Genie and Engineer 1: The Engineer Wizard

by Glenn Michaels

  Paul nodded in understanding but said nothing, lest he should lose control and start shouting in anger instead. With a quick glance, he noted that the elevator was still unavailable. So he rejoined the line and went up the stairs slowly, carefully favoring his injured foot.

  The walkway was wide and not overly crowded, and Paul limped along at a snail’s pace, glancing out the windows at the traffic speeding by on the road underneath him.

  And then a commotion in front of him drew his attention.

  It was the woman in the wheelchair again. Somehow, she had managed to catch a ride on the elevator when Paul was examining his foot and had gotten ahead of him. And now, she was having a problem with her wheelchair.

  She was mad—fuming mad—at the uncooperative machine, flipping switches and pounding away at the control panel. Everyone nearby was giving her guarded looks and going out of their way to avoid her, likely afraid that her anger would involve them in some unpleasant situation.

  Well, Paul didn’t really want to get involved either. He had come to see the convention, not to immerse himself in someone else’s problems. Still, she was a paraplegic and stuck in a bad situation. His heart reached out to her.

  So he shuffled up to the side of her wheelchair.

  “‘Don’t bother. I think it’s dead,’” Paul quipped in a soft voice quoting from the movie Superman. He smiled gently too so as not to antagonize her further.

  She spun around in her seat, and for a moment, Paul thought that she would snap his head off. But he watched as she fought through the anger and regained her emotional control.

  “Oh, it’s you. I’m sorry about your foot. Are you sure it’s okay?” she asked pleasantly, though Paul could tell that her heart wasn’t in the question.

  He kept smiling in return. “Can I help you? I know a little something about electronics.”

  A degree of suspicion crept into her eyes, and she gripped her handbag tighter.

  “I’m quite alright. My wheelchair just seems to be on the fritz, that’s all,” she replied firmly, her tone of voice verging on the haughty.

  Well, okay, he had tried. If she didn’t want his help, who was he to force it on her?

  So he gave her a small bow. “As you wish.” And he turned to leave, managing to walk away three steps.

  “Oh, Mister?!” Paul heard her shout.

  He turned back. She still had that look of suspicion in her eye, but he now saw a note of desperation as well. It took him only a moment to walk back, dodging around three teens as he went.

  “Yes?” Paul asked her, trying to maintain his friendly smile.

  “I’ll pay you $50 to push me into the convention hall, where I can use a payphone. My smartphone died on me a week ago, and I just haven’t gotten a replacement for it yet,” she told him grumpily.

  Merlin popped up in Paul’s view, grinning from ear to ear.

  “Your big heart is going to get you in big trouble someday,” he said, chuckling. “Oh, and be sure to disengage the chair’s drive before you try to push it.”

  • • • •

  A few minutes later, they reached the end of the walkway, and Paul pushed her across the convention lobby toward a payphone.

  He leaned forward a little.

  “I was serious about the offer to check your wheelchair for you,” he explained. “Perhaps, if I could fix it, it would save someone a trip out to get you.”

  He sensed her hesitation as she weighed the alternatives. She obviously didn’t trust him, not even now, but she knew that she had few options. There were a number of people around, but this crowd had already proved their reluctance to get involved in anything. If Paul tried something, such as stealing her purse, they probably weren’t going to help her.

  Nevertheless, she relented. Reluctantly so.

  “Okay, but please, don’t go to any trouble.”

  “Merlin?” Paul whispered inaudibly.

  The wizard popped up into his view again, frowning at the wheelchair.

  “Typical design,” he muttered. “An electric motor on each wheel, each PWM-controlled from the drivers on the logic board in the control module mounted below the seat. The joystick is the source control of the signals. Power is derived from the two batteries next to the control module and under the seat. Hmm, since both of the motors don’t work, the problem is likely in the control panel or with the control module.”

  The woman took the payphone receiver, dropped in two quarters, and punched in a number.

