The Inadequate Adept

by Simon Hawke

  Privately, Doc had confessed to him that he wasn't really an adept, but for all his denials, Mick couldn't understand why Doc persisted in claiming he knew nothing of true sorcery. If these "scientific works" he had embarked upon weren't sorcery, what were they?

  "Mick," he said, "you and Brian are the only ones to whom I've told the truth, that I'm not really a sorcerer. I know you find that difficult to accept, because you've seen me do some things that seem like sorcery to you, but the fact is that anyone could do those things if they knew how."

  "Aye, well, I suppose that anyone could do magic if they knew how," Mick replied. "Knowing how's the trick."

  "I don't seem to be getting my point across," said Brewster. "All right, let's try it this way. Of the things I've told you about the world I come from, what seems to impress you the most is the airplane. Granted, it sounds very impressive, and I suppose it is to someone who's never considered the possibility of a flying machine. However, the fact is that there's really nothing magical about it. These airplanes are powered by devices called jet engines. The jet engines propel the airplane along a runway, which is a very hard, straight road. Now, as the speed of the airplane increases, the force of the air rushing over its wings eventually causes it to lift, which allows the plane to fly. Now to you, this undoubtedly sounds like magic, but in fact, it isn't. It's merely science, the knowledge and application of certain natural laws."

  He unrolled a scroll, picked up a quill, dipped it in the inkwell, and began to draw. First he sketched an airplane, then a diagram of the engine.

  "This is merely a rough sketch, you understand," he said. "The actual engine is a bit more complicated than what I'm drawing here. And it's much larger, of course. Now this part here is called the turbofan. As its blades turn, they suck air into the engine. The air then enters devices called compressors, which raise the pressure of the air inside them, which then flows into the combustion chambers. Fuel is sprayed into the combustion chambers, where it is mixed with the air and ignited. The hot gases resulting from the combustion pass through devices called turbines, which drive the compressors and the turbofan, then out the rear nozzle of the engine, which forces the airplane forward. It rolls along the runway on large wheels, and as the force increases, the speed of the airplane increases. As it moves forward faster and faster, the air rushes over the wings. Now, if we look at one of these wings from the side, it looks like this."

  He made another drawing, a cross section of a wing, as Mick watched intently.

  "Now you will notice that on the bottom, the wing is flat, while on the top, it is curved. As the engine drives the airplane forward, air flows around the wings. This is called the airfoil principle. Some air flows around the bottom of the wing, some flows around the top. But because the top of the wing is curved, the air that flows over the top of the wing moves faster than the air flowing beneath it, which makes the pressure of the air greater beneath the wing than above it. This pressure forces the wing upward, and lifts the plane, allowing it to fly. There's nothing magical about it. It requires no spells or incantations, merely a knowledge of the science of physics."

  Mick seemed unconvinced. "This science seems as powerful as any sorcery I ever heard of," he said.

  "Well, perhaps," said Brewster. "However, I happen to be a very well respected scientist, yet I can't even begin to understand how Brian was turned into a chamberpot. It goes against all the known laws of science. Where I come from, people would say it was impossible."

  "I only wish it were," said the chamberpot wryly.

  "If you would teach me more of this science," Mick said, "I shall teach you all the magic that I know, which may not be very much, I admit, but with my slight skill and Brian's knowledge, gained from several lifetimes of living with adepts, we could instruct you in the methods of the Craft to the best of our ability."

  "I would like that very much, Mick," Brewster said. "Not only because I'd like to find a way to free Brian of his enchantment, but because as much as science seems to fascinate you, magic fascinates me."

  "If you ask me, this science still sounds very much like sorcery," said Mick. "Perhaps science is merely sorcery of a different sort."

  "I guess it all depends on how you look at it," said Brewster with a shrug. "Maybe sorcery is merely science of a different sort. And as a scientist, it's my job to study it."

  "Do you think you could help us make one of these airplanes?" Mick said.

  Brewster chuckled. "Well, now, that would be a rather tall order. I don't know about jet engines, but I suppose it might be possible to devise some sort of primitive steam engine, perhaps. If we could come up with a way to make an internal combustion engine, it might even be possible to make a sort of ultralight. But first we need to make aluminum."

  When the aluminum-making apparatus was properly set up, it took up a great deal of space. They had to clear away most of the apparatus in the laboratory and store it in one of the upper rooms of the tower. Brewster had been too carried away with his enthusiasm for the project to notice Mick's disappointment at losing his laboratory, and Mick hadn't said anything about it. But Shannon, who had dropped in from the Roost to observe what Doc was up to with her brigands now, saw how Mick was feeling and drew him aside while they were preparing to initiate the process.

  "It seems that you have lost your laboratory," she said, drawing him aside.

  "Aye, well, I never had much luck with my alchemical experiments, anyway," said Mick, in an attempt to downplay his disappointment.

  "Just the same, you have given up more for Doc than any of us," she continued. "You have given him the use of your keep, you have labored for him ceaselessly, and now you have given up your laboratory. And to what end? What profit have you seen from all of this?"

