Robert Weinberg - A Calculated Magic

“You’re not going to reveal a clue about why you took those pictures, are you?” stated Megan, sounding frustrated.

“Nope,” said Jack. “Not yet. Wait a few weeks and I’ll tell all. I promise.”

And he refused to say another word about the subject. Despite some very intense coaxing by his fiancée.

“An amazing recovery, Mr. Quinn,” said Dr. Philips, two weeks later. “If I hadn’t examined the blemishes myself, I would swear they never existed.”

“Then they’re definitely gone?” asked Roger, his voice trembling with ill-concealed emotion.

“I can’t find a trace that they were there in the first place,” answered the doctor. “If I were a religious man, I’d say you’ve experienced a miracle,” Philips’s brows knotted in curiosity. “You haven’t been visiting faith healers or charlatans like that, have you?”

“Not in the least,” said Roger. “I woke up this morning and the marks were gone. That’s the whole story.”

“Your jaunt to Las Vegas?” suggested the physician.

“I’m not sure,” answered Roger truthfully. “Near the end of the trip, I experienced a major financial setback. Fortunately, everything was satisfactorily settled the same evening. Since returning home, I’ve led a rather quiet life.”

“Maybe,” said the doctor as Roger buttoned up his shirt, “the desert air agreed with you.”

“Obviously something did,” said Roger. “Thank you, Doctor. I must say it was a pleasure to see you today.”

Out on the street, Roger sucked in a deep breath of air and exhaled slowly. It felt wonderful to be alive and to be free. Free of the blotches on his elbow, and free of the Crouching One. For, though he had not said a word to the physician, Roger knew that the disappearance of the marks on his skin were the direct result of another mysterious vanishing. The Lord of the Lions was gone.

When Roger had awakened that morning, his home felt different. It lacked a certain sense of presence that had hovered over the surroundings for months. A quick but thorough check of the building confirmed his suspicions. Nergal was no longer present. There was no sign of the demigod’s departure, but the ancient entity was definitely not on the premises. It wasn’t until an hour later that Roger thought to check his elbow. That was when he realized that the Crouching One hadn’t merely left, but was gone for good. Somehow, Jack Collins had sent the Babylonian deity back to the outermost dark.

“I don’t know how you did it, Collins,” murmured Roger as he walked along the street, “but I thank you from the bottom of my heart. Now I can try that damned spell again. This time, though, I’ll get it right.”

Roger cursed as the front of his nose exploded in pain. It felt as if he had been jabbed in the face by a sharp stick or bird’s beak. But, of course, there was nothing there.

“Then the joker muttered a line about starting over again,” said Hugo angrily. “So I pecked him in the nose.”

“We’ll have to keep a close eye on Mr. Quinn,” said Merlin. “I’ll dispatch a minor elemental to rain on his parade whenever necessary.”

“Explain to me again how you banished the Crouching One from our world,” Megan said to Jack. “I’m still kinda hazy on the details.”

Their entire group—Merlin and his daughter, Jack and his supernatural friends, and the two ravens—sat in the wizard’s inner sanctum, feasting on pizza and Coke. It was a victory celebration of sorts. Spread out on the floor were a half dozen copies of the latest issue of a nationally known weekly tabloid. Smeared across its front page, as seen in thousands of supermarkets throughout the country, was the headline, “Ancient Babylonian God Resurfaces in Las Vegas,” Beneath the words was one of Jack’s close-up photos of Nergal, snarling at the camera.

“The problem, simply stated,” said Jack, “was how to convince hundreds of thousands of people to disbelieve an entity that they were unaware even existed. At first, it appeared a hopeless task. Then the notion struck me that what I actually needed to do was delineate a hoax that no one accepted as truth.”

“Isn’t the purpose of a hoax to fool people?” asked Cassandra.

“The best ones do,” said Jack, “but lately, even the most elaborate attempts fall flat. As Hugo remarked in Las Vegas, modern man is awfully cynical. People refuse to believe anything on face value. That’s what doomed the Howard Hughes autobiography, the Hitler diaries, and the recent Jack the Ripper papers. Investigators refuse to accept them as fact until they study them scrupulously. And, as with most hoaxes, the deceptions collapse under the intense examination.”

“So you decided to publicize Nergal’s reappearance in our world,” said Megan, “assuming that everyone would treat it like an obvious sham.”

“You catch on quick,” said Jack, flashing a smile at his sweetheart. Megan was sharp. “At first, I wasn’t sure how to proceed. I considered TV talk shows, but I rejected them as too dangerous. The demigod did possess supernatural powers and if he used them on television, he might stir up more belief than disbelief. That’s when I latched onto the scandal sheets.”

“Yeah,” said Hugo. “I understand now. People read those papers but never believe the headlines.”

“Better,” said Jack. “They disbelieve the headlines. Which is exactly what we wanted.

“I contacted a friend from my undergraduate days who works for the biggest national weekly in the country. The interview and photos floored him. I’m sure he thought I was engaged in some bizarre practical joke, but it didn’t matter. That’s why I preferred the cheap camera. I didn’t want the material to be too convincing. I gave him permission to run the story for free.

“And,” he finished dramatically, “there are the results.”

“When ten million people read that story,” said Megan, “Nergal was history. The supermarket newspaper crowd disbelieved him right out of our universe. He returned to the nothingness from which he emerged.”

“Speaking of returning,” said Mongo, “it’s time for the two of us to bid you good-bye. I’m sure your mother wants a full report on your adventures in Las Vegas.”

“Yeah,” said Hugo. “Freda’s probably been going nuts without us,” The bird cawed. “She depends on our advice for running the business. We’re indispensable.”

Hugging blackbirds was difficult but Megan managed. Jack settled for a hand-to-claw shake. Then, with a final squawk of good-bye, the birds rocketed through the walls of Merlin’s office, bound for home.

“Why do I have a feeling,” asked Jack of no one in particular, “that we’ll see that pair again?”

“Jack,” cooed Megan seductively, “what do you think of this outfit?”

Jack’s breath caught in his throat as he turned to face his sweetheart. It was late the same night. He and Megan had left the party, still going strong, and had returned to her condominium a half hour earlier. His fiancée had whispered something about needing to show him something important that couldn’t wait until tomorrow. Gullible as ever, he had accompanied her to the penthouse. It wasn’t until Megan disappeared into her bedroom to freshen up for a second that he started getting suspicious. By then it didn’t matter.

“Beautiful,” he managed to whisper. Megan stood in front of the sliding glass door leading to the patio. As it had once before, the bright moonlight blazed like a beacon on her stunning shape. This time, Megan wore a sheer pants-and-top combination that left nothing to the imagination.

“That costume,” said Jack, “looks awfully familiar.”