The Warlock's Curse

by Hobson, M. K.

  “It’s noon,” he confirmed. “Old Randall Rudge in New Jersey runs his experiments every day at this time, and he draws down just about all the power the system has.” He turned to Jenny apologetically. “I have a charging system for a secondary battery all worked out in my head. If I’d had time to set it up, we could have just switched over to battery when the Flume was low.”

  “What are you talking about?” Jenny tucked back a thick tendril of hair that dangled before her eyes; that particular curl had already escaped its pins several times, Will had noticed.

  “The biggest problem with my Flume actually lies with the Otherwhere it draws power from. If I were a high-and-mighty industrialist, I could own my own power plant. But I’m not, and I don’t. So I have to buy a license from someone who is, and does. That license entitles me to a slice of the output of a single power plant.”

  “So, what happened? You didn’t pay your Otherwhere bill?”

  “No, I’m all paid up through the end of the year,” Will said. “But the particular high-and-mighty industrialist from whom I bought my license has demonstrated that he doesn’t particularly care how many licenses he sells.”

  Jenny made a sound of understanding. “Oh! So when your Mr. Rudge, for instance, runs his experiments, it drains the pool for everyone. Why, I just call that bad business!”

  “Profiteering is what we licensees call it,” said Will. “We’ve all complained about it, but there’s not much we can do.”

  “You know the other licensees?” Jenny said.

  Will nodded. “We circulate a newsletter by post.”

  He got out of the car to stretch his legs. The morning had warmed up and the air smelled of smoke and sunshine. Judging from the white mile-markers they’d been passing—and the increasing numbers of driveways stretching off from the roadside—he figured they were only about ten miles out of Stockton. They had plenty of time. He reached back into the car and retrieved another chunk of pie, leaning on the hood of the car to eat it.

  “We all banded together and made Old Rudge promise to limit his experiments to an hour a day.” Will brushed crumbs from his sleeve. “Boy, what an hour that must be in New Jersey!”

  “Sounds like you’ve had this license for a while,” Jenny said.

  “Almost a year,” Will said. “I got it for a project at school, and I’ve been tinkering with it ever since, hooking it up to various electrical devices, perfecting my Flume. I finally decided to drop the whole thing into Pask’s car because—” He stopped, suddenly feeling kind of sheepish. But Jenny was two steps ahead of him.

  “Because I bet the license isn’t cheap and your folks don’t give you as much pocket money as the grandson of a de la Guerra gets,” she concluded. “If he liked the car with the Flume in it, he’d have to renew the license, which meant you’d get to keep tinkering with it. Right?”

  Will blinked at her. “You sure you don’t have some witch in you?” he said, thinking of the uncanny perceptivity his mother’s magical skills gave her.

  Jenny shuddered. “No, I don’t have any witch in me,” she said. “So we have to just sit around here waiting for Old Rudge to finish his experiments in New Jersey?” She crossed her arms. “We do have a wedding to get to.”

  “Can’t be helped.” Will bent down to peer under the chassis, idly examining the axles and leaf springs. “It’s the curse of a shared resource.”

  “So, what if we had our own Otherwhere?” Jenny asked. “All the power from one coal plant whooshing straight through your Flume, without anyone else tapping into it? Could we drive fifty miles an hour? A hundred?” Her eyes gleamed.

  Will paused to consider. “The chassis probably wouldn’t stand that kind of speed for long,” he concluded. “Especially over these roads. But you could build one that would. And with the right kind of roads, you could really fly. A hundred miles an hour would be nothing if you had thousands of horsepower. Someday, I bet you’ll see machines that can do it.”

  Jenny was silent for a long time, lost in thought. When she lifted her head to look at him, there was awe in her eyes.

  “Why, William, you’re a bona-fide genius.”

  “Lay off,” he muttered, blushing. “People have been fooling around with Otherwhere Conductors for years. I just figured a way to get around a few things. My shabby Otherwhere license was the least of my worries. Getting around the Connection Drop Problem, that was the hard part.”

  “The what?”