  Mick glanced at her sharply. "Speak plainly, Shannon," he replied. "Is it that you believe we are all wasting our time and effort? You think Doc is taking unfair advantage of us?"

  "I am beginning to wonder," Shannon said. "True, he has worked some mighty sorcery, but what gain have we received from any of it?"

  "You may answer that question for yourself," said Mick. "You enjoy my brew as much as any of the brigands, and Doc's still has vastly improved not only its quality, but it has enabled me to increase my yield. How often have I heard you complaining that your brigands do not bathe enough? Well, Doc's magic soap not only keeps them clean, but they enjoy it so much that they bathe more often now. Some of them even do it every day. We shall soon be bringing the many-bladed knives to market, and in learning how to make them, I have learned to craft blades that will be superior to any I have ever seen. When I apply this newfound knowledge to the swords I make, you and your brigands will be better armed than any force in the twenty-seven kingdoms. Doc's presence here has been a boon to all of us, yet 'tis not something that you choose to see. Truth to tell, 'tis the jingling of stolen purses that you miss, and 'tis jealous you are over the respect and loyalty that Doc commands. 'Twas you, yourself, who agreed to let the brigands assist Doc in his works," Mick pointed out.

  "Aye, that I did," she replied in a sullen tone, "but only because he promised me far greater profits. Thus far, I have seen much work, but precious little profit. I have too few men to watch the trails now, and there is no telling how many opportunities for plunder have been missed as a result."

  "You are a greedy woman, Shannon," Mick said, "and what is worse, you have no patience. And I, myself, have none to listen to such talk. There is much work left to be done. If you wish to see these profits you are so impatient for, then I suggest you let me alone to do it."

  And with that, he turned and walked away. Shannon's hands clenched into fists and her lips compressed into a tight grimace. Had anyone else dared to speak to her that way, she would have given them a taste of steel, but Mick wasn't just anyone. He was more than armorer to the brigands, he was her friend, as well, and what he'd said struck home that much harder as a result. She turned on her heel and stalked off to where her black stal
lion waited obediently. She swung up into the saddle, put her heels to Big Nasty's flanks, and galloped off furiously down the trail leading through the forest.

  At this point, the narrator will exercise his prerogative to control the flow of space and time by going back to London to check up on the other woman in Brewster's life, the lovely Pamela Fairburn. Poor Pamela hasn't had a very easy time of it. With a body that would leave even construction workers speechless, a face that could have easily graced the cover of any fashion magazine, a personality that could make even the most misanthropic individuals feel comfortable in her presence, and a level of intelligence that made her one of the top cybernetics engineers in Europe, you'd think that Pamela would have it made. She had everything... everything, that is, except the man she loved.

  None of her friends, her colleagues, or her family could understand what the hell was wrong with Brewster. Nor could they understand what Pamela saw in him. To their way of thinking, any man in his right mind, faced with the prospect of marriage to a woman like Pamela Fairburn, would set land-speed records in racing to the altar. However, Marvin Brewster hadn't made it there at all. He had missed not one, not two, but three scheduled weddings, and now he'd disappeared again. Her family was absolutely furious and her father had stopped speaking to her. But in spite of everything, Pamela still remained loyal and faithful to Brewster.

  She understood not just because she loved him, but because she knew the type of man he was. A most uncommon type, a genius, and Pamela understood that for genius, one often had to make allowances. Most geniuses possessed erratic personalities, and in the circles Pamela Fairburn moved in, she had met her share of geniuses. However, while there were those whose personalities made it difficult to make allowances, Brewster wasn't of that sort at all.

  He was more like a small boy who'd promised his mother he would be home before dark, but became so caught up in his play that he lost all track of time. He had a sweet, endearing quality that made it possible to forgive him almost anything, and in his case, there really wasn't all that much to forgive. He was not abusive, he didn't drink to excess, and he did not use any drugs. He was not threatened by her assertiveness nor intimidated by her intelligence. He did not smoke cigarettes and only smoked a pipe occasionally. He did not have loutish friends who kept him out carousing until dawn. He didn't play around and he couldn't care less about sports. His one flaw was a tendency to become so caught up in his work that he simply forgot everything else.

  The last time Pamela had seen him, he had apparently solved whatever scientific puzzle he had been obsessed with and gone running out the door of their apartment, heading for his lab. Pamela had not known what he was working on, but that was not unusual. Brewster would often discuss some of his work with her, because she was one of the few people who were capable of understanding it, but he could be secretive when it came to certain, special projects. Again, like a small boy who would hide a present he was making for his mother until he had it finished and could spring it full-blown as a surprise.

  She had fully expected him to be occupied in the lab until the wee, small hours of the morning, but when daylight came and he still hadn't returned, she was not really surprised. She had the weekend off, and she had waited up for him most of the night, so she decided to get some sleep, expecting him to wake her as soon as he came home, all brimming with enthusiasm for whatever breakthrough he had made. Yet, when she awoke late Saturday afternoon to find that he still hadn't returned, she began to wonder if he hadn't taken off again, in search of some essential part for some kind of electronic circuit or something, which was how he'd wound up missing for two days the last time they'd scheduled the wedding. She called his laboratory, but there was no answer. That, too, did not really surprise her. She'd known him to become so caught up in his work that he would ignore the ringing phone, sometimes even unplug it. With a sigh, she hung up the phone and waited patiently. So much for their plans of taking a weekend drive in the country.

