Harry Turtledove - The Case of the Toxic Spell Dump

Nothing, the same as we’d got everywhere else. It wasn’t just a case any more, either. Judy’s life lay on the line.

“Damnation,” I said as we scuffed our way across the lot toward Michael’s carpet “No skin of it there, not so far as I could prove,” he said,

“although, so far as I know, flayed human skin substitute, unlike the authentic product, comes in only one color and is merely toughened, not darkened, by the tanning process.”

“Really?” I said. “That’s interesting, but if you found no skin of Huitzilopochtli, it’s nothing more than interesting.”

“My thought exactly,” he said, sitting down and reaching for his safety belt A tattered old carpet on its last fringes flew slowly into the lot, settled into a parking space maybe fifty feet from us. The two guys on it were talking in Spainish, and paid us no attention whatever. One of them wore a red cap, the other a blue one.

That rang a vague bell in my mind, but no more. Then the fellow in the blue cap turned his head so I got a good look at his face. You don’t soon forget the looks of a guy who’s tried to bounce your balls—it was Carlos, the charming chap from the swap meet. And the man with him was Jose. They got off their carpet—they didn’t bother with safety belts—and went on into Chocolate Weasel.

I stood there staring after them. “Come on,” Michael said, a little querulously. “Having failed here, we may as well return to the office and more productive use of our time.”

“Huh?” He snapped me back to myself. “We haven’t failed here—your test may have, but we haven’t.” He looked at me as if he had no idea what I was talking about. After a moment, I realized he didn’t. I explained rapidly, finishing, Those are the two who sold Cuauhtemoc Hemandez his poison, full of real human skin and the influence of Huitzilopochtli. What are they doing at Chocolate Weasel if it’s really as legit as your test showed?”

“A cogent question.” But Michael was frowning. “Yet how could the similarity test I employed on the flayed human skin substitute be in error? It was conducted under universally valid thaumaturgic law.”

A dreadful suspicion was growing in me. I didn’t want to speak it out loud, for fear of making it more likely to be true—or maybe it was more the worry that comes out in the phrase. Speak of the devil. I did say, “I’m not questioning supernatural law, just the assumptions you made the test under. And I think I know how we can find out if I’m right. Come on.”

“What are you doing?” Michael said, but he unbuckled, got off his carpet, and, little black bag in hand, followed me across the street.

A salesman came up smiling when we walked into the Spells ’R’ Us store, me still a couple of paces in front of Michael. “Good morning, sir—sirs,” he said, amending things when he realized we were together. “What sort of home thaumaturgics can I interest you in today?’

I showed him my EPA sigil. A couple of seconds later, Michael got his out, too. He still didn’t know what I was up to, but he’d back my play. The salesman—he looked like a college Idd—stopped smiling and looked real Serious.

“As you see, we’re from the Environmental Perfection Agency,” I said. “We’re in the middle of an investigation and we urgently need a spellchecker. I’d like to borrow one from you and activate it for a few minutes.”

The kid gulped. “I can’t authorize that myself, sir. I’ll have to get the manager.” He fled into the EMPLOYEES ONLU section of the store to do just that.

The manager looked like what his salesman would turn into in about ten years: he’d added a mustache to the mix, and lost his zits and some callowness. He listened to my story, then asked, “Are you investigating us?” I got that one real quick: if I said yes, he’d say no.

But I could say no with a clear conscience. When I did, the manager led Michael and me over to the display of spellcheckers against one wall and waved to show us we could help ourselves.

Since money was no object, I chose a fancy Wmesap from Crystal Valley. Then I asked the fellow, “Does that liquor store next door carry Passover wine, do you think?”

“You use that ritual, do you?” He looked interested, as if he wanted to talk shop but knew it wasn’t the right time or place. “Yes, I think they would, sir. This part of the Valley has a fairly large Jewish population.”

“Thank you, sir,” I said. “May we use this unwrapped one here? I don’t want to inconvenience you any more than I have to. Believe me, I appreciate your cooperation.” I turned to Michael. “You can wait here, if you like. I’ll bring back the wine.” At his nod, I trotted out of the Spells ’R’ Us.

Sure enough, the liquor store had what I was after: big square bottle with a neck long enough to use as a clubhandle in a pinch, label with a white-bearded rabbi, a fellow who looks like the Catholic conception (excuse me) of God the Father peering out at you. Because it’s specially blessed, Passover wine is thaumaturgically more active than your average enspirited grape juice, so it’s available all year round.

I bought a bottle of sweet Concord—just picking it up brought back memories of childhood Seders, when it was the only wine I got to taste all year—and took it back to the home thaumaturgics emporium.

Michael said, “If you plan to go back inside, David, and if your conjecture is accurate, there is a significant probability that the staff will make a sizable effort to disrupt your activity.”

My feeling was that there was a significant probability the Chocolate Weasel staff would make a sizable effort to disrupt me if I was right, and never mind my activity. But I said, “If they’re doing what I think they’re doing in there, I don’t think we’ll need to go back inside.”

While we talked back and forth, the salesman and Spells ’R’ Us manager stood off to one side, listening so hard I thought they’d grow asses’ ears the way King Midas did in the Greek myth. At another time or place, it might have been funny. I went outside, Michael following again. The two guys from Spells ’R’ Us watched through their plate—glass window.

I could figure out what they were thinking when they saw me point a spellchecker probe at Chocolate Weasel—something on the order of. What’s been across the street from us for God knows how long? It was a good question. With luck, I’d have a good answer soon.

The rich, fruity smell of the Passover wine came welling out of the bottle when I broke the seal. I poured a capful (they make the cap just the right size to hold the usual activating dose—good ergonomics) into the spellchecker receptacle and chanted the blessing. No sooner had I finished the boray pri hagcfen and added omayn than the screen lit up with a smile. The microimps inside were happy and ready.

But, even though I aimed the probe at the Chocolate Weasel building, the spellchecker didn’t pick up anything from it. It identified the magic associated with the flyway, and also the crosswalk cantrips, not all of which, as I’ve noted, are Christian by any means. I said something unfortunate and added disgustedly, “You’d think they didn’t work any magic at all in there.”

“Which we know is not the case,” Michael said. “This suggests to me that the building is shielded against probes from outside.”

“You have to be right,” I said. “But what can we do now?

Go on in? Like you said, if we do that, we’re liable not to come back out again.”

“I am of the opinion that we have sufficient information to seek a warrant and let the constabulary deal with the matter from here on out,” Michael said. “The staff of Chocolate Weasel are consorting with criminals, and the building’s being so tightly sealed is suspicious in and of itself. The blanking of the sorcery within goes far beyond any that would be required to prevent industrial espionage.”