Warren Murphy: The Last Alchemist

"The one that shows how to turn lead into gold."

"The one that led us to be called frauds and hoaxers. If it weren't for this stone, our cures for the blains and rheumy would have been given the prominence they deserve. Our formulas and beliefs would have survived most respected. Instead our work was stolen from us, given the name of chemistry, and credited to the thieves. Leave the stone be. Alchemists are not mere goldmakers, and never were."

"But what if the stone is true? What if the great lie were shown to be the great truth?"

"I have asked myself many times that same question, Mr. Caldwell, and the sad answer is that the stone was our one lie. And we paid for it dearly. For you, sir, are looking at the last alchemist. And that stone is the reason."

"But it is true."

"No. If it were true, would we not have been rich?"

"Not necessarily."

"Why not? Don't tease me like this. Please, tell me. Why not?"

"Because you don't know gold," said Harrison Caldwell. "I left what would be calculated today at perhaps twelve million American dollars at the bottom of the sea because I know gold. I know what it does. I know what it feels like. I know you think it is the noble metal. The most noble metal."

"Yes. I do. Alchemists have always called it the noble metal."

"I left twelve million dollars of it on the bottom of the sea, because it is like a speck, a pathetic speck compared to this stone."

"Go back and get your gold, Mr. Caldwell," said Professor Cryx, looking for his glass again, the one with the exquisite wine. He found it and took a hard gulp of it, shaking his head. "If we could have turned lead to gold, then we would have. We would have saved our lives, I tell you. How many of us were beheaded or burned to death when a king placed a pile of lead in front of us and then ordered us at the pain of our lives to produce gold from it? Do you think we would have rather died than do it? Leave the stone. It has been our curse throughout the ages."

"What if I told you I am sure someone did change the lead to gold?"

"You mean the gold you left on the bottom of the sea?" asked Professor Cryx. Who was this man who seemed so much like a stranger and yet knew so much about alchemy? One would have thought he would have known the languages.

"As I told you," said Harrison Caldwell, "I know gold. I doubt that gold was made through the formula of the stone. Maybe no more than a few ounces were made in all history by the stone. But if you know gold, and I do know gold, Professor Cryx, you would know why."

"You must tell me. Tell me."

"The answer lies in this stone itself and what I know you-an alchemist-can tell me. You see, gold is really a very plentiful metal. Quite plentiful. In every little cubic mile of seawater there is at least ninety thousand dollars' worth. Did you know that?"

"No. I didn't."

"But it would cost four million dollars to extract it. You see it is uneconomical. There is an economy to gold."

"So it might have taken diamonds to make gold. Something even purer in the fire of the earth," said Professor Cryx.

"No," said Caldwell. "Nothing is purer than gold, or more serviceable, or serving. Or more tradable."

"Then what is it?"

"Obviously something they did not have access to easily."

"What?"

"That is why I am here. Who else can read the old alchemic symbols but you?"

"Of course," said Professor Cryx, putting down the wine again. Mr. Caldwell brought him a pad and pencil, and kept pouring drinks. There was the old symbol for lead, Professor Cryx saw. It was like an old friend. And there was red sulfur. And mercury. A great element was mercury. Hard to come by, but not unavailable in history. Only in the old Sanskrit did the descriptions start to fit. Then Mr. Caldwell was writing furiously on his own piece of paper. He seemed a bit lax with the proper chants. But when the Sanskrit yielded the missing element, Harrison Caldwell said:

"Of course. It would have been very scarce then."

It may have been the amount Professor Cryx was happily drinking, but the wine suddenly had a giddy sting to it. Rather nice, but darkening.

"Perhaps I have had enough," said Professor Cryx, thinking that it might be a nice time to perform a little prayer of gratitude to the gold itself, asking its power and spirit to bless their venture, thanking it for the rebirth of the one true science, soon to be resurrected in the world, like astronomy and plant worship.

"I'll have a million cases here by your doorstep," said the wonderful Mr. Caldwell.

A million cases? Was there that much of this fine wine in the world? It was, after all, just one vineyard. Professor Cryx thought he was telling this to the nice Mr. Caldwell, but his tongue was not moving. It was numb. So were his lips, and so was his body. But it wasn't until he felt the burning in his stomach that he recognized the old alchemist's formula for cyanide at work in its most biting and painful form. When the pain ended, the old professor was not quite there to feel it fully. His body was stiff, and only the fingers moved briefly when the photographs were yanked from under his hand.

What luck, thought Harrison Caldwell. As his family had always said, "Spill enough bowels onto the pavement and the whole city will love you." Which, of course, was another way of saying he who dared, won. He left the apartment through the rear and walked out the alley whistling, whistling a song whose rhythms had not been heard in these city streets for centuries. Harrison Caldwell not only knew gold, he also knew he would have more of it now than any king since Croesus. And, come to think of it, even more than Croesus ever had. More than anyone, ever. Because Harrison Caldwell knew that nowadays, what the old alchemists lacked was more plentiful than at any other time in history. All one had to do was steal it.

Chapter 2

His name was Remo and he was supposed to let the little girl drown. The mother was hysterical. As bystanders lined the shores, one young man attempted to get out to her; when he went under he had to be dragged out himself.

It was early spring in Michigan and the ponds were barely covered with cellophane-thin coats of ice. A young girl who had throughout the winter played safely on that ice had fallen through now. It was a pond for summer folk mainly, and the boats, somehow, were all carted away to winter homes. So there she was with no one able to reach her, and a local television camera whirring away. And Remo was supposed to turn and walk away because his picture would be seen on television if he swam through thin ice to save the girl. That would be big news because people could not ordinarily swim through ice.

The television newswoman pushed the microphone into the mother's face.

"How does it feel to watch your daughter drown? Is this your first daughter to drown?" asked the newswoman. Her makeup was camera-perfect. Her hair blew dramatically in the breeze. Remo had seen her on television a few times. They announced she had won an award for reporting. Remo never saw her do anything but read dramatically. He had seen similar situations around the country, in the places he stayed that would never be home. Pretty people would read things into the camera, and then they would collect rewards and be called reporters. Sometimes they thought of things to read all by themselves. Those instances were obvious because a look of desperation crossed their faces, as if it were a struggle to think of an entire word. A complete sentence seemed insurmountable.

The mother's answer was a scream.

"My baby. My baby. Save my baby girl. Save my baby. Someone."

"We are here at the tragic drowning of young Beatrice Bendetsen, age five, at Comoyga Pond. This is Nathalie Watson, Dynamic News, Channel Fourteen."

Nathalie smiled to the camera. The camera panned out to the pond. The little girl had come up again. The camera panned back to the mother. Then the girl. A producer behind the cameraman whispered: