“What do you think I ought to do?”
“Nothing just yet. Go home and sleep on it. This Charlie may be playing a lone hand, making small-time shake-downs purely on bluff. I don’t really think so; his type sounds like a mobster. But we need more data; we can’t do anything until they expose their hand a little more.”
We did not have long to wait. When I got down to my place of business the next morning I found a surprise waiting for me—several of them, all unpleasant.
It was as if it had been ransacked by burglars, set fire to, then gutted by a flood. I called up Jedson at once. He came right over. He didn’t have anything to say at first, but went poking through the ruins, examining a number of things. He stopped at the point where the hardware storeroom had stood, reached down and gathered up a handful of the wet ashes and muck. “Notice anything?” he asked, working his fingers so that the debris sloughed off and left in the hand some small metal objects—nails, screws, and the like.
“Nothing in particular. This is where the hardware bins were located; that’s some of the stuff that didn’t burn.”
“Yes, I know,” he said impatiently, “but don’t you see anything else? Didn’t you stock a lot of brass fittings?”
“Yes.”
“Well, find one!”
I poked around with my toe in a spot where there should have been a lot of brass hinges and drawer pulls mixed in with the ashes. I did not find anything but the nails that had held the bins together. I oriented myself by such landmarks as I could find and tried again. There were plenty of nuts and bolts, casement hooks, and similar junk, but no brass.
Jedson watched me with a sardonic grin on his face.
“Well?” I said, somewhat annoyed at his manner.
“Don’t you see?” he answered. “It’s magic, all right. In this entire yard there is not one scrap of metal left, except cold iron!”
It was plain enough. I should have seen it myself.
He messed around awhile longer. Presently we came across an odd thing. It was a slimy, wet track that meandered through my property, and disappeared down one of the drains. It looked as if a giant slug, about the size of a Crosley car, had wandered through the place.
“Undine,” Jedson announced, and wrinkled his nose at the smell. I once saw a movie, a Megapix superproduction called the Water King’s Daughter. According to it undines were luscious enough to have interested Earl Carroll, but if they left trails like that I wanted none of them.
He took out his handkerchief and spread it for a clean place to sit down on what had been sacks of cement—a fancy, quick-setting variety, with a trade name of Hydrolith, I had been getting eighty cents a sack for the stuff, now it was just so many big boulders.
He ticked the situation off on his fingers. “Archie, you’ve been kicked in the teeth by at least three of the four different types of elements—earth, fire, and water. Maybe there was a sylph of the air in on it, too, but I can’t prove it. First the gnomes came and cleaned out everything you had that came out of the ground, except cold iron. A salamander followed them and set fire to the place, burning everything that was burnable, and scorching and smoke-damaging the rest. Then the undine turned the place into a damned swamp, ruining anything that wouldn’t burn, like cement and lime. You’re insured?”
“Naturally.” But then I started to think. I carried the usual fire, theft, and flood insurance, but business-risk insurance comes pretty high: I was not covered against the business I would lose in the meantime, nor did I have any way to complete current contracts. It was going to cost me quite a lot to cover those contracts; if I let them slide it would ruin the good will of my business, and lay me open to suits for damage.
The situation was worse than I had thought, and looked worse still the more I thought about it. Naturally I could not accept any new business until the mess was cleaned up, the place rebuilt, and new stock put in. Luckily most of my papers were in a fireproof steel safe; but not all, by any means. There would be accounts receivable that I would never collect because I had nothing to show for them. I work on a slim margin of profit, with all of my capital at work. It began to look as if the firm of Archibald Fraser, Merchant and Contractor, would go into involuntary bankruptcy.
I explained the situation to Jedson.
“Don’t get your wind up too fast,” he reassured me. “What magic can do, magic can undo. What we need is the best wizard in town.”
“Who’s going to pay the fee?” I objected. “Those boys don’t work for nickels, and I’m cleaned out.”
“Take it easy, son,” he advised, “the insurance outfit that carries your risks is due to take a bigger loss than you are. If we can show them a way to save money on this, we can do business. Who represents them here?”
I told him—a firm of lawyers downtown in the Professional Building.
I got hold of my office girl and told her to telephone such of our customers as were due for deliveries that day. She was to stall where possible and pass on the business that could not wait to a firm that I had exchanged favors with in the past. I sent the rest of my help home—they had been standing around since eight o’clock, making useless remarks and getting in the way—and told them not to come back until I sent for them. Luckily it was Saturday; we had the best part of forty-eight hours to figure out some answer.
We flagged a magic carpet that was cruising past and headed for the Professional Building. I settled back and determined to enjoy the ride and forget my troubles. I like taxicabs—they give me a feeling of luxury—and I’ve liked them even better since they took the wheels off them. This happened to be one of the new Cadillacs with the teardrop shape and air cushions. We went scooting down the boulevard, silent as thought, not six inches off the ground.
