Robert Weinberg - A Logical Magician

“Talking to them?” asked Roger, only half in jest as he noticed the Couching One’s lips mouthing words without sounds.

“Of course,” replied the ancient God, turning its head for a second to stare at Roger. Even the dark glasses could not hide completely the glow of its eyes. “Though men worshipped me, these here,” and it gestured with gnarled fingers at the lions, “are my children.”

The Crouching One returned its attention to the beasts. “These few are much different than the great killers of my time. Instead of hunting, they are content to be fed. They are lazy, preferring to spend their time resting in the sunshine instead of searching for prey. Civilization has ruined them, made them weak.”

The Lord of the Lions smiled its unpleasant smile, the smile that twisted its face into a shape not the least bit reflecting humanity. “All of that shall change shortly. When my rightful powers return, I will shatter their cages. And the hunting cry of my children will once again echo through the land.”

Not wanting to irritate the demigod, Roger decided not to mention that these days, half the citizens in California owned enough legal and illegal firepower to stop a herd of rampaging elephants, much less a pride of old and near toothless lions. There were certain truths about modern civilization that the Crouching One was not yet ready to accept.

Roger looked down at his watch. “Only a few more hours till sunset in Chicago. According to the last call from von Bern, everything is running on schedule.”

“As I predicted,” said the Crouching One. “Exactly as I predicted.”

“Maybe,” said Roger, treading on dangerous territory. “Still, the German never caught Jack Collins or his friends. The computer news service from Chicago reported a robbery last night at Collins’s college. The security chief’s account of the affair was pretty garbled, but it sounded like our enemy. And he took some pretty fancy scientific equipment.”

“Bah,” said the Crouching One, and it flicked one hand in an angry gesture of dismissal. On the other side of the moat, several of the lions growled loudly. “I refuse to let this mortal worry me any longer. He is a thinker, not a fighter. His allies are few and relatively powerless. They are helpless against the Huntsman and his Border Redcaps. That they have avoided death is a tribute more to their luck than any special skills.

“Tonight, if they dare try to stop the sacrifice, they will have to confront von Bern in his den. The German has recruited nearly a hundred more Redcaps to his banner. What can a handful of do-gooders manage against von Bern and his legions? Science is no match for sorcery. And, do not forget the presence of the Great Beast. Mr. Collins has been a persistent nuisance, but after tonight, he will be a dead nuisance.”

“I hope you’re right,” said Roger, not hoping that at all.

Unlike the Crouching One, he possessed a healthy respect for the miracles of modern technology. After all, it was his own scientific expertise that had gotten him in this mess. From what the wire service reported, Collins only stole a few items from the laboratories. Evidently, the mathematics student had some very specific ideas how to deal with von Bern. Without thinking, he spoke aloud the question that had troubled him for weeks. “Why him? What makes him so special?”

“Nothing,” declared the Crouching One, with a sneer. But there was a bare trace of doubt in its voice. “The magician you named Merlin made a mistake. This pesky student is not the champion I feared.”

Behind them, the lions roared in approval of their patron’s words. Roger kept silent. He felt sure Merlin had not erred; that Jack Collins was the right choice. But he had no idea why.

“What do you mean, I’m not going?” demanded Simon angrily. The changeling’s face was a brilliant shade of purple, and he appeared ready to explode. “Why not?”

“I just finished explaining that, Simon,” said Jack apologetically.

He had put off this confrontation as long as possible, but now he had run out of time and destinations. It was time for the final confrontation between good and evil, between Jack and his friends and Dietrich von Bern and the forces of darkness. But Simon could not participate.

“Though you’re oriented towards the light, you are still partially a creation of chaos,” said Jack. “All faeries are. It’s the mischievous, trickster part of you. There’s no changing that. As you’ve said many times, it’s built into your basic character. YOU can’t alter it. And, like it or not, that’s the reason you can’t come with us.”

“You mean you don’t trust me?” asked Simon, the purple changing to blue. “Just because I’m chaos-born.”

“Of course not,” said Jack, feeling exasperated. Arguing logic with supernaturals was like trying to build sand castles with a thimble. It was possible, but barely so. “Trust has nothing to do with it.

“I selected my weapons very carefully. I dared not use anything that might harm Megan or her father. Everything in the backpacks I’ve prepared should cause maximum damage against the servants of the dark, the followers of chaos. But, that’s the problem. There’s no way I can protect you from their effect. If you accompany us into the tunnels, the inventions I use to destroy the Border Redcaps will have the same effect on you.”

Jack put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I value you too much, Simon, to be the one who murders you.” He grinned, breaking the solemnity of the moment. “Even if sometimes you deserve it.”

“All right,” grumbled the changeling, resuming his normal shading. Several people in the Field Museum who had been watching his color changes from a safe distance shook their heads in disappointment and wandered off. Jack suspected the onlookers thought that his party consisted of visiting aliens from space. Which, considering Simon’s various facial hues and Fritz Grondark’s size, didn’t seem far off the mark.

“Besides,” said Jack, “if we don’t succeed, at least you and Witch Hazel can continue the fight. I left a notebook filled with my deductions back at the trailer camp. If you take it to a major science fiction convention, I’m sure you can recruit a new champion. Several of them, probably, if Hazel performs a bit of real magic as a convincer. Just don’t show the papers to any editor there. They’re much too practical to believe in faeries and trolls and ancient gods returned to life.”

“Enough chattering,” said Cassandra impatiently. “It’s time we got started. Nighttime isn’t that far off. I’ll bet von Bern is practicing lighting bonfires with his Zippo while we speak.”

“The tunnel entrance is located in that small glade of trees by the bandshell,” said Jack, pointing across Lake Shore Drive. “According to the book describing the system that I found at the library, there’s a metal grating covering the passage leading down. We’ll have to move it before we can descend to the underground railway.”

Grunting, Fritz Grondark effortlessly hauled two backpacks filled with supplies onto his massive shoulders. He patted the handle of his monkey wrench with one huge hand. “I’m ready. No more talking. Let’s do some serious troll-busting.”

“Agreed,” said Cassandra. She twirled her wooden staff about in a semicircle. “I’m itching for a nice squabble.”

Jack shook his head. He was the only sane one of the bunch. Though, considering he was about to challenge a hundred or more supernatural villains with a hodgepodge of scientific knick-knacks, he didn’t feel particularly stable himself.

Around his waist he wore the battery power pack stolen from the photo lab. It was connected by wires to the black rectangular tube from the chemistry department. Along with the items he had purchased that morning from a local electronics shop and now packed in the bags on Fritz’s back, it was all he had to stop the human sacrifice scheduled to take place in a few hours. Hard, cold logic told him that he had made the right choices. Quite illogically, he prayed that he was correct.