"They might not be able to locate him so easily," said Roger, edging back to the door. When the Crouching One started playing with hellfire, it was time to leave. "And, if he's this champion like you think, he might not be a pushover."
"Perhaps," said the Lord of the Lions. "Perhaps. But, he can be traced by the talisman in his possession. Von Bern will know how to do that at least. Night will soon fall in Chicago. The forces of darkness are strongest in the midnight hours. The German and his allies will not fail me." The demigod clenched its hands into fists. "They dare not fail me."
"Yes, sir," said Roger, scurrying out of the room. "Yes, sir."
He dashed for the telephone. For the moment, he was in the clear. Von Bern and his stooges had let this champion escape. He was their responsibility.
Roger shivered. Dealing with the Lord of the Lions always left him shaken. He had raised the entity by mistake and was stuck paying for his mistake. Only death could sever his ties with the evil demigod.
Like an echo, that thought reverberated through his mind. Carefully, analytically, Roger reviewed his conversation with the Crouching One. According to the basic principles of science, the final result of any operation was guaranteed if the initial conditions of the experiment were duplicated exactly.
Roger smiled. It was time for him to do some reading. About Moses.
Chapter 6
"WELL, DOC," SAID Jack, only half in jest, "will I live?"
"That depends entirely on whether you learned anything from this unfortunate experience," replied Doctor Nelson seriously. "You were lucky, Jack. Next time, you might not escape with just a few bruises and a bad headache."
A tall, thin, middle-aged man, Nelson was the campus physician. Though he rarely smiled, he had a droll sense of humor. His bland features concealed a razor-sharp wit and a keen mind that rarely missed anything.
"There won't be a next time," said Jack. "I'm not that stupid."
"I hope not," said Nelson. "Though I can't entirely blame you. No one expects to be assaulted during broad daylight. Not even in this neighborhood."
The university was located in one of the worst sections of Chicago's south side. An imposing metal fence supposedly sealed the campus off from the streets, but no one really believed it provided any real security. Campus police did their best to maintain order, but it was a no-win proposition.
"Tell me about it," said Jack, tenderly rubbing the bump on his head. "I've warned my students for years about the problem, but it never occurred to me that I might be the one assaulted. Can I get dressed now, doc?"
"Of course," said Nelson. "You know I have to report this incident to security, Jack."
"Sure," said Jack, pulling on his clothes. "I was going to head over there right after leaving here. But I won't argue if you want to fill out the report. Facing Benny Anderson won't make my headache feel any better. I'd rather wander back to my apartment and lie down for a while."
"You could use the rest," said Nelson. Anderson was chief of campus security. An ex-marine, dealing with him was always an effort.
Reaching into a file drawer, the doctor pulled out a police report form. "I keep a stack of these handy," he said, almost apologetically. "You can't imagine how many of my patients need one of them."
Careful of every detail, Jack retold the story he had concocted to explain his injuries. There was more than enough truth to the recital to make it believable.
"A motorcycle gang," said Nelson, sighing. "As if we didn't have enough trouble around here already. You didn't, by any chance, notice anything special about their jackets? Many gangs sport distinctive colors or emblems. It might provide the police with a clue. Not that they'd be able to do much anyway."
Jack shook his head, causing him to wince in pain. "They jumped me from behind, doc. The only thing I saw was a metal-studded glove that hit me in the face. And a boot that finished the job."
"Funny that they didn't rob you," said Nelson, scribbling down notes on the police form. "You're positive, Jack, that these hoodlums had no reason to rough you up?"
It took Jack a minute to realize what the physician was thinking.
"Hey, I'm innocent, doc. I'm not into drugs and never have been. I don't use them, and I definitely don't sell them. And you're crazy if you think different."
Nelson raised his hands in protest. "Sorry. I had to ask. If I didn't, you can be sure campus security would. Anderson is obsessed with drug dealers. It's the nature of the times."
"Great," said Jack, standing up. "Talk about guilt by association. I get mugged for no reason by a bunch of lunatics and that means I'm a dope pusher. Meanwhile, logic takes a holiday."
