A Logical Magician

by Robert Weinberg

  The demons, agents of destruction and chaos, were astonishingly adept at small acts of sabotage. One tiny mistake was usually enough to doom most complex industrial operations. In all cases, the imps cleverly disguised their interference to look like accidents or employee blunders. Again, no one ever suspected supernatural intervention. They all knew better.

  Except Roger, who was too busy using his silent, invisible army to get rich. Very, very rich.

  Tonight, he planned to try his most ambitious summoning spell ever. It came from the final chapter of The Lemegeton, a rare magical text known as The Lesser Key of Solomon. According to the book, the conjuration raised one of the High Lords of Hell, a being of immeasurably greater power than any Roger had thus summoned. It sounded risky, but he felt it was worth the gamble. Despite all his newfound wealth, Roger was greedy for more.

  One small detail puzzled him. His computer printout emphasized a much different pronunciation of the demon's name from the one commonly accepted. According to the machine, the variation was the correct title of the beast. That explained why most sorcerers had never been able to raise the creature from the pit. For a spell to work, every word and syllable had to be exactly correct.

  Roger knew better than to doubt the computer's offering. The machine never lied. Like himself, it was exact in every detail. After all, he had programmed it. Silently, he mouthed the demon's name several times, making sure he had the syllables just right.

  One last time, Roger checked the lines on the floor. It paid to be careful. As long as his pentagram and magic circle remained intact, the creatures he summoned could not harm him. Three years of dealing with the powers of darkness had made Roger fearless. Nothing frightened him anymore. Or at least, that was what he told himself.

  Taking a deep breath, he began the chanting. Three times he repeated the great spell from The Lemegeton. As he spoke, the air trembled with the force of the words pouring from his mouth. There was a feeling of electricity in the air that Roger had never noticed in any of his previous rituals. Though the lights remained unchanged, somehow the room appeared to grow darker. And then the spell was complete.

  Roger stared at the being in the center of the pentagram and shook his head in disbelief. This thing did not look anything like the demon prince described in his books of magic. All of his previous summonings had been hideous abominations, warped twisted hideous mockings of life. The being inside the circle appeared human.

  It resembled a short, elderly man, crippled and bent with age. The creature stood perhaps five feet tall but was so badly crouched over, like a hunchback, that its hands almost touched the floor. Completely hairless, with skin the color and texture of aged parchment, the being wore a dark blue tunic and wood sandals. A large hook nose and pointed chin gave the creature a vulturelike appearance. Not until it turned and stared at him across the circle did Roger know he had not made a mistake.

  Monstrous eyes burned with an inner yellow fire, harsh and unblinking, in the light. Seen directly, the being's face faintly resembled that of a monstrous jungle cat. "Where am I?" the demon whispered, looking around the room. It even sounded human. "When am I?"

  Roger saw no harm in answering the question. "1997," he said, "just outside San Francisco, California."

  Then, remembering the correct procedure, he named the demon and demanded its service.

  The creature laughed. "You know my earthly name, mortal. Few dare pronounce it. No matter. Such puny binding spells mean nothing to me. Nations quail at my fury. I am not yours to command."

  Roger grimaced in annoyance. He should have realized that someday he would run into this problem. Many demonic titles in the Bible originated in other sources. They were corruptions of names drawn from older civilizations' religions. Instead of raising a devil from the pits of Hell, by using the correct pronunciation of its name he had summoned forth a demigod from ancient history.

  All of Roger's magic depended on Christian tradition. None of it meant anything to his captive. It came from a time before Christ walked the Earth. The creature was not subject to the rules of sorcery Roger practiced. Only the magic circle and pentagram, whose origins were lost in ancient prehistory, kept the creature imprisoned.

  "Release me," said the crouching man, as if sensing his captor's plight. "Or suffer my wrath. The Lord of the Lions is not yours to command."

  The thing waved one gnarled hand in the air. Blue sparks crackled between its fingers. Roger gulped and tried to think of a banishing spell. Sometimes being exact had its drawbacks. He was not very good at improvising.

