The Magicians

by James Gunn

  I began leafing through the manuscript, glancing at the headings written in Uriel's neat hand: “Introduction,” “Principles,” “Equipment,” “Simple Spells,” “Counterspells,” “Teleportation,” “Illusions,” “Disguises,” “Medical and Other Practical Applications.” The last section of the manuscript, ironically, was entitled “Ethics."

  I went back to the introduction and began to read carefully. The material had been worked and reworked, simplified, boiled down, and fitted into a theoretical framework. Diverse phenomena had been noted and described, their similarities observed, a reasonable hypothesis derived to explain the phenomena; the hypothesis was used to predict further events, altered, rechecked, and the whole process gone through again and again until the hypothesis was accepted as tentatively proved theory. In other words, a scientific mind had been at work with the aid of the scientific method and out of discredited phenomena had developed a working science.

  At least that's what I thought. I couldn't be sure because the manuscript had not been written as a textbook but as an aide memoire. Most of the connective and explanatory material that would have made everything much more understandable to me had been omitted. What I held was a notebook filled with personal jottings; they may have been perfectly comprehensible to the author, who could supply the background and examples automatically from memory and experience, but they were only suggestive to the casual reader. And the examples that were apparently present in the manuscript were nothing but headings and mathematical formulations. Sometimes I understood the calculus, but mostly I didn't know what the symbols were supposed to represent.

  When mathematicians say that mathematics is the only precise language, they mean when the answer is mathematical, and the inaccuracy of translation begins when you ask them what that answer means in terms of real things. When scientists say, “You can't understand it; you don't have the mathematics,” I have the sneaky notion that they don't know what it means in our imperfect world, either.

  But my time was not completely wasted on surmises and suspicions. I gathered the general impression that Uriel's theory postulated a store of energy somewhere that ordinarily is unavailable to our world. That store of energy existed in a place which was undefinable except in mathematical terms; the place might be called, inaccurately, “a coexistent universe,” parallel with ours but not touching it at any point—or some verbal equivalent that was equally descriptive and equally inexact.

  So far the concept was not absurd, not if you matched it against current explanations of the origins of the universe or the behavior of subatomic particles. If you can believe in neutrinos and quarks, you can believe in anything; and the theory of continuous creation of matter must assume some such store of matter or energy.

  In any case, there had to be something to Uriel's theory: it worked.

  This energy from a coexistent universe, then, was available, sometimes, in certain ways, to people who live in this world. Not by physical means, however: these were limited, by definition, to this place, this moment, this universe. But the mind is unfettered by time and place; it can range anywhere—backward to the beginning of time, forward to the end of the universe, sideways into parallel systems. The mind, properly prepared and properly tuned, can tap that source of energy and channel it into this world to do its will.

  In the long and uncertain history of man, through man's effort to control personified forces and spirits, his mind had tapped that source of secret energy, inefficiently, haphazardly. Myths and folklore have recorded the appearances of that energy in the form of gods and demons and fairies and the spirit world and all the other manifestations to which man, in his eternal quest for explanation, has given names. The appearance of the energy was fitful and uncertain because magicians lacked two things: theory and discipline. Where there was no theory, there could be no control, and a wrong theory was worse than no theory at all. And a disciplined mind was seldom found among the warped personalities of priests, witches, and magicians, even though a firm belief in the supernatural or demons or astrology was a necessary ingredient in the process.

  What was essential was a scientific mind and an unshakable conviction in the existence of another world, and these two were mutually inconsistent, though perhaps they had not always been. And occasionally, then, desire or fear might accidentally work in the proper manner and call forth what the mind wanted or dreaded most. Because the energy itself was formless. The mind was the matrix and shaped the energy into the thing that it became.

  I began to understand why Uriel had objected so violently to the day's programs. The energy could be tapped, but evil minds shaped it to their own desires and called that proof of the presence of evil in the universe. Self-fulfilling prophecy. I returned to the manuscript.

