A Calculated Magic lm-2

by Robert Weinberg

  “What is a Klein bottle?” asked Hasan al-Sabbah. “And why, since it is not capped by the seal of Solomon the Wise, hasn’t my Afreet emerged from inside it?”

  “A Klein bottle is the three-dimensional equivalent of a Mobius strip,” explained Jack, slipping into his graduate student lecturer mode. “It’s a bottle with only one surface—the inside and outside form one continuous plane. It doesn’t require a cap because the contents are within and without at the same time.”

  “Impossible,” declared the Old Man of the Mountain. “That makes no sense. Everything has two sides.”

  “Really?” replied Jack, “What about a Mobius strip? Surely, you’ve seen one. Take an ordinary strip of paper. Give it a half twist then connect the ends to form a closed ring. It becomes a surface with only one side. If you take a paintbrush to it, you can paint both sides on the strip without ever lifting the bristles from the paper. Though it appears to have two sides, it verifiably has only one. An ant crawling along the strip will never come to the end.”

  Al-Sabbah grimaced in mental pain. Jack recognized the expression. He had seen it for years on the faces of countless students. The Old Man of the Mountain had gone into math shock. “What about this magic bottle?” he demanded. “How can a container have no inside?”

  “Raise the concept of a Mobius strip one dimension,” said Jack. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Boris Bronsky casually lean over and pick up Karsnov’s manuscript. No one noticed. Their attention was fixed on Jack, the blue bottle, and his explanation.

  “Take a thick glass tube, open at both ends,” said Jack, repeating the instructions he gave Fritz Grondark. “Stretch one end into the neck. The other open end is the base. Twist the neck in a semicircle and pass it through the fourth dimension, thus making no hole, into the side of the tube. Connect the open mouth to the open base and you have a Klein bottle. As it utilizes a curve transversing the fourth dimension and we live in a three-dimensional world, it’s impossible to visualize. Which is why staring at the bottle gives you a headache. Our minds can’t cope with curves outside the universe.”

  “You speak gibberish,” said the Old Man of the Mountain. “I hate mathematics. I’ve always hated mathematics. This must be a trick. Genie, return to me. Now. I command it.”

  Other than the bottle glowing brighter red, nothing happened. Jack shook his head. “Sorry. He can’t do a thing. There’s no exit from a Klein bottle.”

  “But there’s no seal,” said Hasan angrily.

  “This bottle doesn’t need a plug,” said Jack. “When the genie chased the vial into the Klein bottle, he pushed himself into a four-dimensional curve. The Afreet is inside and outside the container at the same time. The entrance and exit form a continuous loop. Departing and returning are synonymous. He finds himself coming and going at the identical instant. When he leaves, he enters and vice versa. Like the ant on a Möbius strip, the genie can never find an exit. The bottle is a topological nightmare. And he’s trapped by it.”

  “Destroy the bottle,” whispered the Crouching One. “Shatter it to a thousand pieces. That will free your servant.”

  Jack shook his head, grinning. Behind his spellbound audience, Boris Bronsky had retreated to the elevator. The Russian held a Zippo lighter in one hand and was carefully incinerating Karsnov’s manuscript a few pages at a time.

  “I don’t think that would be a good idea,” said Jack. “If you slice a Möbius strip along the center, it forms one long two-sided loop. But if you cut it a third of the distance from the edge, the scissor makes two complete trips around the strip in one continuous trip. The results are two strips intertwined—a two-sided hoop and a new Möbius strip.

  “Cutting a Klein bottle down the middle, which would require passing your knife through the fourth dimension, would produce two mirror-image Möbius strips. And, probably a genie divided into two parts. Perhaps. No one can say for sure since no one has had the opportunity before to deal with such a construction. Equally possible, the genie and the vial instead might disappear into the higher plain of existence.

  “If you don’t slice the bottle exactly in the middle, the results defy speculation. Shatter the container into forty or fifty pieces and you could end up with bits and pieces of the Afreet scattered throughout the universe. Or create four-dimensional sinkholes that would swallow nearby objects like black holes. In any case, the Afreet and plague virus would definitely not survive the separation.”

  Hasan al-Sabbah howled in frustration. Loki grimaced. Nergal, Lord of the Lions, scratched his head in bewilderment. Boris Bronsky finished burning the last pages of Karsnov’s notes and strolled over to the baffled supernaturals.

