"That's all right," Tiana assured him, unwrapping the package and finding two raw whole fish and a package of raw shrimp still in the shell. "They probably won't taste like much, but they'll probably be better than whatever it is you gave Joe to eat."
Poquah walked over to the connecting double-doors, opened them, then peered in. Marge, of course, was still out cold, and Macore was now curled up, sound asleep in front of the television which was still on. The Imir decided not to awaken them, but went in and turned off the set, then returned to Joe and Tiana and quietly shut the doors again. "Forgive me, but I simply cannot abide that drivel. It has made the civilized part of this world into a mass of illiterate morons." He paused a moment, then added, "Of course, it also appeals to those already in that condition as well, no matter what their origins."
Joe managed to polish off two Big Macs, the nuggets, and a lot more that Poquah had brought along. He was still hungry, but it would do. His only complaint was that the Imir had brought no coffee; the in-room stuff the motel provided was hardly worth the name even on Earth.
Still, Poquah was anxious to get down to his business. "You have the text of the prophecies, I hope?"
"Well, we weren't exactly there for them, and we didn't exactly have pockets," Joe replied. "Macore's got the text, though. You got some clothes for us?"
"Yes. I had to guess on the lady, of course, but I think it will do until she can find some of her own more to her liking." He had, of course, taken the measurements of all three mortals before leaving, so he was actually dead on. He either had a keen eye or an uncanny ability to know just what was required, although he did leave it practical.
Joe's outfit was pretty much an upsized version of what Poquah was wearing—jeans, boots, a flannel shirt, and even socks and underwear, two items of clothing he'd not really been used to wearing for many years. For Tiana, Poquah had selected equally practical clothing—but with women's undergarments, of course, even a bra if she wanted one—and with a long woman's yellow T-shirt. "I decided that you would find boots more problem than asset, so I found you some sandals. I regret the higher heel but they don't seem to come any other way here. I know you will probably wish to remain barefoot most of the time, but there are establishments all over that will not admit you without shoes."
Her lower body had already split but was still more fishlike than human, giving her a really unusual appearance. "I am sure they will be fine," she assured him. "I will try them as soon as I can."
"I procured a very comfortable motorized wheelchair that folds rather nicely," Poquah told her proudly, "and I also found a pair of ingenious folding aluminum crutches for when that is more practical. I think that will take care of your needs."
He was emotionless and officious, but she was touched. "You are very kind. It is more than I expected," she told him sincerely.
Poquah went out and came back with a small object, which he gave to Joe. The big man removed the top of the box and found a wallet, and inside were a number of major credit cards in the name of "Joseph Romero." He looked at Poquah. "That me?"
"Yes. We established the accounts after closing out the stolen one for Ruddygore. They are good, and the best part is that the bill will not have to be paid by you. Do not, I pray, abuse them, though. They are for business and survival. When you return to Husaquahr, none of you will be allowed to take anything from this world with you, anyway."
"Yeah, well I—hey! This is a Class-G chauffeur's license!" Joe exclaimed, then frowned. "But it doesn't have my picture!"
"Not necessary in that state, which is why we chose it. The particulars are a bit off, but I doubt if anyone will really notice."
"You want me to drive a rig, then?"
"Yes. You'll find the permits in order, and we've used a few spells to make it impervious to inspectors. I am having it modified somewhat today but the company we are dealing with here is quite interested in money and assures me that my modification will be ready tomorrow."
"All five of us are gonna fit in a cab?" Joe said dubiously.
"It won't be necessary. You'll see."
The sound of the conversation apparently awakened Macore, who came through the doors and into the other room, not exactly wide awake but definitely excited. "Sorry I fell asleep," he apologized needlessly. "Man! I wanted so bad to wake somebody up earlier! I saw him!"
"Who?" Tiana asked, puzzled. They all turned to look at the little thief.
"Dacaro! That's who!"
"Dacaro!" Joe exclaimed. "Here?"
"No—on the TV thing in there! He was on a show. You know, on one of those religious channels."
Poquah seemed suddenly very interested. "Indeed? Are you certain?"
"Yeah, sure—I'm not gonna forget him any time soon!
Oh, he was wearing one of those funny suits it seems like they make men wear here, and he had short hair and, believe it or not, pink eyeglasses, but it was him. His voice, too. Silky smooth, you know? His English is perfect—at least, it's not much different from what the other TV people speak—but he's some speaker. Really stirring up the crowds. You could feel the emotion right through the TV."
The Imir frowned. "I had not expected him to get so far so soon. I thought we had weeks, perhaps even months or a year. This changes everything. On national television within a month of his arrival! Oh, my!"
"You act like you expected it sooner or later," Joe noted. "You know where he is, then?"
"Of course. It's been rather easy to find both him and the Baron; they are not exactly engaged in secretive activity." He paused for a moment, as if making a decision, then said, "I was going to wait until Marge was up, but I suppose this can be done twice."
Macore came in, sat on a comer of Tiana's bed, then got up again fast. "That's wet!" he complained, then sat down on the floor. They were all ears.