  Physical or symbolic devices could help discipline the mind. The symbolic device that worked best was mathematics. Others could be effective, but mathematics expressed relationships exactly without unfortunate connotations or subconscious responses. If you did it properly, you got just what you wanted—no more, no less. And modern developments in mathematics had made possible the conversion of a bastard art into a precise science.

  Extramundane energy could be controlled accurately and exactly by use of such mathematical tools as calculus, which took limits; analysis situ—topology—which was concerned with proximity in space, the sort of thing that is involved with telekinesis, for instance; and tensor analysis—absolute differential calculus—which constructed and discussed relations or laws which are generally covariant, which remained valid, that is, when passing from one to another system of coordinates, such as from the coexistent universe to our own. By using the proper equations, the mind could channel the desired amount of energy into the desired function, or bring two or more objects into different relationships. Possibly through this other universe.

  I looked up from the manuscript. My mind was boiling like a teakettle. If what I was reading was true—and I had seen it demonstrated in the Crystal Room time after time—then anyone could be a magician. Anyone! It didn't require talent, just belief, knowledge, and determination. I had determination. I could acquire the knowledge. And if I saw the evidence before me, I was enough of a pragmatist to believe.

  A metropolitan hotel is a self-contained city. Anything can happen inside its great protective walls—theft, rape, murder, espionage, adultery, conversion, self-sacrifice, saintliness, and conventions of sorcerers. The outside world need never know. But a place like this has its advantages, its own kind of magic. All things are possible, not by use of secret spells and formulae but by the expenditure of strictly mundane energy by hotel employees and strictly U.S. money by guests.

  I picked up a device that would have been magical to anyone living before 1876 and asked for room service. And I gave the girl who answered the telephone what was perhaps the oddest order in what must have been a fantastic list of unusual requests.

  “I want a book on the history of magic and witchcraft,” I said. “Also, see what you can find on higher mathematics, specifically calculus, analysis situ, and tensor analysis. I want them as soon as possible."

  “Yes, sir,” the girl said. She didn't even ask me to spell anything. “Anything else, sir?"

  “A ham sandwich on rye, french fries, and a pot of black coffee,” I said.

  “Yes, sir,” she said. “Is that all, sir?"

  “Oh,” I said, “and a box of chalk."

  Chapter 7

  Some mathematicians believe that numbers were invented by human beings, others, equally competent, believe that numbers have an independent existence of their own and are merely observed by sufficiently intelligent mortals.

  - E. T. Bell, The Magic of Numbers

  The first thing I tackled was the ham sandwich. It was a good sandwich, and it didn't suffer from being served under a dull, silvered banquet cover. As I ate it, I leafed through the history of magic, which looked to be the easiest of the lot. Later, after two cups of coffee, I realized that ma
tters were not that simple; the sorts of things one obtains by osmosis from society are often incorrect and always misleading.

  The Magus, for instance, was not merely a fancy name for a magician. He had taken his name from that great source of medieval magic, Solomon. Some authorities believed that Solomon's reputation as the greatest of wizards was strictly a later invention; others pointed to the pages devoted to the wisest of all Israelite kings in the Bible, which excite our curiosity without satisfying it. But the Bible is not our only source of information about Solomon; Persian, Arab, and Turkish writers, as well as the Talmudists, passed along legends of his wealth, wisdom, and power. His knowledge made him the most powerful of men, and he commanded all celestial, terrestrial, and infernal spirits; he was obeyed by the subterranean pygmies and gnomes, and by undines, elves, and salamanders.

  One author wrote of him, “In his palace paved with crystal Solomon had the jinn and the demons seated at tables of iron, the poor at tables of wood, chiefs of armies at tables of silver, and learned men and doctors of the law at tables of gold.... According to the Koran, the jinn worked under his eyes, building palaces and making statues, gardens, ponds, and precious carpets. When he desired to visit distant lands he traveled carried upon their backs."