  “Why?” asked the Old Man of the Mountain despondently. “Why did you do this? Obviously, it took advance planning, You came here specifically to thwart my plans. What reason prompted The Man to order this punishment?”

  “You pompous, overconfident moron,” snarled the Crouching One before Jack could launch into a lengthy discourse on the Old Man of the Mountain’s supposed infractions. “Haven’t you yet comprehended the truth? These two owe no allegiance to the one you fear. What proof did they offer? You accepted them on their word and they took advantage of your stupidity.”

  “But,” said Hasan, confused, “if they are not associated with The Man, who are…”

  “Mathematics,” spat out the Crouching One. “Deliberation and rationality. Face the facts, you incompetent executioner. He’s Jack Collins, the Logical Magician.”

  Jack, knowing the time for pretense was finished, inclined his head in acknowledgment. “At your service. Assisted and abetted by the lethal Ms. Cassandra Cole.”

  Hasan al-Sabbah’s bony fingers clenched into fists of rage. “The Collins figure my agents had been shadowing in Chicago the past few days?”

  “A doppelganger, of course,” said Jack.

  “The so-called Master of Treachery and Deceit deceived,” declared the Crouching One, more than a hint of mockery in its voice. “At least Dietrich von Bern didn’t provide food and lodging for his foe,” The demigod raised its hands skyward. “Why am I singularly cursed to be served by incompetents and fools?”

  “Is goodt question,” replied Boris Bronsky.

  The Russian had positioned himself between and slightly behind Loki’s twin frost giants. Reaching up with massive ham-sized hands, Bronsky grabbed the two leviathans by their outside ears and slammed their heads together. The crack of skulls echoed like a gunshot through the chamber. “You is not the only one who has complained about the same difficulty.”

  Ponderously, the Russian stepped over the unconscious frost giants. “There is plenty of ineptitude close by,” continued Bronsky as he marched past a stunned Loki and joined Jack and Cassandra. “It is a common plague. People have suffered from its effects for thousands of years. If you could isolate and breed the germs responsible, you could conquer the world in a week. Maybe less.”

  Boris grinned at Jack. “I did good, huh?”

  “Exceptional,” said Jack. “I thought the extra touch with Loki’s bodyguards was inspired.”

  “They forget sometimes,” said Boris, “that big, friendly bears have claws, too.”

  Shaking his head in frustration, a distraught Old Man of the Mountain sank into the center of his obsidian throne. Arms folded in disgust, the Crouching One stared daggers at the Assassin overlord. Meanwhile, Loki walked around his helpless assistants, trying to kick them awake.

  Jack glanced at Cassandra and winked. The minutes were slowly but surely passing. In the reasonably near future, the phone would ring, delivering a decisive blow to Hasan al-Sabbah. Jack was starting to think they might survive the evening without a single violent adventure.

  “Well,” grumbled the Crouching One, “what steps are you planning to recover your lost honor? I assume you realize that if word of this fiasco becomes known, your business will drop to nothing. Nobody wants to hire an assassin so inept he wines and dines his worst enemies. And allow
s his genie to be trapped in a mathematical contraption.”

  Hasan shifted uncomfortably on his throne. It was clear that Nergal’s criticisms stung his vanity. “The deeds are done,” said the Old Man of the Mountain. “How can I undo what has already taken place? The disaster is complete and cannot be repaired.”

  “Kill them,” said the Crouching One. Jack cursed in annoyance. The ancient demigod was determined to rule the world. And it still considered eliminating a certain Logical Magician as the necessary first step in achieving its ambition. “That simple action would reverse your fortune.”

  “I could smash the life out of them,” mused al-Sabbah, “Then claim that I decided to keep Karsnov’s formula for myself. The prestige of murdering Collins and acquiring the plague virus would bolster my sagging enterprises. No one would know I was lying.”

  The Old Man of the Mountain shook his head. “Unfortunately, the deception disregards my most pressing predicament. My note to The Man comes due in less than a week. Unless that debt is paid in full, this entire plot remains meaningless.”

  “How much is owed?” asked the Crouching One.

  “A hundred and ten million,” said Hasan al-Sabbah. “Hell cost a great deal more than I anticipated.”