Perhaps I should explain that we have a local city ordinance against apportation unless it conforms to traffic regulations—ground traffic, I mean, not air. That may surprise you, but it came about as a result of a mishap to a man in my own line of business. He had an order for eleven-odd tons of glass brick to be delivered to a restaurant being remodeled on the other side of town from his yard. He employed a magician with a common carrier’s license to deliver for him. I don’t know whether he was careless or just plain stupid, but he dropped those eleven tons of brick through the roof of the Prospect Boulevard Baptist Church. Anybody knows that magic won’t work over consecrated ground; if he had consulted a map he would have seen that the straight-line route took his load over the church. Anyhow, the janitor was killed, and it might just as well have been the whole congregation. It caused such a commotion that apportation was limited to the streets, near the ground.
It’s people like that who make it inconvenient for everybody else.
OUR MAN WAS IN—Mr. Wiggin, of the firm Wiggin, Snead, McClatchey & Wiggin. He had already heard about my “fire,” but when Jedson explained his conviction that magic was at the bottom of it he balked. It was, he said, most irregular. Jedson was remarkably patient.
“Are you an expert in magic, Mr. Wiggin?” he asked.
“I have not specialized in the thaumaturgic jurisprudence, if that is what you mean, sir.”
“Well, I don’t hold a license myself, but it has been my hobby for a good many years. I’m sure of what I say in this case; you can call in the independent experts you wish—they’ll confirm my opinion. Now suppose we stipulate, for the sake of argument, that this damage was caused by magic. If that is true, there is a possibility that we may be able to save much of the loss. You have authority to settle claims, do you not?”
“Well, I think I may say yes to that—bearing in mind the legal restrictions and the terms of the contract.” I don’t believe he would have conceded that he had five fingers on his right hand without an auditor to back him up.
“Then it is your business to hold your company’s losses down to a minimum. If I find a wizard who can undo a part, or all, of the damage, will you guarantee the fee, on behalf of your company, up to a reasonable amount,
say 25 percent of the indemnity?”
He hemmed and hawed some more, and said he did not see how he could possibly do it, and that if the fire had been magic, then to restore by magic might be compounding a felony, as we could not be sure what the connections of the magicians involved might be in the Half World. Besides that, my claim had not been allowed as yet; I had failed to notify the company of my visitor of the day before, which possibly might prejudice my claim. In any case, it was a very serious precedent to set; he must consult the home office.
Jedson stood up. “I can see that we are simply wasting each other’s time, Mr. Wiggin. Your contention about Mr. Fraser’s possible responsibility is ridiculous, and you know it. There is no reason under the contract to notify you, and even if there were, he is within the twenty-four hours allowed for any notification. I think it best that we consult the home office ourselves.” He reached for his hat.
Wiggin put up his hand. “Gentlemen, gentlemen, please! Let’s not be hasty. Will Mr. Fraser agree to pay half of the fee?”
“No. Why should he? It’s your loss, not his. You insured him.”
Wiggin tapped his teeth with his spectacles, then said, “We must make the fee contingent on results.”
“Did you ever hear of anyone in his right mind dealing with a wizard on any other basis?”
Twenty minutes later we walked out with a document which enabled us to hire any witch or wizard to salvage my place of business on a contingent fee not to exceed 25 percent of the value reclaimed. “I thought you were going to throw up the whole matter,” I told Jedson with a sigh of relief.
He grinned. “Not in the wide world, old son. He was simply trying to horse you into paying the cost of saving them some money. I just let him know that I knew.”
It took some time to decide whom to consult. Jedson admitted frankly that he did not know of a man nearer than New York who could, with certainty, be trusted to do the job, and that was out of the question for the fee involved. We stopped in a bar, and he did some telephoning while I had a beer. Presently he came back and said, “I think I’ve got the man. I’ve never done business with him before, but he has the reputation and the training, and everybody I talked to seemed to think that he was the one to see.”
“Who is it?” I wanted to know.
“Dr. Fortescue Biddle. He’s just down the street—the Railway Exchange Building. Come on, we’ll walk it.”
I gulped down the rest of my beer and followed him.
Dr. Biddle’s place was impressive. He had a corner suite on the fourteenth floor, and he had not spared expense in furnishing and decorating it. The style was modern; it had the austere elegance of a society physician’s layout. There was a frieze around the wall of the signs of the zodiac done in intaglio glass, backed up by aluminum. That was the only decoration of any sort, the rest of the furnishing being very plain, but rich, with lots of plate glass and chromium.
We had to wait about thirty minutes in the outer office; I spent the time trying to estimate what I could have done the suite for, subletting what I had to and allowing 10 percent. Then a really beautiful girl with a hushed voice ushered us in. We found ourselves in another smaller room, alone, and had to wait about ten minutes more. It was much like the waiting room, but had some glass bookcases and an old print of Aristotle. I looked at the bookcases with Jedson to kill time. They were filled with a lot of rare old classics on magic. Jedson had just pointed out the Red Grimoire when we heard a voice behind us.
“Amusing, aren’t they? The ancients knew a surprising amount. Not scientific, of course, but remarkably clever—” The voice trailed off. We turned around; he introduced himself as Dr. Biddle.
