Robert Weinberg - A Logical Magician

The cat had come to rest in front of a 1966 Buick Electra. A huge, four-door sedan with light blue interior, it reminded Jack of the massive vehicles driven in old gangster flicks. Considering its age, the car was in remarkably good condition. Not a scratch marred its finish.

Sylvester sat perched on the top of the hood, licking its paws. It appeared undisturbed by Jack’s complaint. “Don’t judge a book by its cover,” it replied.

Cassandra walked around the car, knocking on its side with one fist. “Body is still in good shape. This car’s built like a tank.”

“We’re not looking for a tank,” said Jack testily. “You wanted something fast, remember?”

Cassandra popped open the auto’s hood, sending Sylvester leaping for the roof. “Mother Athena,” she declared, whistling in surprise. “That’s a big engine.”

Even Jack was impressed. The motor was massive. Curiosity finally overcoming his annoyance, he read the spec sheet glued to the car’s rear window.

“It’s 425 cubic inches,” he said, “complete with heavy-duty manifold, four-barrel carburetor, dual exhausts, the works. Even with the pollution safeguards added, this baby goes from zero to sixty in seven seconds. If we can believe Honest Abe.”

Cassandra joined in. She ran a finger down the car’s features. “Power steering, power brakes, power windows—name it, this car’s equipped with it.” She shook her head. “No one dares build gas guzzlers like this dreadnought anymore. Look at that mileage report—eight to ten miles per gallon in the city, fifteen in the country. The damn thing can pass anything on the road… except a gas station. No wonder it requires a twenty-five-gallon tank.”

“Those figures can’t be true,” said Jack. “Maybe they were once upon a time, but all those added pollution devices cut down on engine efficiency.”

“Not for this car,” said Sylvester unexpectedly. “It’s been dwarf repaired. That’s why it looks so good. And runs so well.”

“Really,” said Cassandra. “The Little Men? Now that makes a difference.”

“Why?” asked Jack. “Care to fill me in on the secret?”

“Dwarfs are the master craftsmen of the supernatural world,” said Cassandra. “When they fix an item, it runs better than new. If a dwarf repaired this car, then I’m willing to believe any of Honest Abe’s claims about it. Though I doubt he knows the real truth about the vehicle. Sylvester, you’re sure?”

“Positive,” said the cat. “Dwarfs have a distinct odor you don’t forget. Especially if you possess a cat’s nose. Call me a dog and spit on me twice if I’m wrong.”

“That’s good enough for me,” said Cassandra. “What about you, Jack?”

“How can I argue with a cat reciting a line like that?” said Jack. “Who cares that this baby has 180,000 miles on it? If you two are convinced, I won’t utter another word. Especially since Cassandra does all the driving. From the looks of things, this beauty has been sitting here for a while. Why don’t we find Honest Abe and see if he’s willing to bargain?”

He was. An hour later, paperwork completed and cash paid, they drove off in their new chariot. Cassandra’s wreck, destined for the scrap heap, they left with Ortigara. Jack prayed they weren’t on track for the same fate.

Roger frowned. He did not like what he was being told. “You want how many chickens?”

“Fifty,” said the Lord of the Lions, staring at its fingers for an instant as if verifying the number. Mathematics was not one of its skills. “I want them delivered to my chamber in the basement tonight.”

“That’s a hell of a lot of birds,” said Roger. “Buying them alive isn’t going to be easy. You’re sure you need that many?”

“Great sorcery requires much blood,” said the demigod. “Since we are taking no chances, the fowls provide the essential life. If you prefer, five young women, virgins if possible, would serve equally well. Or a dozen head of cattle.”

“I think we’ll stick with chickens,” said Roger. A vision of him escorting a cow through his house and into the basement flashed through his mind, giving him an instant headache. “Virgins are in short supply these days in California. And cattle are equally scarce.”

“As you wish,” said the Crouching One. It rubbed its small hands together in anticipation. “I have not attempted this spell in thousands of years. It will be illuminating to learn if it still works.”

“What if it doesn’t?” asked Roger, thinking of his own bad fortune. If only he hadn’t been so greedy. But moderation had never been one of his vices.

“Most likely, you would experience a wonderful opportunity to discover if your religion’s faith in an afterlife is justified,” said the Lord of the Lions. Blue sparks flickered beneath its ears. “Beyond that, the resultant psychic backlash would level most of the city, giving you plenty of company on your journey.”

“Are you positive this sacrifice is necessary?” Roger asked, feeling the noose tightening around his neck. “Wouldn’t a phone call to von Bern prove as effective?”

“Afraid?” asked the Crouching One, a slight smile touching its thin lips. “How typical of you mortals. Frightened of the last and greatest adventure. Have no fear. Your life is in no danger. At least, not from this spell.”

The demigod’s eyes glowed inhumanly bright. “You yourself pointed out to me how terribly inadequate the Huntsman’s performance has been. He is an incompetent fool. Our mutual enemy, Mr. Collins, has outwitted von Bern with appalling regularity. I am forced to agree with you that unless I intervene on a more direct level, the great sacrifice will fail. That is the reason for this summoning tonight.”

“A summoning?” asked Roger. “Similar to the one I used to raise you? I wasn’t aware such spells required blood.”

“Great beasts roam the boundaries of the outer darkness,” said the Lord of the Lions mysteriously. “Lesser races feared them, often worshipped them as minor deities. They are extremely powerful but extremely stupid. Such monsters cannot be lured to this plane of existence without warm life. They feed on the living, animals as well as men. With such an ally, the Huntsman cannot lose. No ordinary human can defeat one of the Great Beasts of Eternal Chaos.”

Roger quickly turned away from the demigod. Drawing in a deep breath, he repressed the reckless laughter that welled up within him. No matter what happened, the Lord of the Lions never learned from its mistakes. Despite its incredible powers, the entity was no smarter than the lowest demon from the pit. The demigod continued to underestimate its opposition. It refused to change its tactics. Roger doubted that it could.

“I better make a few phone calls,” he declared, “if you expect that many chickens by nightfall. It shouldn’t be too difficult. Explaining the birds to the neighbors is the real trick.”

“Perhaps it is time I taught you the spell of forgetfulness,” declared the Lion God. “It is a simple magic that even humans can master. Using it, you should have no further problems with the overly cautious.”

Inwardly, Roger exulted. One spell would lead to another. And another. And on and on, until he knew enough to reverse this infernal bondage and put the insufferable demigod in its proper place. Whistling, he headed for the phone.

Unfortunately, Roger also habitually underestimated his enemies. If he thought to glance around as he departed, he would have seen that the Lord of the Lions was smiling. It was not a nice smile. It was definitely not a reassuring one. But Roger didn’t turn. He never did.

Seven o’clock that evening saw Jack and the others ready for their return to the shopping mall. Cassandra slid into the driver’s seat with Jack on the passenger side. In the back seat, Simon and an unexpected guest relaxed on the thick cushions.