  Solomon's ring was his most valuable possession: by its power he commanded the jinn. But his seal, his mysterious lamp, and his throne also were famous.

  The angel Raphael, it was believed, had brought him the ring from God. There was a certain darkness about Solomon's later years, as if he had indeed forsaken the One God of his forefathers and tried to communicate with other, demonic powers. The stories about his magic only grew greater after his death, and by the Middle Ages every alchemist, astrologer, cabalist, and hopeful sorcerer was convinced of Solomon's mastery of the Ancient Art. Somewhere, they thought, all of his intimate possessions still existed, impervious to loss or the deterioration of time because of their magical quality, and they had only to be discovered—the seal, the lamp, the ring, and most of all the book of magic, the Clavicule—and the aspirant magician himself could command demons and be as wise, as rich, and most of all as powerful as the fabled king. The great search for his secrets never slackened until the belief in magic dwindled away under the materialism of the Industrial Revolution.

  The most important artifact to be discovered was the so-called Key of Solomon. Many versions circulated throughout Europe, all purporting to be the one and only Clavicule, written in Solomon's own hand. The manuscript contained detailed descriptions of the preparations and ceremony for summoning demons—and, perhaps more important, for dismissing them. The instructions were so detailed and so difficult to follow exactly, as well as having possibly symbolic or cryptic meanings, that the magicians could not succeed. But they also could try until they died of senile decay without losing hope or losing faith in “Solomon."

  It must have been a great period for con artists, I thought.

  Christianity brought other, darker elements into the search for magical power. What began as a search for knowledge not unlike the modern scientific search became a heretical belief in other powers than God; magic became a perversion practiced in private, a dedication to evil, witchcraft. The summoning of demons became a pact with Satan accompanied by all sorts of nasty rites and submissions.

  Ariel and Uriel, like Gabriel, were the names of angels. It was a relief to discover whose side I was on. Catherine La Voisin, on the other hand, was a professional palmist and clairvoyant during the reign of Louis XIV. She secretly sold love charms and death spells to her more desperate clients. Besides being a witch, she was a poisoner and was involved in several lewd, bloody Amatory Masses said over the naked body of Madame de Montespan, Louis XIV's mistress, after the King had deserted her for the Duchess de la Vallière. But the Masses, which involved, some reports said, cutting the throats of children, were not effective. Finally, after a death Mass said against Louis by his now maddened former mistress succeeded no better than the love spells, a plot was made to poison the King, La Voisin was arrested, convicted, and burned alive.

  What kind of person, I wondered, would take the name of someone like that? I was sure now that I wanted nothing at all to do with her modern namesake.

  Terms swirled like bats’ wings through my head: Amatory Masses, Black Masses, Mortuary Masses, Masses in the cold, cold ground; Cabalas and Schemhamphoras; covens and Sabbaths and dark rites; obscene ceremonies and violent trials. The witches were bad enough, but it almost seemed as if the witch hunters were worse. Anything was permissible in the conviction of an accused witch. The Malleus Maleficarium of Heinrich Kramer and James Sprenger, the famed Hammer of Witches, recommended the following tactics to the ecclesiastical judge: “While the officers are preparing for the questioning, let the accused be stripped.... And the reason for this is that they should search for any instruments of witchcraft sewn into her clothes; for they often make such instruments, at the instruction of devils, out of the limbs of unbaptized children, the purpose being that those children should be deprived of the beatific vision.... If she will not confess the truth voluntarily, let him order the officers to bind her with cords, and apply her to some engine of torture.... Then let her be released again at someone's earnest request, and taken on one side, and let her again be persuaded; and in persuading her, let her be told that she can escape the death penalty...."

  I turned with relief to the sanity of mathematics. I plowed my way through differential and integral calculus, and as they came back to me Uriel's formulae became a little more meaningful. With a briefer perusal of the elements of analysis situ and tensor analysis, I surrendered to a feeling of mastery. It may have been illusory, but it felt good after the confusions of the day.