  Paul knelt on the floor and checked the battery connections. They seemed solid. With a small spell, he checked the voltage. Both of the batteries were almost fully charged.

  “Can you scan the logic board?” Paul whispered. “Is it getting power?”

  Merlin shrugged. “This is more your line, not mine,” he muttered. “I’ll try,” he added, closing his eyes and reaching out with one hand.

  “I don’t see a problem,” he answered hesitantly.

  Paul moved up to the control panel. Hmm, it appeared to be a bit abused.

  The woman clicked the hook on the payphone and tried another number.

  Paul half-turned away from the woman, using his left hand to hold his windbreaker open, creating a space between it and his chest. In the space thus created (which he judged to be out of sight of every other person in the room), he tapped into the gold wristband to open a portal back to his rental house, the other end of the portal positioned just above his tool bag that was sitting in one corner of the kitchen. With his right hand, he reached through the portal and extracted a small screwdriver kit from the tool bag. As he turned back to the woman in the wheelchair, he closed the portal and smoothed out the windbreaker. From the kit, he pulled out a miniature Phillips screwdriver and used it to start opening the panel.

  She noticed. “What are you doing?” she asked, a hint of anger and accusation in her voice.

  “Just a quick check. I believe there is a crack in the cover here.”

  With widened eyes, she took a closer look herself. “It...does look a little cracked. Oh, my goodness, did I do that earlier?”

  The third screw fell into his hand, and he lifted the cover. It definitely was cracked, and the circuit board below it, one of those new membrane types, was also cracked.

  Paul shook his head and couldn’t resist using a Mythbusters line. “‘There’s your problem!’”

  She gave him a startled look but said nothing.

  “I don’t think I can fix this after all,” Paul admitted, putting the cover back in place and screwing in the screws. “I need more tools than this.”

  “I can’t seem to reach anyone right now,” she weakly confessed, then glanced around the convention center. Paul could see indecision and regret in her eyes. His heart was touched again.

  “Excuse me,” he said, surprising even himself with his sudden impulse. “I was wondering if you might do me a favor.”

  She blinked at him in astonishment. “A favor? For you?”

  Paul shrugged, feigning a degree of indifference. “Yes, you see, I’ve never been to the Chicago Comic and Entertainment Expo before. I haven’t got a clue where to start, and I don’t know who most of the guests are. I am in sore need of a guide. Would you be willing to show me around? I’ll pay you $50 if you help me out.”

  Staring at him for several seconds, Paul could see the corners of her mouth begin to turn up a little in a smile.

  “You’re pulling my leg,” she said, a trace of accusation in her voice.

  Paul raised his right hand, splitting his fingers into a “V,” raised one eyebrow, and seriously said, “Vulcans never pull legs.”

  She laughed, and the sound of her laughter was pleasant to his ears.

  So he shrugged and smiled. “I just moved in from out west. And I’ve never attended a convention remotely like this one.” He neglected to mention that he was from California, where he could have easily attended conventions in San Diego, Las Vegas, or Los Angeles. But he was truthful in that he
never had attended a science-fiction or comic convention before. There just never seemed to be time for it.

  “I guess a guy who quotes Superman, Mythbusters, and Star Trek, all in the same half hour, can’t be all bad. Very well, how about a deal? You push me around, and I’ll play the guide. I’ve been to every one of these conventions.” She stretched forth a hand. “My name is Copernicus Kingsley. Everyone calls me Capie.”

  Shaking her hand, Paul smiled at her. “And my name is Henry Kaufman.”

  “Nice to meet you, Henry,” she replied, smiling back at him. Paul noted that this time, her smile seemed to be genuine, and it definitely increased her beauty.

  He nodded to a poster on a nearby wall. “Maybe we can start with him. Who is Geoff Johns?”

  Capie offered a bemused smile. “You can quote lines from science-fiction shows and still not know who Geoff Johns is? Only one of the most prolific comic book writers of our day. He does Green Lantern, Superman, and The Flash, among others, and until recently, he was the Chief Creative Officer at DC Entertainment. If you don’t know who he is, you really do need a guide here.”

