Not much of a saloon goer, nonetheless Ludvig Thorolfsson went this evening. One didn't require a drinking ambiance to be rich and velvety; to savor a drink merely required the fine aroma of well-aged parchment and yellowed paper, with a chaser of leather binding.

The saloon had grown crowded, and the scent was of perfume and aftershave and other people's alcohol. The Professor thought he recognized a man named Thorne -- fellow archaeologist, of course; shame he was wasting his time at Abydos. Ah, and that Arab they called HerUben; always a handy sort for getting laborers to the ruins, and a tad of a touch about archaeology himself. And, a cat. A cat? The Professor shook his head; but he had learned best not to expect anything but the unexpected in Cairo.

Herr Professor Thorolfsson was not here because this was the most luxuriously appointed nightspot in all of Cairo. He'd come to learn what could be learned about planned digs this season.

"A single malt, if you would." The advantage in a place like this was that the saloonkeep knew what he meant.