  Sunday came, and still no Brewster. Pamela's irritation turned into apprehension. She kept telling herself that this wasn't anything unusual. He's done this sort of thing before, she thought. He'd probably lost all track of time. Again. He could become so driven that he would often forget to eat or sleep. He needed taking care of more than any man she'd ever met, but she did not wish to seem overbearing. Still, she couldn't shake the feeling that something had gone wrong. By Monday morning, she was convinced of it. She got into her car and drove to the EnGulfCo building.

  The director of security checked the logs and learned that Brewster had gone up to the lab on Friday night and he had never left. "No one can enter or leave the security areas without logging in and out," he said. "It's standard procedure. However, Dr. Brewster's been known to stay in his lab for days. He's got all the comforts up there. He's probably just busy working on one of his special projects. I'm sure there's no reason to be concerned."

  "Something's wrong, I tell you," Pamela said. "I can feel it! What if there's been some sort of accident? I need to get up there."

  "I'm afraid I don't have the authority to allow that, Dr. Fairburn."

  "Then call Dr. Davies and tell him that I wish to speak with him."

  The director of security called the executive secretary of the EnGulfCo vice-president in charge of research and development, who put him through to the vice-president of R and D himself. Dr. Davies asked that Pamela be brought up to his office, where she went through more or less the same conversation again. She was rapidly losing her patience.

  "I'm his fiancee, not some industrial spy! For God's sake, Walter, you know me! I work for the government and I've got top-level clearance! What does it take to get permission to go up in a lousy lift?"

  "Rather a great deal, I'm afraid," said Davies. "The lift won't even take us up there. It's equipped with a sophisticated scanner. He designed it himself, so he's the only one who could gain access to the penthouse floor. Even I couldn't get up there. And the door to the lab is double-thick steel, like a vault, and scanner-equipped, as well. He's the only one who can get in or out."

  "That's absurd," said Pamela. "What happens if there's a fire, or some sort of accident?"

  "Yes, well, we brought up the same objections, but he was quite adamant." Davies shrugged. "You know how stubborn he can be. And given his value to the corporation, well, he gets pretty much anything he wants."

  "Can't we simply go up to the floor below the penthouse and take the stairs?" asked Pamela.

  "Well, that's a security area, too," said Davies. "We could get up there, but in order to get through that way, we'd have to pass through another steel door equipped with a palm scanner."

  Pamela shook her head with exasperation. "Like a little boy with his bloody secret clubhouse. Well, we shall simply have to break in."

  "Do you have any idea what that would involve? Besides, I don't really have the authority to make such a decision," Davies said.

  "Well, who does have the authority? Never mind. Let me use your phone."

  "Be my guest."

  She placed a call to the CEO of EnGulfCo International. She explained the situation to him briefly, then handed the phone to Davies, who said, "Yes, sir" a lot, then hung up and looked at her with a sheepish expression.

  "You know, I've worked here for ten years. I'm a vice-president and I have to make an appointment just to call him. I had no idea you two knew each other."

  "We don't, really," Pamela said contritely. "He plays golf with my father. Look, I'm sorry, Walter, but I just know that something's happened. I can't tell you how I know, I just do."

  "Well, I hope you're wrong," said Davies, "but I've been directed to give you my full cooperation. However, it's going to be a major project breaking through those doors."

  "We may not need to do that," she said. "Let me have a look at that scanner system."

  About an hour later, Pamela had figured out the scanner system and bypassed it. Davies and the engineer who'd brought the tools she'
d asked for stared at her with astonishment.

  "Damn, I knew you were good, Pamela," said Davies, "but I think you've missed your calling. I know some foreign governments who would pay a fortune for your skills."

  "Well, it helps that I know how Marvin's mind works," she replied. "He's camouflaged the circuitry to appear much more complicated than it really is. And there's no way to get through it without setting off alarms at least a dozen different ways. Which you were kind enough to turn off. Don't worry about your security, Walter, I'd never have gotten this far without your help."

  She opened the door and they went up the stairway to the penthouse. There was no response when they buzzed the door to the lab, and it took more time to defeat the scanner that controlled it, because it was wired differently. Pamela cursed and swore and finally got it open. They went through into the lab and, needless to say, there was no sign of Brewster.

  "I can't understand it," Davies said, looking around the lab, completely baffled. He had checked the bathroom and the supply closets, and he was at a total loss to account for Brewster's absence. "He has to be here! How could he possibly have gotten out?"

  It was a locked-room mystery. There was only one way in or out of the lab, and that door had been locked until they had opened it. There was no other way anyone could have entered or left. The lab was located on the penthouse floor, so going out a window would have been out of the question. Aside from which, the windows didn't open. The ductwork was not big enough for a grown man to fit through, and there was no sign that the grills covering the ductwork had been tampered with. There was simply no other way in or out.