The physician shrugged his shoulders. There was an odd expression on his face. "I'm only doing my job, Jack. No reason to get upset. Take it easy for a few days. Use the whirlpool bath in the gym whenever you can. It'll help those bruises. If the pain bothers you too much, give me a call and I'll prescribe something. Otherwise, check back with me in a week. By then, you should be back to normal."
Still fuming, Jack left the doctor's office. Nobody ever accused the hero of any fantasy novel he ever read of dealing in drugs as a sideline. Nor, for that matter, did he recall any of those heroes experiencing any real aches and pains other than an occasional hangover or arrow wound. Most of them shrugged off anything less than a life-threatening injury.
Head throbbing, Jack shuffled down the street towards the student union building. He needed food. It was nearly six o'clock and all he had eaten since the morning was the cheeseburger and Coke at Merlin's office. The college cafeteria stayed open till nine. Once he grabbed a bite, he intended to head back to his apartment and collapse. Jack smiled wistfully. So far, his career as a world-saver was not progressing very well.
With evening classes already underway, there weren't many graduate students in the student union. Which suited Jack fine. He wasn't in much of a mood to talk with anyone. Loading up his tray with a hot turkey sandwich, potatoes, a Coke and a piece of cake, he shuffled to the cash register.
It wasn't until Jack reached for his wallet to pay for his dinner that he remembered his pockets were crammed full of greenbacks. He wondered if Doctor Nelson had noticed the cash. That would explain the physician's questions about drug dealing. The more he thought about it, the more obvious it became. Unfortunately, knowing the reason was not a solution. The money suddenly weighed very heavy in his jeans.
Cautiously, he looked around for the campus police. If Nelson relayed his suspicions to the security officers, they could be searching for Jack right now. And explaining how he obtained all that money would be awfully difficult.
Feeling extremely paranoid, Jack marched to the far end of the cafeteria. Dinnertime had the place packed with underclassmen. Finally, after a frantic survey of the room, he spotted a small table isolated from the flow of traffic. With his back to the cafeteria wall, he could keep a watch on the whole room.
With a sigh of relief, Jack sat down and started eating. Hungry but worried, he wolfed down the food without tasting a thing. The sooner he hid the money, the safer he would feel.
Gulping down his Coke and gobbling the last bite of cake, he pushed back his chair, ready to leave. And found himself surrounded by a half-dozen undergraduates, all talking at once. To him.
Preoccupied with his troubles, Jack had not noticed them approaching. Four women and two men, the group consisted of his extra-help class in Freshman Calculus. Escaping them was not going to be easy. Groaning, he settled back in his seat.
Tutoring was something new at the university and one of Jack's least favorite chores. Unfortunately, as a Ph.D. graduate assistant, he had little choice in his teaching assignments. He did what he was told. Needless to say, graduate assistants were always given the courses none of the regular professors wanted.
All freshmen attending the school were required to take at least one math course. Calculus 101 was the bane of the mathematics department. Though they had mandated the requirements, the Board of Regents had m
ade it quite clear that they would consider it quite disturbing if very many of the incoming students, paying tuition that the university desperately needed, flunked the course and dropped out of school. Thus, not only did graduate assistants teach an extremely watered-down calculus course, they also conducted extra-help classes after normal class hours for those students who were so bad at mathematics that they needed a continual shove to keep them even with their classmates.
Jack, born with a gift for calculation and logic, found the tutoring sessions incredibly depressing. All his life, he had labored under the impression that anyone could learn mathematics if taught correctly. The calm, precise nature of the subject seemed as natural as breathing. He never imagined people existed who were unable to perform even the simplest of calculations without breaking into a cold sweat. Until this semester, when he encountered his extra-help group.
Not that they were stupid. The six students were among the brightest young men and women in the university. They all wanted to learn. They struggled desperately to understand. But they were incapable of solving basic equations, much less genuine calculus problems.