He was a nice enough looking chap, really handsome in a spare, dignified fashion. He was about ten years older than I am—fortyish; maybe—with iron-gray hair at the temples and a small, stiff, British major’s mustache. His clothes could have been out of the style pages of Esquire. There was no reason for me not to like him; his manners were pleasant enough. Maybe it was the supercilious twist to his expression.
He led us into this private office, sat us down, and offered us cigarettes before business was mentioned. He opened up with, “You’re Jedson, of course. I suppose Mr. Ditworth sent you?”
I cocked an ear at him; the name was familiar. But Jedson simply answered, “Why, no. Why would you think that he had?”
Biddle hesitated for a moment, then said half to himself, “That’s strange. I was certain that I had heard him mention your name. Does either one of you,” he added, “know Mr. Ditworth?”
We both nodded at once and surprised each other. Biddle seemed relieved and said, “No doubt that accounts for it. Still—I need some more information. Will you gentlemen excuse me while I call him?”
With that he vanished. I had never seen it done before. Jedson says there are two ways to do it, one is hallucination, the other is an actual exit through the Half World. Whichever way it’s done, I think it’s bad manners.
“About this chap Ditworth,” I started to say to Jedson. “I had intended to ask you—”
“Let it wait,” he cut me off, “there’s not time now.”
At this Biddle reappeared. “It’s all right,” he announced, speaking directly to me. “I can take your case. I suppose you’ve come about the trouble you had last night with your establishment?”
“Yes,” I agreed. “How did you know?”
“Methods,” he replied, with a deprecatory little smile. “My profession has its means. Now, about your problem. What is it you desire?”
I looked at Jedson; he explained what he thought had taken place and why he thought so. “Now I don’t know whether you specialize in demonology or not,” he concluded, “but it seems to me that it should be possible to evoke the powers responsible and force them to repair the damage. If you can do it, we are prepared to pay any reasonable fee.”
Biddle smiled at this and glanced rather self-consciously at the assortment of diplomas hanging on the walls of his office. “I feel that there should be reason to reassure you,” he purred. “Permit me to look over the ground—” And he was gone again.
I was beginning to be annoyed. It’s all very well for a man to be good at his job, but there is no reason to make a side show out of it. But I didn’t have time to grouse about it before he was back.
“Examination seems to confirm Mr. Jedson’s opinion; there should be no unusual difficulties,” he said. “Now as to the…ah…business arrangements—” He coughed politely and gave a little smile, as if he regretted having to deal with such vulgar matters.
Why do some people act as if making money offended their delicate minds? I am out for a legitimate profit, and not ashamed of it; the fact that people will pay money for my goods and services shows that my work is useful.
However, we made a deal without much trouble, then Biddle told us to meet him at my place in about fifteen minutes. Jedson and I left the building and flagged another cab. Once inside I asked him about Ditworth.
“Where’d you run across him?” I said.
“Came to me with a proposition.”
“Hm-m-m—” This interested me; Ditworth had made me a proposition, too, and it had worried me. “What kind of a proposition?”
Jedson screwed up his forehead. “Well, that’s hard to say—there was so much impressive sales talk along with it. Briefly, he said he was the local executive secretary of a nonprofit association which had as its purpose the improvement of standards of practicing magicians.”
I nodded. It was the same story I had heard. “Go ahead.”
“He dwelt on the inadequacy of the present licensing laws and pointed out that anyone could pass the examination and hang out his shingle after a couple of weeks’ study of a grimoire or black book without any fundamental knowledge of the arcane laws at all. His organization would be a sort of bureau of standards to improve that, like the American Medical Association, or the National Conference of Universities and Colleges, or the Bar Ass
ociation. If I signed an agreement to patronize only those wizards who complied with their requirements, I could display their certificate of quality and put their seal of approval on my goods.”
“Joe, I’ve heard the same story,” I cut in, “and I didn’t know quite what to make of it. It sounds all right, but I wouldn’t want to stop doing business with men who have given me good value in the past, and I’ve no way of knowing that the association would approve them.”
“What answer did you give him?”
“I stalled him a bit—told him that I couldn’t sign anything as binding as that without discussing it with my attorney.”
“Good boy! What did he say to that?”
“Well, he was really quite decent about it, and honestly seemed to want to be helpful. Said he thought I was wise and left me some stuff to look over. Do you know anything about him? Is he a wizard himself?”
“No, he’s not. But I did find out some things about him. I knew vaguely that he was something in the Chamber of Commerce; what I didn’t know is that he is on the board of a dozen or more blue-ribbon corporations. He’s a lawyer, but not in practice. Seems to spend all his time on his business interests.”
“He sounds like a responsible man.”
“I would say so. He seems to have had considerably less publicity than you would expect of a man of his business importance—probably a retiring sort. I ran across something that seemed to confirm that.”
“What was it?” I asked.
“I looked up the incorporation papers for his association on file with the Secretary of State. There were just three names, his own and two others. I found that both of the others were employed in his office—his secretary and his receptionist.”
The Fantasies of Robert A. Heinlein Page 2
