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Authors: Frederik Pohl
Tags: Science-Fiction
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I’ve got a pretty good spell for raising ghosts. One word and an amulet; I’ve even got the amulet right here. Or you can make him fall in love with the first person to pass by. Take your pick.’
It wasn’t what I had had in mind, of course. Still -
‘Tell me more,’ I said.
He nodded and rubbed his hands. ‘Glad to see you being reasonable,’ he said. ‘How about getting rid of that stuff first?’ I set the bag outside the door. When I came back he was sprawled carelessly on the couch, worrying the cork out of a bottle of California wine. ‘ Magic’s thirsty work,’ he said apologetically. ‘I thought we might have a little drink.’
From my point of view, it was a good development. On second thought, I could improve on it. I sent him for a bucket of spring water, and showed him the trick the water-witch had taught me of transforming the water into sidecars. From then on, things proceeded well, though I have some qualms still about the tiny blue ghosts of long-gone water-bugs and mice we conjured up for practice, and released upon the countryside. But he assured me they would cause no trouble.
He had to go to the spring for another bucket before we were through, but after all water is cheap.
~ * ~
Perhaps he became drunker than he planned, for he let slip a piece of information which I think he had meant to keep secret: the ghost-raising spell was infallible; it worked every time. With it, you could touch a mouldered bone and create before you the wraith of the being whose articulation had comprised the bone. Or you could touch a living, breathing creature, and evoke the ghost of it.
And once the ghost was evoked, the creature, perforce, was dead.
Of course, murder was not what I had in mind for Brandon, not quite. The offence had been great enough, but on the long trip back to the city I had leisure to reflect on my friend’s fear of the consequences of lethal magic, and to decide that I needn’t go that far. Brandon was a pompous fraud, but if I could make his life its own punishment by means of harassment, there was no need to risk unknown penalties.
Besides, in a way - and now that the means of retaliation was at hand - I rather liked Brandon. I felt cheerful and mellow; it was more of a practical joke that I wanted to play on him than a condign punishment.
I got back to the city Sunday night, but waited until late Monday to go to the Museum. Brandon’s work habits were well known to me; at closing time on the first day of the week, he would inevitably be in his office.
I came in through the subway entrance where the crowds are heaviest. The guard didn’t see me, sparing me the need for telling him a lie. I went directly to the Hall of African Mammals and waited in the shadows there until the floor guard was out of sight. There was an exhibit room that had been ‘temporarily closed’ as far back as I can remember, and I still had the key that opened its door.
By half-past five the Museum was deserted except for a rare guard, a few tiresome old scholars like Brandon, mooning over their journals - and me. When I opened the door of my hiding-place, it was full dark. Only the stairwell lights were visible.
Brandon’s office is in the Paleontology wing on the third floor. I crept out of the exhibit room towards the stairwell, but before I reached it a thought occurred to me and I acted on it.
If you have been in the Museum, you’ve seen Leo. He is not the largest African lion on record, but he is nine feet from nose to knobbed tail, and no one passes his pedestal at the entrance to the Hall of African Mammals without at least one quiver at the back of the neck. As quietly as I could, I dragged the night guard’s chair over to Leo’s pedestal, stepped up on it, and went through the ritual of power. My friend had given me the necessary amulet, an apple-sized tangle of woven willow; I touched Leo with it on his stuffed flank and
It wasn’t what I had had in mind, of course. Still -
‘Tell me more,’ I said.
He nodded and rubbed his hands. ‘Glad to see you being reasonable,’ he said. ‘How about getting rid of that stuff first?’ I set the bag outside the door. When I came back he was sprawled carelessly on the couch, worrying the cork out of a bottle of California wine. ‘ Magic’s thirsty work,’ he said apologetically. ‘I thought we might have a little drink.’
From my point of view, it was a good development. On second thought, I could improve on it. I sent him for a bucket of spring water, and showed him the trick the water-witch had taught me of transforming the water into sidecars. From then on, things proceeded well, though I have some qualms still about the tiny blue ghosts of long-gone water-bugs and mice we conjured up for practice, and released upon the countryside. But he assured me they would cause no trouble.
He had to go to the spring for another bucket before we were through, but after all water is cheap.
~ * ~
Perhaps he became drunker than he planned, for he let slip a piece of information which I think he had meant to keep secret: the ghost-raising spell was infallible; it worked every time. With it, you could touch a mouldered bone and create before you the wraith of the being whose articulation had comprised the bone. Or you could touch a living, breathing creature, and evoke the ghost of it.
And once the ghost was evoked, the creature, perforce, was dead.
Of course, murder was not what I had in mind for Brandon, not quite. The offence had been great enough, but on the long trip back to the city I had leisure to reflect on my friend’s fear of the consequences of lethal magic, and to decide that I needn’t go that far. Brandon was a pompous fraud, but if I could make his life its own punishment by means of harassment, there was no need to risk unknown penalties.
Besides, in a way - and now that the means of retaliation was at hand - I rather liked Brandon. I felt cheerful and mellow; it was more of a practical joke that I wanted to play on him than a condign punishment.
I got back to the city Sunday night, but waited until late Monday to go to the Museum. Brandon’s work habits were well known to me; at closing time on the first day of the week, he would inevitably be in his office.
I came in through the subway entrance where the crowds are heaviest. The guard didn’t see me, sparing me the need for telling him a lie. I went directly to the Hall of African Mammals and waited in the shadows there until the floor guard was out of sight. There was an exhibit room that had been ‘temporarily closed’ as far back as I can remember, and I still had the key that opened its door.
By half-past five the Museum was deserted except for a rare guard, a few tiresome old scholars like Brandon, mooning over their journals - and me. When I opened the door of my hiding-place, it was full dark. Only the stairwell lights were visible.
Brandon’s office is in the Paleontology wing on the third floor. I crept out of the exhibit room towards the stairwell, but before I reached it a thought occurred to me and I acted on it.
If you have been in the Museum, you’ve seen Leo. He is not the largest African lion on record, but he is nine feet from nose to knobbed tail, and no one passes his pedestal at the entrance to the Hall of African Mammals without at least one quiver at the back of the neck. As quietly as I could, I dragged the night guard’s chair over to Leo’s pedestal, stepped up on it, and went through the ritual of power. My friend had given me the necessary amulet, an apple-sized tangle of woven willow; I touched Leo with it on his stuffed flank and
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