When the Baron had been exiled from Husaquahr, Macore explained, he'd been sent first to the center of Ruddygore's Earth operations, which was in Basel, Switzerland. He had remained there for more than three months, getting to know the new world in which he'd found himself and checking out his place in it. He had been very comfortable, living in a villa owned by Ruddygore just across the Rhine in France, and had spent the first month doing nothing but reading everything in French, German, and English that he could get his hands on. He needed no spells or courses in language or literacy; he proved himself unexpectedly adept at both. The Demon Prince with whom he'd made his alliances in Husaquahr had been a good teacher and supplier of certain books and reading materials from Earth.
He was, of course, a genius with a finely tuned analytical mind; he had been the best theoretician of magic in the history of Husaquahr, far beyond anyone else, no matter what their power. Being stripped of his powers had not made him any less brilliant or knowledgeable.
He spent another six weeks or so on a sort of European grand tour, using a liberal stipend from Ruddygore's company, visiting Rome and much of Germany, France, and England, using falsified Swiss papers that looked genuine enough to stand almost any challenge. Ruddygore's European organization even got them in his own name.
Agents reported him both fascinated by the wonders of technology and appalled by the contrasts such technology created. Still, it was hard to pin down just what real interests he had, since he was fascinated by the ideologies and tensions of the modem world with its omnipresent threat of nuclear holocaust and with the imbalances of wealth, yet he was also apparently fascinated by computers, space science, and technology, and even the misfits and oddballs of society.
The computer, though, had particularly fascinated him; as he was getting warnings that his funds were going to dry up if he didn't decide to do something useful, he enrolled first in a quick and intensive course in how to type, then in a London computer school. For all of its inanities, magic was mathematical and he seemed to find in computer programming the same sort of relationship. He dropped the year-long course after only three months, not because he had lost interest but because
he had already progressed, not only beyond the brightest pupil at the school, but beyond the brightest instructors as well.
And then, quite suddenly, he informed his benefactors that he no longer required any of their help or support and that he had obtained sufficient funds to live on. They were baffled by this, but, a few days later, Esmilio Boquillas vanished from their surveillance and they found no sign of him for almost three years.
Exactly what he was doing at that time was a mystery, although he seemed to have spent some time with English and Welsh mystics, mostly cult and lunatic-fringe people, the sort of professional characters that Britain seemed to grow best in all the world. Then he came to the United States, partly to the south, then to the San Francisco-San Jose, California, area, where he emerged once again in public view—very public view—as a faith healer. "He's a what?" Joe asked incredulously. "A faith healer. It appears now that he spent some time looking for Earth individuals with some of the magical talents. There are some—more than you would think— but most have no knowledge of their abilities and thus are undetected even by themselves. Others, when the powers come out involuntarily, believe they have had profound religious experiences, or been involved with alien civilizations, or things like that. He wanted people with sufficient power to handle at least minimal spells, but they had to be people who really believed they could do sorcery—hence his interest in cults, witches, and the like. Apparently he discovered one woman at some Satanist group in southern California who had some real powers. A hostess of a television collection of old horror movies, I believe, who went under the stage name of—pardon— Shockarilla, I think it was. He was at that time employed as a programmer in the San Francisco area, but abruptly both she and he resigned their positions and she went to join him. Soon after, they began doing guest appearances at local churches of no real denomination—there are quite a number of rather bizarre yet still mainstream churches in the area—and their reputation for truly curing really caught on."
"The old boy's very charismatic," Joe admitted. "A lot of folks carry off that faith-healing business with no real chance at success—just people believing so hard they sometimes cure themselves. Just enough of 'em to keep 'em going and keep their credibility up. But the Baron, now—if he had somebody with the power, he could really do it, couldn't he? I mean, restore a lost limb, make blind eyes see, all that."
"He could indeed, as you well know. There really aren't any physicians in Husaquahr as such; the healers are magicians who specialize in healing potions and spells. Boquillas is a genius with a photographic memory, who might well know just about every spell ever written down; and those he couldn't remember, his fine mathematical mind could create," Poquah admitted.
Joe sat back against the headboard, looking a little dazed. "A guy who could really do healing miracles—he could write his own ticket! They'd flock to him to be cured! And if he told them they had to stand on their heads and recite 'Mary had a little lamb' three times backwards for the cure to work, they'd do it! Oh, man!"
"And it would not take much of an additional string on those healing spells to make them devoted worshipers," Tiana added. "They would already be most of the way there, out of sheer gratitude and physical proof."
"That is the way of it," the Imir admitted, "although I am not certain that his female adept really has the ability to do much more, even with the spells he supplies."
"And that's where Dacaro comes in, I bet," Macore put in. "If you already have a good scam going, then sticking in a world-class wizard at the right moment is the smart thing to do."
"The computers," Joe said, still thinking of the implications. "I just can't figure—or can I? I don't know much about computers, and I don't know just how easy to get they are, but I'll bet you he's got one hell of a computer somewhere that's not only got all the spells but all the formulas to make whatever he wants. Maybe he's rigged one back where he used to work. I know the dispatcher before we left always had a computer terminal in front of him, and so did the one when we arrived at the other end, and both were connected to the same computer someplace over the phone."