In desperation, Jack finally followed the lead of several other graduate assistants struggling with the same headache. Before the most recent exam, he reviewed the entire test with his tutorial. Step by step, he dissected each question, proceeding through it to the correct solution. Though he balked at telling his charges that these were the same problems they would face the next day, he strongly hinted to them that knowing how to solve these practice equations would make the test a snap. And, despite everything, all six flunked the exam.
"You weren't in your office this afternoon, Professor Collins," Sandra Stevens declared angrily, yanking Jack back to reality. The co-ed had a voice like chalk scratching over a blackboard. "We waited for over an hour."
"Yeah," said Gil Neumann. An architecture major, Gil could not grasp the fundamentals of trigonometry. Some time back, Jack had made a sacred vow that in the distant future he would never enter a building designed by Neumann.
"Quite boring," added Simon Fellows. An exchange student from England, Simon's voice betrayed only the slightest accent. Of all Jack's extra-help students. Fellows was the most frustrating. An English major, he scored phenomenal grades in all of his other courses. But, though he could recite the most difficult facts without blinking twice, Simon seemed incapable of understanding basic logic.
"Sorry," said Jack. "I had a job interview that took a little longer than I expected. Then, afterward, I wasted more time by allowing myself to be mugged."
"Mugged?" said Sandra, her voice so loud that half the cafeteria turned to see what was going on. "You were mugged?"
"You do look a little more worse for wear than usual," remarked Simon, eternally cheerful.
Nothing ever bothered the exchange student. He laughed at misfortune, though Jack wasn't sure if it was from sheer bravado or abysmal ignorance. Though handsome, intelligent and charming, Simon was not a very popular person on campus. He was just a bit too weird for most of the students.
Jack never realized how weird until he glanced at the Brit while scanning the hall for campus security. Jack's eyes narrowed in amazement. He shook his head, not sure he believed what he was seeing. Or not seeing. Simon had no aura. The exchange student wasn't human. He was magic.
"Uh, Professor Collins, is something wrong?" asked Sandra. "You look kinda... funny."
Jack squeezed his eyes tightly shut, then opened them again. Nothing had changed. The other five students had auras. Simon did not. It was definitely time. Jack decided, to have a word with the Brit.
"I am feeling a bit dizzy," said Jack. "The doctor warned me to take it easy for the next few days. Why don't you all attend Professor Gleason's extra-help classes for the time being. They're scheduled the same time we held ours, so it will fit right in with your free time. If you explain the circumstances to Pat Gleason, I'm sure he won't mind you sitting in."
Gleason would have a fit, but too bad. Jack felt no remorse. Based on Gleason's conduct at the faculty Christmas party last year, the other graduate assistant deserved to suffer.
"Do you need some help getting back to your apartment?" asked Gil Neumann, his tone of voice making it quite clear he wasn't overwhelmed with the idea.
"I'll be fine," said Jack. Then, as the students turned to leave, he quickly added, "Simon, would you mind sticking around for a few seconds more? I wanted to ask you something."
"No problem," replied the Brit.
The others departed, casting suspicious looks at both of them. Jack was at a loss as to what chicanery they might imagine. He couldn't be supplying Simon with test answers. He had done that for all of them to no consequence.
Tomorrow, if things continued on their present course, they would probably assume it had been a drug deal. He had to get back to Dr. Nelson and explain all that cash. Somehow.
"If it's about that last test," said the Brit, "I can explain everything...."
"Forget the test," said Jack, not exactly certain how to begin. Then, before he could say another word, he spotted two campus security officers on the other side of the cafeteria. Beads of sweat popped on Jack's back. The policemen were probably just there for a coffee break, but he dared not risk it. Not with the cash still crammed in his pockets.
"Let's go for a walk," he said, rising quickly from the table. "We need to talk about things. Like auras—or the lack of them."
A startled look passed across Simon's face. For the first time in Jack's memory, the student looked terribly unsure of himself. "Auras, you say? A walk?"