  “Like I said, people have been fooling with Otherwhere Conductors for years. But you don’t see them in automobiles like this one because of a technological hurdle called the Connection Drop Problem. See, it’s easy enough to open a connection to an Otherwhere, but it’s always been impossible to maintain that connection reliably. The connections drop seemingly at random—and usually at the most inconvenient moment possible. But everyone knew that it couldn’t just be random—something had to be causing it. People have been trying for years to figure out what that something is. They’ve looked at fluctuations in barometric pressure, at global temperatures, all sorts of things, but no one could figure it out. But I did. And once I figured it out, I built the Flume and ...” He trailed off, spreading his hands as if further explanation was unnecessary.

  Jenny leaned forward, elbows on the dash. “So, how did you do it?”

  “You ever hear of Röntgen rays?”

  “Röntgen? He won that big prize from the dynamite mogul, didn’t he?”

  “The Nobel, yes. Ten years ago. When I was at the Polytechnic I started getting interested in Röntgen rays. I learned that they were all around us, just as a general background state. It was supposed that they’d be at a higher level when sunspots flared up. I wondered if there was a correlation between these sunspots and the Connection Drop Problem.”

  “And was there?” Jenny asked.

  “Several observatories around the world have been watching sunspots since 1849,” Will said. “They have almost a hundred years of data on them. So I wrote away and requested copies.”

  “So that was data about sunspots,” she said. “But how did you get the data about dropped Otherwhere connections?”

  “Tesla Industries,” said Will. “They’ve been working on this problem for years. They maintain a steady-state Otherwhere connection, and they’ve been keeping records on it. Every time it’s randomly knocked off line, they make a note of the date and time. My teacher at the Polytechnic, Mr. Waters, knows one of the lead researchers there. He got me a copy of those records—but it sure took some doing! Tesla Industries is pretty secretive.”

  “And once you had both sets of data, you simply had to apply a Bayesean Linear Regression and poof!”

  “Well, no.” Will admitted. He had no idea what a Bayesean Linear Regression even was.

  “So how did you compare the data?”

  “I didn’t.” Will shrugged. “Before I had a chance to, another one of my teachers—a planetary scientist, he’d heard what I was working on—pulled me aside in the hall and shared an early draft of an article he’d been asked to review for a journal. It showed how Röntgen rays from the sun are stopped by the atmosphere surrounding the earth. Some believe that a kind of magnetic field is involved.”

  Jenny threw herself back in her seat, exasperated.

  “Oh, now you’re just being horrible,” she growled. “I’ve heard of shaggy dog stories, but never shaggy engineer stories! So what are you telling me about Röntgen rays for, then?”

  “I’m just trying to demonstrate to you that nothing in life is ever as easy as you think it’s going to be,” Will said loftily.

  Jenny snorted. “Believe me, William Edwards, I don’t need you to tell me that. Now, are you going to tell me what you discovered, or just keep playing around?”

  Will grinned. “I discovered that I was on the right track, but with the wrong ray. It was cosmic rays that I should have been looking at. We get about eight to ten solar flares every day that shower the earth with cosmic rays.
They’re strong enough to disrupt a connection.”

  “So ... what do you do about it?”

  “I’ve managed to create a pretty effective shield using the principles of magnetism. What makes my Otherwhere Flume different from a regular old Otherwhere Conductor is that I’ve added an electro-magnetic field generator to deflect stray cosmic rays. It’s powered out of the Otherwhere itself, so the system is entirely self-sustaining. Which reminds me ...” Will wanted to check and see if Rudge’s experiments would have any impact on the strength of his electro-magnetic field generator. Circling around to the back of the car he opened the trunk and took a reading on a small dial. He was so absorbed in thought he didn’t notice that Jenny was standing next to him.

  “That’s it?” she asked in astonishment. “It’s ... a cigar box!”

  “That just houses the workings,” Will said. It was a good sturdy wooden box, and Will had liked the colors of the label. He had especially liked the picture on the inside of the box’s cover, and he realized suddenly that Jenny would probably like it too. Lifting the lid, he grinned as he showed it to her. She put a hand over her mouth and giggled.

