charla is about to eat the rest of them." "That was good of you," Ramses said. He sat down. The little boy leaned against his knee, and Ramses ate the biscuit, with appropriate murmurs of appreciation. Then David John said, "Remind me, if you will be so good, Father: Who was Tutankhamon?" I smiled to myself. David John did not like to admit ignorance of archaeological matters. This was his oblique method of obtaining information on a subject he knew little or nothing about. His ignorance was not surprising, since he was only five years old, and Tutankhamon was one of the most obscure of all Egyptian pharaohs. Ramses looked startled. "Why do you ask, David John?" "Grandpapa believes his tomb is in the Valley of the Kings. He would like to find it." "I'm sure he would," Ramses said. "It is true that Tutankhamon's is one of the few royal tombs that has never been found. But he was not an important king, David John. He ruled at the end of the Eighteenth Dynasty, succeeding his father-in-law, who may also have been his father. You have heard of Akhenaton?" "The Heretic," said David John promptly. His blue eyes shone. "A fascinating figure. His wife was Nefertiti and he had six daughters. He forbade the worship of the old gods and founded a new city, Amarna, dedicated to his sole god, the Aton. One might call him the first monotheist." "Well done," I said. David John must have been reading Mr.Breasted's History. Like his father, he was appallingly precocious in certain areas, and he had learned to read at a very young age. "Akhenaton's reforms did not endure, however," I continued. "After his death the court went back to the worship of the old gods and abandoned Amarna. Tutankhaton, as he was originally called, changed his name to Tutankhamon. His wife, one of Akhenaton's daughters, changed hers as well, to incorporate the name of the god Amon, whose worship had been forbidden by her father." David John nodded emphatically. "From Ankhesenpaaton to Ankhesenamon." "Good Gad," I said involuntarily. "Er . . . again, well done. That is about all we know of Tutankhamon, David John. Few monuments of his have survived." "Then if his tomb were to be found—" "That is most unlikely," I said. "Your grandfather has got a bee in his ...er ..." "Bonnet," said David John. "A metaphor. I understand. I shall ask him about it." He returned to Emerson, and I said, "Really, Ramses, I am beginning to worry about the boy. He rattled off those polysyllabic names as readily as he does that of his sister." "He can't be any worse than I was," Ramses said with a smile. I could only hope he was right. It was shortly after midnight in the early hours of November 4 (I have good reason to remember that date) that I awoke to find Emerson gone from my side. Emerson wakes with a great deal of grunting and tossing about. For him to vanish as silently as a spirit aroused the direst of forebodings. Without stopping to assume dressing gown and slippers, I snatched up my parasol and ran out of the room. The sound of low voices led me to the veranda. The moon had set, but the stars were bright enough to enable me to make out the stalwart form of my spouse in muttered conversation with a much smaller figure. I heard Emerson say, in Arabic, "You are certain?" "Yes, Father of Curses!" The voice was a high-pitched treble, that ofa young boy. The sight of me wrung a small scream from him, but he stood his ground. Emerson glanced over his shoulder. "Ah, Peabody. What are you doing with that parasol?" I lowered the weapon, feeling a trifle
foolish. "Is there news of ...of him?" I cried. "Quietly," Emerson hissed. "Who are you talking about? Oh, him. No." He went on in Arabic, "Good lad. Here." He fished in the pocket of his trousers, his only garment, and the jingle of coins brought a flash of white teeth from the child. "Wait," Emerson said. "We will return together." "Curse you, Emerson," I said, trotting after him as he hurried back to our sleeping chamber. "What is going on? If it is not about him ..." Emerson took me by the shoulders. "Peabody," he said in a low, strained voice, "they have found a stone-cut step." A thrill of electrical intensity ran through my limbs. I understood, who better, what that phrase betokened. A step, carved out of the stone, could mean only one thing. A tomb. And where else could it be, but at the spot Emerson had been haunting for days? I exclaimed, "I am coming with you." "I cannot wait for you, Peabody." However, his attempts to assume his garments were slowed by excitement and by his habit of strewing his clothing all over the room when he retires. It took him