  A minute passed. Roger stood motionless, his thoughts racing through all the mystic lore he had studied in the past few years, trying to come up with a way out of this fix. Meanwhile, the crouching man paced back and forth in the pentagram, softly muttering threats that Roger tried to ignore. It was a stalemate of sorts. Roger couldn't send the demigod back to the outermost dark, but neither could the being escape from the prison in which it was trapped.

  Being eminently practical and depressingly materialistic, Roger finally settled on the only possible course of action. He would leave the room and then seal it closed forever. Maybe even fill the outer chamber with concrete for additional security. The creature he summoned would remain trapped inside the pentagram for the foreseeable future, unable to cause any harm. Roger could continue his work elsewhere, exercising a good deal more caution in his selection of demons.

  He was turning to leave when the earthquake struck.

  It wasn't much of a quake, barely registering on the Richter scale. Dishes rattled, dogs howled, and a few VCRs clicked on for no reason. Other than that, most people looked up from whatever they were doing, hesitated for an instant waiting for worse, then settled back to their normal activities.

  In Roger Quinn's subbasement, a little more than a mile from the center of the quake, the concrete floor growled and shifted. It moved less than a hundredth of an inch. Barely enough to send a hairline crack running directly through the center of the magic circle.

  Roger blinked in astonishment. The threatening presence no longer stood in the pentagram. Rather, it crouched at Roger's side. Fingers cold as ice clenched him by the elbow.

  "Come, my young friend," said the Lord of the Lions, a ruthless edge to his voice. "We have much to discuss."

  Unblinking eyes, bright yellow like a cat's, glowed with inner fire. "I want to hear all about this modern world. You have much to tell me—concerning war, plague, pestilence, death, and destruction. And... especially... about the gods you worship."

  Chapter 1

  STANDING ALONE IN the elevator, Jack Collins pulled the classified ads from his back pocket. For the tenth time that day, he studied the black-bordered notice he had circled the night before. As the lift silently headed upward to the thirty-fourth floor, Jack carefully searched for the hidden catch in the wording, trying to find a loophole he knew had to exist. There had been too many other ads, too many other disappointments for him not to be suspicious.

  Logical young man with an open mind and active imagination wanted for highly unusual but financially rewarding career opportunity. Some risk involved. Background in mathematics and fantastic literature advised.

  Nowhere in the ad was there any mention of the advertiser's name or the exact nature of the job. Still, the clipping did provide the address of a major office building in the Chicago financial district and a suite number. And the high-rent location indicated that the position wasn't in sales or telephone solicitation.

  At twenty-seven. Jack was willing to gamble. After nine years of college, he wanted out. Four years spent earning his bachelor's degree, two for his master's, and three more towards his Ph.D. had finally caught up with him. He wanted nothing more than to earn a living in the real world. It was time to break away from university life. Unfortunately, getting a job was proving more difficult than he had imagined.

  To his dismay, he found that advanced degrees in pure mathematics meant nothing to most employers
. Worse, several companies made it exceedingly clear they couldn't hire him because of his education. According to one painfully honest recruiter, he was overqualified for any entry-level position. Even worse, his advanced degrees could intimidate the other workers.

  It was the nineties version of the old paradox of jobs needing experience and vice versa. Now it featured advanced degrees against entry-level positions. The better educated you were, the less chance you had of finding work. In any case, it meant Jack was out of luck.

  Weeks of searching for employment had left Jack frustrated and depressed. All his years in graduate school seemed wasted. None of his course work had prepared him for the harsh realities of the everyday world. The only jobs readily available were at fast-food joints, working a cash register and making change.

  The spring semester was almost at an end. Over a month ago, Jack had informed his faculty advisor that he did not plan on returning to the university in the fall. Committed to earning a living, after three weeks of searching he was running out of options.

