The Case of the Toxic Spell Dump

“Yeah, sure.” I resigned myself to a long, miserable day. “ ’Bye, Charlie.” I hung up the phone. The imp went dormant. I wished I could have done the same.

I grabbed a quick, cold shower—either the salamander for the block of flats wasn’t awake yet or somebody had turned it into a toad overnight—a muddy cup of coffee, and a not quite stale sweet roll. Feeling as near human as I was going to get at half past five, I went out to the garage, got on my carpet, and headed for the freeway.

My building has access rules like any other’s, I suppose: anybody can use the flyway going out, but to come in you have to make your entry talisman known to the watch demon or else have one of the residents propitiate him for you. Otherwise you come down—with quite a bump, too—outside the wall and the gate.

I rode west along The Second Boulevard (don’t ask me why it’s The Second and not just Second; it just is) about twenty feet off the ground. Traffic was moving pretty well, actually, even though we all still had our lanterns on so we could see one another in the predawn darkness.

The Watcher who lets carpets onto St. James’ Freeway from a feeder road is of a different breed from your average building’s watch demon. He holds the barrier closed so many seconds at a time, then opens it just long enough for one carpet to squeeze past. Nobody’s ever figured out how to propitiate a Watcher, either. Oh, if you’re quick—and stupid—you may be able to squeeze in on somebody else’s tail, but if you try it, he’ll note down the weave of your carpet, and in a few days, just like magic, a traffic ticket shows up in your mailbox. Not many people are stupid twice.

The freeways need rules like that; otherwise they’d be impossibly jammed. As things were, I got stuck no matter how early I’d left. There was a bad accident a little north of the interdicted zone around the airport, and somebody’s carpet had flipped. The damned fool—well, of course I don’t actually know the state of his soul, but no denying his foolishness—hadn’t been wearing his safety belt, either.

One set of paramedics was down on the ground with the fellow who’d been thrown out. They had a priest with them, too, so that didn’t look good. The other Red Cross carpet was parked right in the middle of the flight of way, tending to victims who hadn’t been thrown clear—and making everyone detour around it. People gawked as they slid by, so they went even slower. They always do that, and I hate it.

After that, I made pretty good time until I had to slow down again at the junction with St. Monica’s Freeway. Merging traffic in three dimensions is a scary business when you think about it. Commuters who do it every day don’t think about it any more.

The rush thinned out once I got north of Westwood, and I pretty much sailed into St. Ferdinand’s Valley. I slid off the freeway and cruised around for a while, getting closer to the Devonshire dump by easy stages and looking for signs that might tell me whether Charlie Kelly had a right to be worried about it.

At first I didn’t see any, which gladdened my heart. A couple of generations ago, the Valley was mostly farms and citrus groves. Then the trees went down and the houses went up. Now the Valley has industry of its own (if it didn’t, I wouldn’t have had to worry about the toxic spell dump, after all), but in large measure it’s still a bedroom community for the rest of Angels City: lots of houses, lots of kids, lots of schools. You don’t care to think about anything nasty in a part of town like that.

Before I went out to the dump itself, I headed over to the monastery to do some homework. The Thomas Brothers have chapter houses in cities all across the west; more meticulous record-keeping simply doesn’t exist. Even if the Valley looked normal, I had a good chance of finding trouble simply by digging through the numbers they enshrined on parchment.

I’ve heard the Thomas Brothers have an unwritten rule that no abbot of theirs can ever be named Brother Thomas. I don’t know if that’s so. I do know the abbot at the Valley chapter house was a big-nosed Armenian named Brother Vahan. We’d met a few times before, though I didn’t often work far enough north in Angels City to need his help.

He bowed politely as he let me precede him into his office. Candlelight gleamed from his skull. He was the baldest man I’d ever seen; he didn’t need to be tonsured. He waved me to a comfortable chair, then sat down in his own hard one. “What can I do for you today, Inspector Fisher?” he asked.