a while to find his boots, which were under the bed. By that time I had slipped into my trousers and shirt and coat, which were where I had neatly arranged them earlier. "I am driving the motorcar," said Emerson, giving me a defiant look. If he had thought that would deter me, he was mistaken. It is impossible to explain, to those who have not experienced it, the all-consuming passion of archaeological discovery. To be actually on the spot when such a discovery is made, to be among the first to behold with one's own eyes an unknown tomb . . . well, I could not blame Emerson for stealing a march on Howard Carter. It was not good form, but it was understandable. However, I prefer not to drive in the motorcar with Emerson, particularly when he is in a hurry, so I said, "The car makes a frightful racket, Emerson. I presume this expedition is not one you wish to advertise." "Hmph," said Emerson. He added, more emphatically, "Bah. Make haste, then." He dashed out. I knew he would have to wake Jamad, who was not at his best in the middle of the night, and get the horses saddled, so I finished my toilette, fastening on my hat and buckling my belt of tools—canteen, brandy flask, sewing kit, torch, knife—round my waist. When I reached the stable Emerson's gelding was ready, and Emerson and Jamal were saddling my mare, a gentle creature I had named Eva after my gentle sister-in-law. (Some of the more spirited Arabians objected to the jangle of objects on my belt.) The child greeted me with a bow and a wide grin. I recognized him now, and my suspicions were confirmed. He was one of Howard's water boys, the same one I had seen waiting outside the house. Waiting, I did not doubt, for Emerson. "This is really too bad of you, Emerson," I said. "What underhanded scheme have you got in mind?" Emerson seized me round the waist and tossed me onto the mare. Mounting in his turn, he reached down and hauled the boy up onto the saddle in front of him. "It was Azmi here who found the step," he said. "At your instigation?" "I cannot imagine," said Emerson, in a reproachful voice, "why you should leap to the conclusion that I am up to no good. I only want to have a quick look, to make sure Azmi hasn't let his imagination run away with him. It would be too bad to raise Carter's hopes and then see them dashed." "Howard would be touched by your concern, Emerson." Emerson did not reply. Emerson would soon have forged ahead had I not kept shouting at him. Concern for me, I feel certain, encouraged him to moderate his pace; I am not the most skilled of horsewomen. At least there was no one abroad at that hour. When we turned onto the road that led into the Valley, the cliffs on either side cut off what little light there hadbeen, and at my emphatic suggestion Emerson slowed his steed to a walk. Cyrus Vandergelt's Castle loomed up against the stars, illumined like a veritable palace by flickering torches at the doors and in the courtyard, for Cyrus was extravagant with lighting. Howard Carter's house had been a dark huddle on the hillside when we passed it, and I had heard a chortle of satisfaction from Emerson. Howard was not yet awake. Nor would he be, I expected, for several hours. The entrance to the Valley was closed, naturally. We left the horses outside the barricade; Emerson jumped nimbly over it and lifted first me and then Azmi over. The Valley is somewhat eerie at night, as silent and deserted as it must have been in the days when the pharaohs lay undisturbed in their deep-dug sepulchres, surrounded by uncounted wealth. High overhead the brilliant stars of Egypt shone diamond-bright against the black velvet sky, but we walked through shadows. There had been guards in ancient times, as there were now; when a reverberating snore broke the silence, I thought that those ancient guards probably had shirked their duties in favor of sleep as often as did their modern counterparts. Rounding a curve in the path, we reached the area we sought, and I ventured to switch on my torch. Howard hadn't bothered to station a guard near his site. Why should he, when he had found nothing except some wretched workmen's huts? "Well done, Peabody," said Emerson, taking the torch from me. "Now, Azmi, show me the step." The remains of the huts had been removed the previous day, but there was a good three feet of soil and rubble remaining over the bedrock. Azmi indicated a depression less than two feet long and a foot wide. "I put the sand back, Father of Curses," he said in a thrilling whisper. "So that you could be the one to find it." Emerson handed me the torch, dropped to his hands and