  If nothing turned up soon, he would be forced to move back to the East Coast and work in the family import-export business. For that, he didn't need a college degree. Especially one in advanced mathematics and logic. He knew that for the next twenty years, his father would remind him of that fact whenever possible. As would his mother. And his brothers and sisters, aunts, uncles, first, second, and third cousins, all who labored for the Collins consortium.

  His relatives never understood why he left home to attend college in Chicago. There was no way Jack could tell them of his need to get away from his close-knit family and make a name for himself in the world. He wanted his own identity, his own life, his own successes to enjoy. Returning to the family business after all these years of school would be admitting defeat. And Jack wasn't ready yet to surrender his independence.

  The elevator door slid open, breaking his train of thought. Mentally crossing his fingers, Jack marched into the deserted landing. There were only eight offices on the floor. The one he wanted was at the end of the hallway to the right.

  Jack paused a second to straighten his tie and push back his hair with his hands. Six feet tall, slender, with pleasant features and a ready smile, he was better looking than he realized. Gathering his courage, he proceeded down the corridor.

  The frosted glass door proclaimed Ambrose Ltd., Investments in bold black letters. Etched underneath was the saying, "We Guarantee Your Futures." Jack grimaced in disgust, his high hopes plummeting. He knew nothing about the commodities and futures market. Another opportunity doomed before it started.

  For an instant, he considered just turning around and leaving, not bothering to waste his and the interviewer's time. Then, with a heavy sigh, he straightened his tie, threw back his shoulders, and put his hand on the doorknob. No matter how slim the chance, he had to make the effort. Otherwise, it was the import-export business, and his relatives. Resolutely, he pushed open the door and stepped into the office.

  The room surprised him. Instead of being filled with massive wood and leather furniture, bustling executives, and a constant din, the reception area was almost empty and absolutely quiet. A few chairs pressed up against the side walls. At the far end of the room, a young woman, engrossed in a paperback, sat reading behind an immense desk cluttered with papers. Beyond her was a solitary door leading to an inner sanctum.

  The girl glanced up for a second as Jack approached, then plunged back into her novel. "Be with you in a sec," she said, the words tumbling out in a rush. "As soon as I finish the page."

  Shifting his weight nervously from one foot to the other, Roger took advantage of the time to stare at the receptionist. She was stunning, and well worth a second look.

  The word "elfin" immediately came to mind. The girl had incredibly delicate features, narrow cheekbones, and long upward-sweeping eyebrows. She wore no makeup and needed none.

  Her nose was best described as pixieish, while her thin, ruby-red lips, pressed tightly together, spoke of a hint of sensuality. A fluffy mass of light brown hair fell in immense curls past her back and down her shoulders.

  She wore a long-sleeved, multicolored dress that left her golden shoulders bare. Loops of thin gold chain circled her neck and emphasized the healthy glow of her skin. No rings on her fingers, he noted with silent approval, though it was hard to imagine a girl this stunning was unattached.

  "Sorry to keep you waiting," she giggled, resting the book on her desk. Dark brown eyes gazed deep into his. "No matter how many times I read The Lord of the Rings, I always have trouble putting it down."

  "Yeah," said Jack dreamily, still lost in her eyes, "I know what you mean."

  The girl smiled, quickening his heartbeat even further. "Can I help you with something?"

  Jack inhaled deeply, feeling foolish. "I'm here about the ad in the paper. The one about a job."

  "Really?" asked the girl, sounding a bit surprised. She squinted at Jack, as if trying to spot something not seen before. "That's a surprise."

  Then, hurriedly, seeing the shattered look that passed across his face, "No, nothing personal about you, silly. When we placed the ad, we didn't expect any responses for a week or more. It just appeared in the paper yesterday. I'm amazed that somebody in the Chicago area answered." Almost as an afterthought, she added, "Actually, I think you're kinda cute."

  Jack blushed. He was not used to being called cute—much less by a beautiful young woman. Putting the brakes on his racing hormones, he tried to steer the conversation back in the right direction.