  “The Hero of Manila!” she read, examining the old picture of Admiral Dewey.

  But the intricate workings of the device within quickly drew her attention away from the brightly colored image. She bent down to get a closer look.

  “I would have guessed it to be much bigger!” Jenny said. “Your Mr. Waters sure must have been impressed.”

  “He never actually saw the prototype,” said Will. “I just built it this past summer.” Will checked the thick silk-wrapped cord that connected the box to the Baker’s motor. He made sure the Flume was securely seated in the cradle he’d built for it, then closed the trunk. Jenny was scrutinizing him.

  “But before you graduated, you showed him your schematics and all that, right?”

  “No, I never drew anything up.” Will dusted off his hands. “Mr. Waters wanted me to, but I didn’t see the need. I knew how I was going to build it. He got the concept, just like you do. And his friend at Tesla Industries, the lead researcher who got me their data on cosmic rays—a man named Grigory Grigoriyev, one of their leading Otherwhere Engineers—he gets it too. He’s has asked to have me on his team special. I can’t wait to show him what I’ve done!”

  Jenny’s eyes widened in horror.

  “You’re not going to show it to him, are you?”

  “Well of course I am!” Will’s eyebrows shot up. “What’s the good of building something this swell if you can’t share it?”

  “What’s to keep them from stealing it from you?”

  “Naw, that’s Edison you’re thinking of, and he’s in the moving-picture business now.” Will gestured at the billboard looming over their heads. He came back around to the front of the car and peered at the dials to see if the ampere gauge had come up at all. “Mr. Tesla is a straight shooter. Mr. Waters says so.”

  “William Edwards!” Will turned at the sound of command in Jenny’s voice and found her planted right behind him. She was not physically imposing—he’d always been taller than her—but the ferocious intensity in her blue eyes was enough to make him want to draw back. Reaching up to seize his shoulders, she held him fast.

  “Now listen,” said Jenny, in a firm, bell-clear tone. “I want you to make me a promise, right this very second, or our deal is off.”

  “P-promise?” he stammered. “What do you want me to promise?”

  “I want you to promise me that you will not share your invention with anyone at Tesla Industries until it’s protected by a United States patent. I will take care of it all—the filing, everything. I’ll get it patented for you.”

  “Get it patented for me?” Will was incredulous. “Jenny, what do you know about patenting anything? You’re seventeen!”

  “And you’re eighteen, and you’ve invented the most incredible thing I ever heard of in my entire life!” She countered. “I know that if you don’t protect your rights, you’ll lose them.” Jenny paused. “You’ve made a great discovery. Don’t you know how great?”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “Look, haven’t I done okay so far?” Jenny lowered her hands, and her voice became pleading. “Haven’t I got everything all planned? Haven’t I got us a crooked lawyer?”

  Will didn’t say anything.

  “You’re a genius, William,” she said softly. “And geniuses need people to protect them. Just promise me. Please?”

  “All right, Jenny,” he said. “I promise.”

  Jenny squealed with satisfaction. Raising herself up on her tiptoes, she pecked him on the cheek. “You’re going to make a perfectly wonderful husband.”

  “But I’m not going to Detroit just to sit around!” he added plaintively. “I want to show everyone at Tesla Industries what I can do!”

  Jenny shrugged indifferently as she climbed back into her seat and rearranged her duster. “I’m sure you can find plenty to show them that doesn’t involve giving away your best invention right out of the gate. You just have to play them along a little bit.”

  Will looked at his watch. Old Rudge’s hour was over. He started the car and put the controller into reverse. Power whooshed through the Flume like a distant breeze.

  Both of them lost in thought, they drove on in silence, Dreadnought Stanton’s brilliant green eyes following them blankly.

  Chapter Three

  For Better or Worse

  Stockton, located at the mouth of the San Joaquin Valley, was called “The Chicago of the West.” Will’s father had often sniffed at this appellation and observed that one could quite accurately gauge the intellectual smallness of any given city by the bigness of the city it compared itself to. Will, however, loved Stockton—and not because of its hotels or restaurants or shops or any of its other urban attractions. He loved it because it was the most industrialized city in California, a city of mills, factories, foundries and shipyards, all surrounding the mighty man-made channel that led to the Pacific Ocean. Things were made here.