knees, and began digging like a mole, throwing the sand out behind him. His large callused hands were efficient tools; it was not long before he let out a muffled swear word and held up a bleeding finger. It was not a request for sympathy, but confirmation of Azmi's claim. He had scraped hisfinger on a hard rock surface, the same color as the sand that almost covered it. We all banged our heads together trying to see down into the hole. Sand kept trickling back into it, but before Emerson stopped we all saw the straight edge of what had to be a ledge or step. Emerson sat back on his heels. I waited for him to speak but he remained silent. "Dig it out, dig it out," the boy urged. "No." Emerson rose slowly to his feet. "I have not the right to do so." "Isn't it a little late for such scruples?" I inquired. Archaeological fever had gripped me, and I was as anxious as Azmi to enlarge that enticing hole. "Refill it," Emerson ordered, in the same quiet, even voice. He took me by the elbow and raised me from the squatting position I had assumed. Azmi groaned. "Again?" "Again." "But, Emerson," I cried. "It may be only a natural feature, or the start of an unfinished cutting. Don't you want to make sure?" "I have not the right," Emerson repeated. "In fact," he went on, "I hadn't the right to do this much, and it would not be prudent to admit that I had. Azmi, you must allow Reis Girigar to take the credit for finding this, as he will do so in any case. I shall see you are properly rewarded. There, that will do." Emerson sat down on the low retaining wall at the nearby entrance to the tomb of Ramses VI and invited me to join him. The predawn chill was bitter. Emerson drew me close and put an arm round my shoulders. "Have a sip of your brandy, Peabody, to ward off the cold." "The brandy, as you well know, is for medicinal purposes only. If you had given me time I would have brought a Thermos of coffee." "Perhaps I was unnecessarily hasty," Emerson admitted. "But you understand, Peabody—" "Yes, my dear, I do. How did you know precisely where to look?" "Yesterday, after the last of the huts was cleared away, I observed something that caught my attention. The soil lies differently over a concavity. Not much of a difference, unless one is looking for it, but I was looking for it, you see. I couldn't be absolutely certain," Emerson said modestly, "so I pointed the spot out to Azmi. He waited until the guards had settled down for the night before he began digging. He's small, and he knows every nook and cranny in the Valley. Nobody spotted him. He then reported to me." A shiver ran through me—part excitement, part cold. "Curse it," said Emerson. "One would have supposed that by this time our presence would have been noted. Azmi, see if you can rouse one of the guards and tell him the Father of Curses wants coffee." Azmi scampered off. The sky had begun to lighten before he returned with two men, whom Emerson hailed by name. "You sleep soundly, Ibrahim, Ishak. What sort of guards are you, to allow us to enter the Valley unchallenged?" The older of the two, a wiry chap with a grizzled beard, salaamed. "We knew it was you and the Sitt Hakim, Father of Curses, so we left you to do as you wished." "That shows excellent judgment," said Emerson, with a smug smile. "Haven't you made your morning coffee?" "As we always do, Father of Curses," the younger man said. "Ali Mohammed will bring it when it is ready." We had our—their—coffee, very black and sweet and hot. Neither of the men ventured to ask what the devil we were doing there at such an hour, although the younger of the two kept looking curiously at the half-filled hole. Conversation was general and somewhat scurrilous; Ali Mohammed expressed doubts as to the virtue of one of the village wives, and Ishak reported that Deib ibn Simsah was said to have found a new tomb back in the Wadi el Sikkeh. Nothing to do with him, Ishak, of course. Finally our hosts left, having been properly thanked by Emerson. They would never have accepted payment for their hospitality, but an exchange of gifts was only good manners. The sky turned from soft gray to pale blue. The sun had risen above the eastern cliffs, but in the depths of the Valley the shadows clustered. Emerson waxed impatient, fidgeting and muttering. Eventually we heardvoices, and along came Howard's crew, led by his reis. They greeted us without evidencing surprise; clearly they had been told of our presence. Reis Ahmed Girigar was one of the most respected foremen in Luxor, and was made of sterner stuff than the others. Fixing Emerson with a respectful but steady eye, he