  “I will pay that sum,” said the Lord of the Lions, “for the head of the Logical Magician. To be precise, only his head, neatly preserved in a metal box. Do we have a deal?”

  “Yes,” said Hasan al-Sabbah, straightening in his chair. “We have a bargain. Though, if you don’t mind, we will dispense with the customary handshake sealing the agreement.”

  “Understood,” said the Crouching One.

  Beaming with good cheer, Hasan al-Sabbah whistled.

  “No worries,” said Boris Bronsky to Jack. “Me and the young lady, we defend you from these three repulsive fellows. Even if they wake up the two albinos, I don’t think we have much trouble.”

  “It’s not them who worry me,” said Jack. A dozen hidden doors had opened in response to the Old Man of the Mountain’s signal. Shambling out of them came a horde of seven-foot ghuls. “Those guys are the problem.”

  40

  “You’re making a big mistake,” shouted Jack at the Old Man of the Mountain, as the ghuls filled the chamber. He counted nearly thirty of the monsters. Cassandra was a one-woman army, but not even Hercules could defeat a supernatural army of this size. “I’m not joking. Remember Dietrich von Bern. He underestimated me, too. Mess with the Logical Magician and you’ll be sorry.”

  “Will I?” laughed Hasan al-Sabbah. “Somehow I doubt that. You deprived me of my Afreet, Mr. Collins. I think it only fair I take your life in exchange.”

  A flutter of wings, a gust of wind, and Hugo landed on Jack’s left shoulder. “Sorry I skipped out after the chase,” said the bird, “but I decided to check on Mongo’s progress. Anything interesting happen while I was gone?”

  “This and that,” said Jack. “We trapped the Afreet in the Klein bottle. Nergal guessed our true identities. And Hasan al-Sabbah decided to accept the demigod’s offer of a hundred ten million bucks to flatten me, Cassandra, and Boris Bronsky into pancakes. That covers the high points.”

  On the Amazon’s advice, they had retreated, taking the bottle and Jack’s airline bag, to the far wall. It prevented them from being surrounded. Unfortunately, there were now enough ghuls present in the chamber to crush them to death by sheer force of numbers.

  Twenty feet distant, the Old Man of the Mountain stood upright on the arms of his obsidian throne, exhorting his army of ghuls to mash the three unbelievers to putty. At his side, the Crouching One nodded his head in approval. Loki, flanked by his befuddled frost giants, lurked far to the rear of the chamber, near the elevator.

  “I burned Karsnov’s notes,” added Boris Bronsky, proudly. He shook a huge fist at the horde of monsters shakily advancing on their position. Cassandra and her knives made them cautious. “Now, I die a hero. Pretty busy day.”

  “Cheer up,” said Hugo. “Help is coming.”

  “Kill them!” screamed Hasan al-Sabbah. “Tear the infidels to pieces!”

  “Five Mississippi, four Mississippi…,” Hugo counted.

  A ghul, braver than the rest, detached itself from the horde and grabbed for Cassandra. Her two knives flashed and the creature howled in unexpected pain. The other monsters hesitated for an instant, then continued forward.

  “Three Mississippi, two Mississippi…”

  “Better hurry,” said Jack as a dozen ghuls reached for him.

  “One Mississippi,” said Hugo, his voice rising. “Zero!”

  The cavalry arrived in spectacular fashion. The throne room exploded with a boom of thunder and a flash of lightning. A wild wind swept through the room. And six mighty figures came hurtling out of the night sky.

  It took Jack a moment to realize the thunder was the sound of the glass dome in the ceiling cracking. The lightning was the room lighting reflecting off the thousands of tiny fragments of glass falling to the floor. The wind and the riders were not as easy to explain.

  Like frightened children, the ghuls huddled around Hasan al-Sabbah’s throne. The Old Man of the Mountain stood transfixed on his chair, an unreadable expression on his upturned face. Beside him, the Crouching One stared at the descending riders with a mixture of curiosity and hatred. Neither immortal seemed to recognize the new players in the game. But Loki did.

  “The Valkyrior,” he cried in a mixture of shock and amazement. “The Choosers of the Slain.”

  Jack swallowed. Hard. He always wanted to meet his mother’s relatives, but he had no idea it would be in such dramatic fashion. Or that their apparel would be so remarkably flamboyant.