  Paul shrugged. “Just think of me as a Beta unit, with a limited education.”

  She laughed. “The Last Starfighter, huh? Okay, I give up. Let’s get our tickets and get started. There is a lot to see and do at these conventions, and I’ll probably have to explain everything as we go. Let’s not waste time.”

  Then she smiled and added, “‘It’s that devil’s distinction between being in charge and being in control; I’m in charge, you’re in control. You can imagine how much this thrills me.’”

  Paul chuckled. “Miles Vorkosigan, in the novel Komarr, by Lois McMaster Bujold. Good quote.”

  He moved around behind her wheelchair and pushed it toward the cashier’s window.

  A quote came to him.

  Paul quipped, “‘Cannot run out of time. Time is infinite. You are finite. Zathras is finite. This...’” and he held up the miniature screwdriver. “‘This is wrong tool.’” And he put it back in his shirt pocket.

  It was her turn to laugh. “I always liked Zathras. ‘War Without End,’ part two of Babylon 5. You, sir, are going to be interesting.”

  • • • •

  For the next three and a half hours, they merrily zoomed through the great hall, visiting exhibits, attending two panel sessions and a show, meeting “famous” comic and entertainment stars (that Paul had never heard of before) and securing their autographs. They also visited the inevitable souvenir shop and selected a couple of trinkets, including a Green Lantern T-shirt in his size.

  Capie was amazing in her depth of knowledge, continuously spouting a stream of relevant data and background on the Guests attending the convention, the panels and the exhibits. There was an entire universe of stories, concepts and information here that Paul never knew had existed before. It rivaled everything he knew about science fiction.

  To be honest, the time went by at warp speed and Paul suddenly realized that the crowds had thinned and that most everyone else had already left for the evening.

  Capie seemed to realize it at the same moment and sighed. “I hate this part, having to leave. We didn’t get to see it all, you know. There’s a lot more.”

  “I too had a great deal of fun. A lot more with you as my guide than I ever would have had on my own. Many many thanks,” Paul said, with a half bow. “The convention will be here for two more nights. Are you planning to come back?”

  She turned and looked at him. “Well, tomorrow I’ll have to get this silly wheelchair repaired. But Sunday, yes, I plan to be right back here. Are you suggesting something?”

  Paul grinned mischievously. “I’ll gladly pay you $50 if you’ll be my guide Sunday too.”

  She laughed and held up one hand. “You can keep your money. Shall we say noon in the lobby? I’ll be the one in the repaired wheelchair.”

  • • • •

  After escorting her to her van and watching her load up using the van’s electric lift system, Paul left her and found his own car. On the drive home, he kept thinking about her and all the fun they had that afternoon and evening.

  Merlin dropped into the passenger’s seat. “I warned you about that toe and now it’s swollen,” he admonished Paul. “I suggest a good long soak tonight in Epson salts, then an ice pack.”

  “Sounds like a good idea,” Paul mumbled, only half paying attention to him.

  The apparition looked at him sharply. “Ah, I see. Well, if it’s worth anything, I like her too. She’s got a sense of humor that’s just as quirky as yours.”

  Startled, Paul gave him a puzzled look. “What are you talking about? You’re not suggesting—?”

  “Who, me? I didn’t hear me suggest anything. I merely said I liked her.”

  Paul frowned in annoyance. “I just met the woman and she’s fun to be with, that’s all. Don’t you go suggesting anything beyond that. It’s not funny.”

  Merlin held up a hand. “Of course not. What an absurd idea! I think I’ll go now. All that comic book stuff gave me a headache.” And he vanished from sight.