  "Then the position is unfilled?"

  "You're the first to apply," said the receptionist, rising from her chair. Short and petite, she barely reached up to Jack's shoulders. "I'm Megan Ambrose," she said, flashing her dazzling smile warmly.

  "Jack Collins," he replied as they shook hands. Her delicate fingers were surprisingly strong.

  Mentally, Jack scratched his head in annoyance. Megan's name struck a chord somewhere in his memory, but he couldn't place it. She looked familiar, though he felt sure they had never met before. He would definitely not have forgotten a woman this striking. He dismissed the notion as a case of wishful déjà vu.

  "Pull up a chair, Jack," said Megan, opening one of the drawers of her desk. She pulled out several sheets of paper covered with typing and a red pencil. Brushing aside the clutter, she sat down on the desk top, facing him. "Before we proceed any further, there's a few questions I have to ask you."

  Her expression grew serious. "Try your best. The correct answers are very important."

  A shiver of apprehension passed down Jack's back. Something in Megan's tone of voice implied that a lot more than a job offer depended on his replies.

  "Define a prime number."

  "A number that's divisible only by itself and one," replied Jack.

  "Explain to me the fundamental theorem of calculus."

  They spent the next twenty minutes reviewing the high points of college mathematics. Jack answered all of the questions easily. He had taught most of the material during his graduate assistant days.

  Megan listened to his explanations without comment. She rarely consulted her notes and easily followed everything he said. For a receptionist, she knew more mathematics than most of his students. Jack suspected there was more to Megan Ambrose than met the eye.

  "A perfect score," she announced cheerfully as he finished describing Cantor's Proof. "Which doesn't surprise me considering your two degrees in mathematics. Let's proceed to the hard part."

  Jack blinked. He never mentioned anything about his college studies to Megan. Yet, she seemed to know about them. He again wondered why the girl seemed so familiar.

  "Who are the Nazgul?"

  "The Black Riders with crowns but no faces," answered Jack automatically, "from The Lord of the Rings."

  Nodding in agreement, Megan flashed Jack a quick smile. She appeared genuinely pleased that he knew the correct answer.

  "In the novel Three Heart
s and Three Lions, why did the chicken cross the road?"

  Frowning, Jack tried to remember the Poul Anderson novel. It had been years since he read it. It took him a minute to recall the correct answer. The next query concerned the use of magic in The Incomplete Enchanter. And so it went, with the second half of the quiz proving to be much more challenging than the first.

  They buzzed through two dozen questions in little more than an hour. Jack prided himself on his exceptional memory, but several times he was forced to admit that the details of a particular story had escaped him. Megan shook her head with each missed answer, but otherwise made no comment.

  In the end, Jack calculated he had answered twenty of the twenty-four questions correctly. Running down the list, Megan confirmed the count.

  "An excellent score," she said, grinning. "Though we expected no less from anyone snared by the advertisement."

  Pushing her chair away from the desk, she rose to her feet and turned to the inner office door. "Let me pass these results on to Father. I'm sure he'll want to talk to you right away."

  Megan disappeared into the other room, carrying the papers with her. Leaning back in his chair, Jack puzzled over her choice of words. "Snared" implied some sort of trap. While "Father" needed no explanation, the casual remark caught Jack by surprise. He should have connected Megan's name with that on the door. Trying to escape his own family business, he had stumbled into another.

  "Father will see you now," announced Megan, reappearing from the other room. As Jack walked past her, she reached out and gave him a light squeeze on his forearm, quickening his pulse. "Good tuck," she whispered.

  The inner office was as sparsely furnished as the reception area. Floor-to-ceiling windows covered the far wall, offering a breathtaking view of downtown Chicago. Dozens of framed and signed photographs of famous people covered the other three walls. In one corner, a huge rubber tree stretched to the ceiling. There were no rows of file cabinets, banks of phones, or any of a hundred other things Jack associated with a major business. He couldn't help wondering what type of investments Ambrose Ltd. handled.