asked whether Carter Effendi was expecting us. "No," said Emerson. "We want to surprise him. And you, I think, will have a greater surprise for him. Look there." Howard did not turn up for another hour. (His procrastination prompted a number of caustic remarks from Emerson, who was always at the site as soon as his men; but to do Howard justice, the removal of the remaining debris was a task well within the skill of his experienced foreman.) The reis had finished clearing the first stair, and he and Emerson had arrived at an understanding by the time Howard arrived, swinging his stick. The men fell silent when they heard him approach. Howard didn't see us at first. We had tactfully retreated into the background. "Why have you stopped work?" he demanded of Girigar. The moment was one of high drama. Instead of replying, the reis made a sweeping gesture, directing Howard's attention to the step. British phlegm went up in smoke, together with dignity. Howard turned pale, then red, and fell to his knees. I doubt he was praying, he only wanted a closer look; but for the first time I fully realized how much such a discovery would mean to him, and I remembered something he had once said about the excavations carried on by the American Theodore Davis. "It don't seem right that he should find one tomb after another when there's been nothing for his lordship." Or for Howard Carter, whose career was dependent on the goodwill of a patron. "Good Lord," he gasped. "When . . . how . . ." "We found it almost at once, Effendi, as soon as we began digging. Then we stopped and waited for you." "Yes, yes." Howard got to his feet and dusted off the knees of his trousers. "Quite right. Get on with the job, then. It may not be anything." "I think it is, though," said Emerson. Howard jumped. "What the devil— Oh, good morning, Mrs. Emerson. Er . . . how long have you been here?" "We decided on an early-morning ride, you see," said Emerson evasively. "When we arrived, Reis Girigar had just made his great discovery, so we were unable to resist hanging about to see what developed. Don't mind, do you? Here, Peabody, take a seat." The seat was a campstool, gallantly produced by the reis. I took it and smiled at Howard, who had been left with no way of getting rid of us short of a blunt dismissal. I really would not have blamed Howard for cursing Emerson, who stood at Howard's shoulder and kept giving orders to the men, but before long Howard was too absorbed to feel resentment. The usual debris still overlay the steps, however many there might be, and the cutting itself. The men worked with a will, as anxious as we to see what lay below, but the work seemed to progress with agonizing slowness. Howard was—I must do him credit—a careful excavator, and with Emerson looming over him he was not tempted to neglect proper standards. As the morning went on, the crowd round the excavation increased—most of the guards and dragomen, curious tourists. The latter did not linger, for there was nothing much to see, but some of the Egyptians remained to watch. They knew, as the tourists did not, what those stone-cut steps might mean, and I was sorry to see among the watchers the villainous countenance of Deib el Simsah, one of Gurneh's most notorious tomb robbers. The sun was high and we were all sticky with dust and perspiration when we were joined by another group—Cyrus and Bertie Vandergelt, Jumana, and Ramses and Nefret. "We heard," said Cyrus. "Looking good, is it?" "It's too early to say," Howard replied cautiously. "We brought a luncheon basket," Nefret said. "Won't you stop and rest for a bit?" Her sympathetic smile brought home to Howard how disheveled he looked, his tie at an angle and his garments covered with dust. It also prevented him from protesting our presence, but in fact there was nothing he could do about it. The tomb of Ramses VI was the nearest shelter, but it was popular with tourists. Emerson soon took care of that difficulty. "The tomb istemporarily closed," he informed the guard on duty. "Get them out of there, Mahmud, and don't let anyone else in until we have left." Cyrus had also brought refreshments, so we had a nice little private luncheon. Speculation was rife. Was it a finished tomb, or only the beginning of one? Was it royal, or the smaller sepulchre of a nobleman? Was the entrance still sealed, or had it been breached in ancient times? We all knew that the former possibility was too much to hope for, but hope, dear Reader, does not rest on logic. Only Ramses remained his usual silent self. By the end of the workday we were still uncertain as to what we—