I was ready for that. “I’d like to do some comparison work on births, birth defects, healings, and exorcisms in the northwest Valley ten years ago and in the past year.”

“Ah,” was all the abbot said. When viewed against his hairless skull, the big black caterpillars he used for eyebrows seemed even more alive than they might have otherwise. They twitched now. “How big a radius around the Devonshire dump would you like?”

I sighed. I should have expected it. I’m Jewish, but I know enough to realize fools don’t generally make it up to abbot’s grade. I said, “This is unofficial and confidential, you understand.”

He laughed at me. I turned red. Maybe I was the fool, telling an abbot about confidentiality. He just said, “There are places you would need to be more concerned about that aspect than here, Inspector.”

“I suppose so,” I mumbled. “Can your data retrieval system handle a five-mile radius?”

The caterpillars drooped; I’d offended him. “I thought you were going to ask for something difficult, Inspector.” He got up. “If you’d be so kind as to follow me?”

I followed. We walked past a couple of rooms my eyes refused to see into. I wasn’t offended; there are places in the Temple in Jerusalem and even in your ordinary synagogue where gentiles’ perceptions are excluded the same way. All faiths have their mysteries. I was just thankful the Thomas Brothers didn’t reckon their records too holy for outsiders to view.

The scriptorium was underground, a traditional construction left over from the days when anyone literate was assumed to be a black wizard and when books of any sort needed to be protected from the torches of the ignorant and the fearful. But for its placement, though, the room was thoroughly modern, with St. Elmo’s fire glowing smoothly over every cubicle and each of those cubicles with its own ground-glass access screen.

As soon as Brother Vahan and I stepped into a cubicle, the spirit of the scriptorium appeared in the ground glass. The spirit wore spectacles. I had to work to keep my face straight. I’d never imagined folk on the Other Side could look bookish.

I turned to the abbot. “Suppose I’d come in without you or someone else who’s authorized to be here?”

“You wouldn’t get any information out of our friend there,” Brother Vahan said. “You would get caught.” He sounded quietly confident. I believed him. The Thomas Brothers probably knew about as much about keeping documents secure as anyone not in government, and what they didn’t know, Rome did.

Brother Vahan spoke to the ground-glass screen. “Give this man unlimited access to our files and full aid for… will four hours be enough?”

“Should be plenty,” I answered.

“For four hours, then,” the abbot said. “Treat him in all ways as if he were one of our holy brethren.” That was as blanche a carte as he could give me; I bowed my head in profound appreciation. He flipped a hand back and forth, as if to say, Think nothing of it. He could say that if he wanted to (humility is, after all, a monkish virtue), but we both knew I owed him a big one.

“Anything else?” he asked me. I shook my head. “Happy hunting, then,” he said as he started out of the scriptorium. “I’ll see you later.”

The spirit manifesting itself in the access screen turned its nearsighted gaze on me. “How may I serve you, child of Adam given four hours of unlimited access to the files of the Thomas Brothers?”

I told it the same thing I’d told Brother Vahan: “I want to go through births, birth defects, healings, and exorcisms within a five-mile radius of the Devonshire dump, first for the year ending exactly ten years ago and then for the year ending today.” Humans can handle approximate data; with spirits you have to spell out every word and make sure you’ve crossed your t’s and dotted your i’s (and even your j’s).

“I shall gather the data you require. Please wait,” the spirit said. The screen went blank.

In the beginning was the Word, and Word was with God, and the Word was God. Yes, I know that’s Brother Vahan’s theology, not mine. It’s a lot older than Christianity, for that matter. In Old Kingdom Egypt, the god Ptah was seen as both the tongue of the primeval god Atum and as the instrument through which Atum created the material world. Of course thought is the instrument through which we perceive and influence the Other Side; without it, we’d be as blind to magic as any dumb animals.

But John 1:1 and its variants in other creeds are also the basis of modern information theory. Because words