  There were six Valkyries, each riding a snow white horse the size of a Clydesdale stallion. The animals’ eyes blazed with red fire. Strangely enough, they looked very familiar to Jack. His mother’s horse, Flying Feet, obviously belonged to the same magical herd. That these immense beasts could fly, Jack concluded, had to he one of magic’s greatest triumphs. The warrior maidens on their backs rode them with the utter confidence born from hundreds of years of experience.

  His aunts, for the facial resemblance to his mother was quite apparent, were all blonde, buxom, and of Rubenesque proportions. The ancient Scandinavians obviously preferred their women in heroic dimensions. Their golden hair was braided in pigtails, their skin was white as newly fallen snow, and their eyes shone with a bright blue luster. However, their outfits reflected none of their northern heritage. Unless it was northern Texas. For the six Valkyries wore Las Vegas-style cowgirl outfits.

  Suede, denim, and fringe dominated. The women were dressed in very short tie-dye buckskin skirts, beaded fringe suede halter tops, and mid-length embossed black leather boots. On their heads they wore fancy cowboy hats, decorated with turquoise and feathers. Looped around each of their saddles were lassos, and buckled to their belts were two old-fashioned six-guns. But, the guns were there just for decoration. These Valkyrie cowgirls were armed for an old-fashioned Viking showdown.

  Three of them carried huge broadswords, which they swung around in the air like candy canes. The other three brandished doubled-edged steel battle-axes. All of them wore a massive leather shield on their other arm. The Choosers of the Slain were prepared for war.

  Circling the chamber as they descended, the Valkyries guided their steeds in a loose ring around Hasan al-Sabbah and his ghoulish servants. Precisely at the same instant, all six horses touched the floor. As promised by Hugo, the cavalry had arrived in grand fashion.

  “Hi, Jack,” said Mongo, alighting on his free shoulder. “Sorry we were late, but the girls had a ten-thirty show at the Blue Lotus Hotel on Glitter Gulch. We rushed over the minute it concluded. Glad we made it before the fun started. The Valkyrior would have hated to miss the fireworks.”

  “You arrived in the proverbial nick of time,” said Jack. “Another minute and we would have been ghul chow.”

  “You think the monsters will try an
d make troubles?” asked Boris Bronsky, a glazed expression on his face. Jack didn’t blame him. He felt sort of dazed himself. “There’s a lot more of them than the flying ladies.”

  “They’ll stay exactly where they are and act as meek as kittens,” declared one of the blonde warrior maidens, guiding her mount close to Jack. She swung her battle-ax in a circle over her head three times, tossed the weapon up toward the smashed skylight, and then caught it with her other hand as it descended. “No supernatural fiend picks a fight with the Choosers of the Slain, whatever the odds. We don’t start battles—we finish them.”

  Grinning, the Valkyrie leaned over and patted Jack on the cheek. “Glad to finally meet you, nephew. I’m your aunt Gretta. Hugo and Mongo think the world of you. It’s nice to hear someone in the family is making a name for himself.”

  “The pleasure’s mine,” said Jack, blushing. “Mom never talked much about you.”

  “We gave her a hard time for leaving,” admitted Gretta. “She was the best trick-shot artist among us. We believed her departure would hurt the act. But that was years ago.

  “Since then, we’ve managed fine on our own. Been touring the country for the past few years as the Six-Gun Sweethearts. Finally landed this contract at the Blue Lotus, runs for the summer. It’s tons of fun and a change of pace, though the costumes are kinda dumb. Still, we like it better than the rodeo circuit.”

  Two huge gray wolves with unusually expressive features jogged over. Jack had no idea how the animals had gotten into the chamber, but he was beyond wondering.

  “Johnnie,” said Mongo, “these are our friends, Geri and Freki. They live with the girls.”

  “Odin’s wolves,” said Jack, remembering an earlier conversation. “Or should I say, his big, big dogs with immense teeth?”

  “Yeah, that’s us,” growled one of the wolves. “Pleased to meetcha. Any friend of the birds is a friend of ours,” The dog paused and looked up at the Valkyrie. “Hey, Gretta, we gonna rip these ghuls to shreds? The girls are anxious to spill some blood and me and Freki haven’t torn anybody to bits in years. Whatd’ya say?”