"I fear it is far easier than that today," the Imir told him. "Today you can purchase a computer with enormous memory and power for about half the price of an automobile, as rugged as a typewriter and not much larger. If he had enough capacity to store his programs, he would need no more space than it takes for that television set over there. And, of course, spells here are mathematically quite different from spells where we come from. The computer would automatically be able to translate one complex spell into another. The only thing he did not have was someone with sufficient power and training actually to cast complex spells. Now he does."
"What did he want the gold for, then?" Macore asked Poquah. "I mean, it sounds as if he's got a hell of a scam running just where he is."
"He required it, apparently, to purchase a large block of land in a very rugged section of northern California. It was owned by a lumber company that was stopped by the actions of some nature lovers from doing any more tree cutting in the whole area. They were faced with having it taken over by the government and were happy to sell it for what Boquillas could offer upfront, particularly in gold. He and his lady friend incorporated a nonprofit religious foundation to own it—a very easy task in California, it seems. They are, of course, the head of that foundation. Although the land is heavily restricted from any public access, he apparently mollified the nature organization and guaranteed preservation of the land. Everyone is delighted with him, even the country, for while he pays no taxes as a religious institution and retreat, they would have received none from the government condemnation, either—and now they receive substantial contributions to public welfare. The Baron is also a good politician."
"Yeah, okay, so he's got a cult, a following, and a little kingdom of his own. So far I can follow that. But what goes with Dacaro on television?"
"The Baron is quite—in English I believe the slang word is 'slick'—with his theology. It is particularly insipid, bland, and nondenominational. Although he's associated himself up to now primarily with offshoots of Christian religions, he seldom if ever mentions anything beyond 'God' and 'the Lord.' His charm or charisma, as some call it, is sufficient that almost every authentic pastor he meets seems not only charmed by him but convinced that his theology and theirs is a near-perfect match. He knows the truth of oratory—it is not what you say but how you say it that counts for everything. Consider just how little a politician actually says, as compared to what his or her listeners believe about that politician. And because so many of the sincere and legitimate broadcasting preachers here are so affluent and so conspicuous in their success that they are the target of many attacks by cynics and government, they are likely to rally around any preacher they feel is being persecuted, even if that individual is clearly a fraud. The Baron's Open Path movement has already been the target of many such attacks, which has won him notoriety beyond California and a great deal of sympathy from those who see themselves, wrongly, in him."
Macore nodded sympathetically. "Yeah, it's always that way. You get some sincere people with good ideas making a real go at it and the con artists and the charlatans aren't far behind."
"You should know," Poquah responded acidly.
Macore grinned sheepishly. "Hey! I only go for the rewards! I don't want the end of the world!"
The Imir frowned. "What is this about the end of the world?"
Macore repeated to him the first verse of the oracle.
"Then it is Armageddon at the end! I wonder what those sincere men and women of religion who defend him would say if they knew?"
"They always used to tell us the end was close at hand," Joe noted. "I don't know if they believed it, but somehow I don't think they'd be surprised if it came. I knew a preacher once, one of the hellfire-and-brimstone types, who dropped dead right in the pulpit while preaching a sermon. Heart attack. It wasn't instant, but they said that, just before he died, he didn't look sad
or angry or upset— more like disappointed it was just him."
"Hmmm... well, give me the second prophecy, then, thief, and we will see if we can put the two together."
"Yeah, sure. It's lousy poetry." He recited the longer, more complex verse on how to avert the doom.
"The early part is clear enough," the Imir noted, "and now you three are here, so we've gone that far. Unfortunately, the rest is still unclear to me. The way to solve the problem is there—but unless we can solve the prophecy itself, we will not know the way. Still, this is not a one-sided conflict, or it would be unnecessary. The indications are there that Heaven will aid us as Hell is aiding the Baron."
"You mean angels for the demons and like that?" Joe was interested in the prospect.
"No. It never works that way, particularly not here. Providence will guide the elements we need into place for us. If we take those elements and then apply them in the pattern established by the verse, we will win. If we do not, then the Baron will win and we will all die."
"Whew!" Macore said nervously. "It sounds like it's real easy for them and nearly impossible for us. We get one right way to play the hand, and a crazy poem as our only clue, and they get a stacked deck!"
"Evil wins out much of the time because it is so easy," Poquah noted. "Good wins because it is earned and deserves to. That is the test, don't you see? Every once in a while an individual or group must face the ultimate evil. A test, as it were. This time it is we who are chosen to do so. Heaven and Hell are betting on our outcome. If we prevail, we prove that good is still superior to evil and the stronger of the two. If we lose, then we prove that the time for Armageddon is indeed nigh."
Macore looked at the faces of the others in the room. "Who? Us?"
Chapter 12
Providence, Ghosts, And Peter Pan
Those who insist on living in the past have no future.
—Message Found In A
Vengeance of the Dancing Gods Page 18