  If Uriel's manuscript was what it pretended to be, if what he said he had discovered was true, I now was qualified to work magic. I hesitated, remembering the Sorcerer's Apprentice, seeing Mickey Mouse in my memory racing back and forth with buckets, trying to undo his careless mistakes. But I also remembered Ariel, who was depending on me, and Solomon, who was waiting for me to stumble into his ungentle hands, and I decided to give it a try.

  Where should I start? I remembered the casual way in which one of the speakers had summoned a cold drink. I thought about a nice cold mint julep or a Tom Collins, but unthought about them just as quickly. I shouldn't try anything complicated while I was still learning. I settled for something simple: an ordinary highball. Bourbon and soda. That shouldn't be difficult.

  I leafed through Uriel's manuscript until I came to the section headed “Simple Spells.” I went over it once quickly and then read it over again more carefully, taking notes. Okay. I turned to “Equipment.” The only essential piece of equipment, the manuscript said, was a piece of chalk, or even pencil and paper, and these were only aids to concentration in jotting down equations. Someone who had an excellent memory or was brilliant in mathematics eventually might be able to keep the equations in his head, but I had neither memory nor brilliance. I took a piece of chalk out of the box and held it tightly in my sweaty hand.

  It is also helpful, the manuscript suggested, to include an element of similarity in the spell if the mind is not accustomed to thinking in mathematical terms. That described me, all right, I thought, and got a water glass from the bathroom, dribbled a few drops of water into the bottom, and placed it in front of me on the table. Beside the glass I chalked a small circle and jotted down the recommended equation. Nothing happened.

  Would it work? I stopped myself from thinking in that direction. Without belief the mind cannot function properly. It did work. There was no doubt of that. I had seen it work. I could make it work.

  I said the equation aloud, linking the unknowns to the object I wanted and the place I wanted it. Nothing happened.

  “In the beginning,” the manuscript said, “verbal equivalents are often helpful."

  Verbal equivalents. I felt foolish doing it, but I shrugged and chanted, “Highball, highball, come to
me, come to Casey Kingman, the private eye from Kansas City, Kansas, who is presently located in room seven oh seven of—"

  Suddenly there was a glass in the circle. The instant before the circle had been empty. Now the glass was there. Amber. Miraculous. I stared at it, wide-eyed and unbelieving. I had done it. I had worked magic—or maybe, if Uriel was right, I had practiced a new science.

  I reached a trembling hand toward the glass and picked it up. I raised it to my lips and sipped gingerly, letting it roll back over my tongue. Phew-w-w! The liquid sprayed over the brocade curtains as it flew from my mouth. The bourbon was lousy. The soda was water. And the water was hot.

  I put the glass down feeling chastened and properly humble. Obviously I was not yet an adept. I was lucky, perhaps, that I had not summoned a barrel, or a vat, or the spirit of the vine, himself, Bacchus and the bacchantes, to tear me to pieces. Like Prospero I felt like forswearing magic for all time. It was too dangerous for a man like me; I'd take my chances with easier tools like guns and knives.

  But I couldn't give up. Too much depended on my success, not least my life.

  I paced the floor restlessly. Damn it! I needed help. The speaker on spells had summoned not only a glass but a girl. Or teleported her, I caught myself. It was easy to fall into Solomon's trap of describing these phenomena in terms of magic instead of science.

  I needed somebody to talk to, somebody to answer my questions, somebody to teach me. Neither Ariel nor Uriel were registered under those names in the hotel. I didn't know where they were, what rooms they were in, whether they were staying in the hotel at all. I had no way of getting in contact with either one of them. I had to wait until they wanted to talk to me. Or did I?

  I needed a link, something connected with one of them. I hadn't even met Uriel. I might as well cross him off immediately. What of Ariel? I thought about her for a moment, smiled, and then pulled myself out of my reverie. She had handled the program. I discarded that link quickly. A number of other persons had handled the program as well, some of them perhaps more intimately, and I had no desire to confront an irate printer.