  Sometimes, Will would make Pask park out front of a factory just so he could watch the activity going on around it—the bustling hive of workers, the raw materials going in and finished products coming out.

  Pask, however, never had much patience for these protracted observations. He and Will came to Stockton to whoop it up, not to watch the forward march of American industrial progress. He preferred cheap whiskey, moving picture theaters, dances and vaudeville.

  Will and Pask had come down at the beginning of the summer, on Pask’s dime, to attend a big to-do—organized by the town’s business elite—celebrating the opening of the brand new Hotel Stockton. With his parents away in Europe, Pask had been invited to attend as the de la Guerra family representative. He and Will had had an excellent time swanking it up on the glassed-in rooftop garden, eating the boosters’ canapés and downing their liquor.

  As Jenny and Will drove along Pacific Avenue, the town seemed to swell around them. They turned down El Dorado Street to Weber Avenue, navigating around horse-drawn carts laden with goods headed for the wharf. Will slowed the Baker as they passed the Hotel Stockton, thinking its newness might impress her, but Jenny didn’t give it a second look. She had her eyes peeled for the San Joaquin County Courthouse a couple of blocks down—a massive building of white stone with fat frondy palm trees planted out front and a heavy clock tower cupola that seemed much too large for it, like a very big hat on a very small man.

  Will parked the Baker aslant the concrete curb. They climbed out and hastily shed their motoring overcoats. As he stuffed his under the seat, he was aware that Jenny was eyeing him critically.

  “I told you to wear your best suit!”

  “This is my best suit!” Will returned. That just seemed to alarm her further, so he added, “And it’s just about new!” This was also true; the suit had been obtained just a few months prior for his graduation exercises. However, it had been ordered from a catalog, so it didn�
��t really fit him properly. The trouser hems brushed his anklebones, revealing bright red home-knit socks, and the grease- marked cuffs of his blue twill workshirt jutted out beyond the jacket’s sleeves.

  “Oh, it’ll just have to do.” Jenny fussed with his tie then took his arm. “Come on!”

  Inside, the building smelled of varnish and marble and bureaucracy. The shield of the State of California was inlaid on the floor of the main foyer, lit by light from the cupola above. The ringing officialness of it all made Will suddenly nervous.

  “Hey Jenny, I don’t suppose you’ve researched what happens if we’re caught?” He bent so he could speak low in her ear. “Getting a marriage license under false pretenses, I mean. It’s probably just a misdemeanor, right?”

  “For me, anyway!” said Jenny, brightly. “For you, it could be a lot worse. Especially since you’re intending to take me across state lines. I’m sure you’ve heard of the Mann Act? I’d advise you to keep any immoral purposes to yourself.”

  For not the first time, Will found that he wasn’t entirely comfortable with Jenny’s sense of humor. But he pressed his lips shut and watched as she corralled a cleaning lady for directions. He thought of Detroit. He needed to get to Detroit and this was going to get him there. That was all that mattered.

  The county clerk’s office, they were informed, was on the second floor. Jenny’s heels clicked and echoed as they climbed the wide marble stairs. The building was mostly deserted this day after the Thanksgiving holiday, but as Jenny had predicted, most of the offices were open—not enthusiastically open, perhaps—but open.

  The second floor, far less grandiose than the first, smelled of legal-sized paper and red ink and wooden filing cabinets. The walls above the half-paneling were painted the dull shade of green that municipal governments seemed to order by the hogshead. They walked down a hall lined with closed doors, pebbled glass windows gold-stenciled with the names of the departments within, finally entering the door marked “Licenses.”

  The room was not large, and the dozens of tall wooden filing cabinets that lined the walls made it seem even smaller. Behind a counter that spanned the length of the room, a desk was centered, its in-box stacked high. And behind that desk, a clerk—his feet propped up, a cigarette in his mouth—deeply absorbed in the newest of the Dreadnought Stanton serials. Will was beginning to feel like the Sophos of the Stanton Institute was following him around.