  Paul ground his teeth in derision. A guy meets a nice girl and people instantly start planning wedding ceremonies. Capie was fun to be with and that was the sum total of it. Considering his situation, his rather short life expectancy, anything more than that was ludicrous.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Chicago, Illinois

  South Lawndale

  South Kildare Avenue

  April

  Saturday, 8:42 a.m. CST

  Saturday morning, after satisfactorily checking the status of his little toe and eating a light breakfast, Paul locked up the house. Wearing his gold wristband and with his tantalum block in the seat next to him, he drove down to the waterfront again, this time to Cricket Hill. Parking the car, he walked out to Montrose Point Bird Sanctuary with the tantalum in hand, strolling out to the concrete pier at the edge of the lake.

  This was one of the most isolated sections of the lake front that Paul could find. No one else was around.

  He sat on the edge of the concrete, the water quietly lapping against the side of the pier a few feet beneath his dangling shoes. The breeze lightly carried the scent of the lake in his direction, and he breathed in deeply, enjoying the fragrance.

  With a spell, Paul levitated the tantalum block up from his left hand, directing it outward over the lake, a hundred or so feet from the shore. With a flick of his right hand, the tantalum dropped into the water, down to a depth of twenty feet.

  Among the potential candidates for the precious metal in a talisman, tantalum was better than gold, silver, platinum, or palladium. But it also turned out that in terms of isotopes, tantalum made a nearly perfect choice.

  There were only two stable isotopes of tantalum: isotopes 181 and 180m. Isotope 181 constituted 99.99% of all the tantalum in the universe (including Paul’s block). Only 0.01% of tantalum atoms were of isotope 180m. Therefore, all Paul needed to do was convert his tantalum from isotope 181 to isotope 180m by removing one neutron from each nucleus, and its magical quotient would increase accordingly.

  According to his calculations, the tantalum would become 3.68 times as potent. If he could increase the potency of the other materials of his new talisman in a similar manner, the result might very well be a talisman a hundred times more potent than his first one. And that wasn’t even counting the impact that a beefed-up ceremony might have on it.

  As is the case with so many other things, the devil was in the details. The immediate difficulty here lay in the conversion process itself. If Paul was not careful, he could potentially release enough energy to make the combined yield of the entire U.S. nuclear arsenal look like a miniature firecracker. And since he was at ground zero, he was highly motivated to avoid making any such mistake.

  Releasing a neutron from the nucleus was not a straightforward task. The masses involved were not equal. The mass of a neutron was greater than the difference between th
e masses of the 181Ta and 180Ta atoms. No one except God knew why it worked out that way, but there was no denying the mathematics of it. The difference had to come from somewhere, or the neutrons would never leave the 181Ta nucleus in the first place.

  That was one of the reasons why Paul had put the tantalum block in the lake. In part, the water would provide a source of heat for the tantalum to draw on. But also, he needed someplace for the neutrons to go once they left the 181Ta nucleus.

  Water was H20, two atoms of hydrogen bonded to one atom of oxygen, with 99.97% of the oxygen atoms as isotope 16O. It turned out that 17O was also a stable isotope. Paul would simply direct the neutrons leaving the 181Ta atoms to join with the nuclei of the 16O atoms and then turn them into 17O atoms. Producing 17O atoms released about half the energy needed for the 181Ta to 180Ta conversion, which was a nice side benefit. He now needed to furnish only half the power for the tantalum conversion, and in addition, he also didn’t have to worry about neutron radiation flooding the area.

  Raising both hands high in the air, Paul closed his eyes and droned, “In the name of nuclear reactors, particle accelerators, and cold fusion, may the 181Ta atoms begin releasing a single neutron from their nuclei to be absorbed by the 16O atoms in the water, and let the energy needed to assist in this process be drawn from the water of the lake and from the magma inside the earth below me.”

  Out in the water, a frothing began to take place on the surface. Paul marveled at this since the tantalum was twenty feet down. It would take quite a disturbance that far down to generate what was now visible on the lake’s surface.

  He intently monitored the reaction, ready to stop it instantly if something started to get out of control. But due to the mass involved, he understood that it would take a while to convert the entire block of precious metal.

  A small white sail rounded the curve of the pier, heading in his direction. Paul could see Merlin furling the sheets as the small boat approached.