The two security officers were nowhere in sight. It was time to go. Hastily Jack grabbed Simon by the arm and steered him to the exit. "Magic," he said quietly as he pushed open the door to the outside. "Let's talk about magic."
Chapter 7
ANXIOUS TO GET as far away from the Campus Center as possible, Jack hurried Simon along the walk leading to the humanities building. At this time of the evening, there were only a few classes in session and they had the path to themselves.
Not more than a hundred feet from the Center, Simon came to an abrupt halt. Turning, the Brit put both his hands on Jack's shoulders and stared intently into his eyes. After a second, the student pursed his lips in a low whistle of astonishment.
"Rose-colored contact lenses," he said. "I heard rumors that such things existed, but I never expected to encounter anyone actually wearing them. Especially not my mathematics professor."
"Tell me about it," said Jack, sighing. "Then you don't deny you're a supernatural being, some sort of magical creature?"
"Creature?" replied Simon, grinning. "I may not be human, Professor Collins, but I do have feelings. Simon Goodfellow, of the kingdom of Faerie, at your service, my esteemed teacher."
"Call me Jack," said Jack. "I don't mind the 'professor' bit from students seven or eight years younger than I am. But, from a being who has been around for a couple of hundred years, it sounds kinda pretentious."
"Seven hundred and twelve years, to be exact," said Simon. "But then, who's counting?"
They resumed walking down the path, conversing in low tones, appearing to be nothing more than a student and his teacher discussing classwork. Simon seemed quite nonchalant about the whole affair.
"If you told anybody about this," he declared, "they'd think you'd gone daft."
"I've devoured too many fantasy novels to even consider that possibility," said Jack. "Nobody believes the hero, and it leads to all sorts of dreadful complications. The last thing I need at present is more complications.
"For the record, though, what kind of magical being are you? I don't remember reading any specifics on supernatural exchange students."
Simon laughed. "That's because you're thinking too much of our traditional roles, Professor. Oops, sorry—Jack. We faeries have changed with the times. Like all the rest of the supernatural beings that still inhabit this wonderful world. I'm a changeling."
"
Merlin did say..." began Jack.
"Merlin?" interrupted Simon. "You mean to say that Merlin the Magician is in America?"
"That's who gave me the contact lenses," said Jack. "I gather he's been living in Chicago for quite some time." Casually, Jack added, "Along with his daughter, Megan."
"Daughter?" said Simon. "I never recalled stories about Merlin having a daughter. There was Morgana, of course, but I thought she was his sister."
The Brit shrugged. "That's the trouble with living so long. Fact and fancy get mixed up, and after a while you don't know what's true and what's not. Merlin's in Chicago, though? I'll have to look him up. We share a bunch of memories that go way back. Way, way back."
"That might not be so easy," said Jack. "But before I describe that mess, explain to me this changeling stuff."
"If you insist," said Simon. "A lot of it Merlin explained to me. I don't know how much the old boy told you, but his theories covering our creation are pretty much accepted fare among the supernatural kingdom. So pardon me if I summarize and condense things somewhat.
"You humans are always trying to cover up your own faults by blaming somebody else. These days, it's society or peer pressure or a hundred other excuses. Nobody likes to admit maybe they're the ones responsible for the problems of the world.
"Well, not surprisingly, things weren't that different seven, eight hundred years ago. In those days, the peasants didn't have pop psychology to fall back on. There wasn't this horde of apologists to offer feel-good explanations for aberrant behavior. So, instead, the local populace did the next best thing. They blamed everything on us, the supernaturals."
"I'm not sure I follow what you're saying," said Jack, frowning. "Lots of people accept full responsibility for their actions."
"Sure," said Simon, "but a lot more search for a convenient scapegoat. And their more imaginative solutions created beings like me."
His voice grew caustic. "Got a problem, neighbor? Your young son refuses to plow the field? And he runs away whenever you ask him to shovel the manure? Well, friend, that doesn't sound like the actions of a well-bred, obedient child. Obviously, it can't be any fault of yours. As God-fearing folk, you did your best for him. The only logical explanation is that the boy isn't really your son."
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