“Never underestimate the value of gut feelings,” the spook said seriously. “You ignore them at your peril. The finding at Central Intelligence is essentially the same as yours; otherwise they would not have sent out a spectral operative”—that’s spook-talk for spook—“to bring an overview back to D.StC.”
Etheric transport is of course a lot quicker than the fastest carpet: the spook could just cut directly through the Other Side from the District of St. Columbaand back, a privilege denied to all mere mortals save a handful of saints, dervishes, and boddhisatvas, none of whom, for various good reasons, was likely to be in the employ of Central Intelligence.
I said, “Since you’ve come crosscountry to interview me”—that seemed a politer phrase than interrogate me—“maybe you’ll tell me something, too.” When the spook didn’t say no, I went on, “Is this case somehow connected with worries about the Third Sorcerous War?”
The spook got up from the chair, took a couple of steps toward me. “How did you make that connection?”
His voice was quiet, and cold as hemlock moving up toward the heart. He took another step in my direction. I don’t have a big front room; he was already halfway across it.
Three more steps and he could do—I didn’t know what, but I’d read enough spy thrillers to make some guesses: reach inside my head and pinch off an arteiy, maybe. Unless a good forensic sorcerer helped do my autopsy, I’d go into the Thomas Brothers’ demographic records as just another case of apoplexy, younger than most.
I slapped backward, yanked open the closet door, whipped out the blasting rod, and pointed it at the spook’s midsection. “Back off!” I told him. This rod is primed and ready—all I have to do is say the Word and you’re cooked.”
Of course, my flat would be cooked, too; a rod operates on This Side as well as the Other. But I figured I had a better chance of escaping from a burning flat than from a CI spook.
He stood very still. He didn’t come forward, but he didn’t move back, not even when I thrust the rod out toward him.
As he had before, he said, “I think you’ll want to reconsider that. Unless you’re packing something very much out of the ordinary, you’ll hurt your books and furniture much more than me.”
I knew the military had developed some high-level protection for their own spectral operatives; it seemed reasonable that a Central Intelligence spook would enjoy the same shielding. Come to that, some of the goetic technology has trickled down to the Underworld, which makes constables unhappy. On the other hand—“This is a Mage Abramelin Mogen David Special,” I said.
“I don’t care how well you’re warded against Christian or Muslim magic: this is the fire that dealt with Sodom and Gomorrah.”
Now the spook backed up. Being transparent, his features were hard to make out, but I thought he looked thoughtful.
“You could be bluffing,” he said.
“So could you.”
“Impasse.” He went back to the chair, sat down again. I lowered the rod, but I didn’t let go of it The spook said,
“Since we are uncertain of each othefs powers, shall we proceed as if the recent unpleasantness had not taken place?
Let me ask you again, with no threat intended or implied, why you believe this case my be connected to national security issues.”
“Well, for one thing, why would you have walked through my door if it weren’t?” I said.
The spook grimaced mistily. “Heisenberg’s Thaumaturgic Principle: the mere act of observation magically affects that which is being observed. I console myself by remembering I’m not the first to fall victim to it, nor shall I be the last.”
I didn’t want any kind of spook, not even a philosophical one, in my front room. I went on, “If it makes you feel any better, I was worried about it before I ever set eyes on you.
Too many big Powers involved: Beelzebub, the whole Persian mess I haven’t got to the bottom of yet, now Huitzilopochtli.” I didn’t mention Charlie Kelly. I wasn’t sure he deserved my loyalty, not any more, but he still had it.
“I must advise you to keep your suspicions to yourself,” the spook said after a longish pause {he might as weU have been on the telephone ran through my mind—one of those maddening bursts of irrelevance that will pop up no matter what you do). “Reaching the wrong ears, your prophecy could become self-fulfilling.”
“It might help if you’d tell me which ears are the wrong ones.” If I sounded plaintive, can you blame me?
He shook his murky head. “No, for two reasons. First, the information is classified and therefore not to be casually disseminated under any circumstances. And second, the more you know, the more apt you are to betray yourself to those who may have reason to be interested in your knowledge.
Your basic assumption should be that no one may be privy to your speculations. If anyone with whom you come into contact shows undue interest in this area, summon me at once from Central Intelligence headquarters in D.StC.”
“How do I get hold of you in particular?” I asked—I mean. Central Intelligence has a lot of spooks on the payroll.
“My name is Legion,” he said. “Henry Legion.” He turned around, walked out through my chair and wall, and was gone.
Next day, thank God, was Friday. Traffic was light going in, as it often is on Friday mornings. I wasn’t fooled; I knew I’d have the usual devilish time getting home. I tried not to think about that. Maybe, I told myself as I floated up the elevator shaft, I’d have myself a nice easy day, knock off early, and beat the weekend crunch on St James’ Freeway.
I walked into my office, took one look at the IN basket, and screamed. Sitting there was one of the ugliest Confederal forms ever designed. In big block letters, the cover said, REQUEST FOR ENVIRONMENTAL IMPACT REPORT. Slightly smaller letters added, PROPOSED IMPORTATION OF NEW SPECIES INTO BARONY OF ANGELS.
Having got the scream out of my system, I merely moaned as I sank into my chair. Who, I wondered, wanted to bring what into Angels City, and why? I just wished Huitzilopochtli had to fill out all the forms he’d need to establish himself here legally: we’d be free of him till Doomsday, or maybe twenty minutes longer.
Huitzilopochtli and his minions, unfortunately, didn’t bother with forms. With trembling fingers, I picked up the report request and opened it. Somebody, it seemed, was proposing to schlep leprechauns over from the Auld Sod in hibemiation, revive them once they got here, and establish a colony in Angels City.
At first glance it looked reasonable. We have a good number of Erse here, and a lot more who pretend they are when St. Padraig’s Day rolls around. The leprechauns wouldn’t have any trouble feeling at home in Angels City. Tracking the little critters to their pots of gold would help a few poor folk pay off the mortgage. The odds were about like winning the lottery, but who doesn’t plunk down a few crowns on the lottery every now and again?
The way of environmental issues, though, is to get more complicated the longer you look at them. Figuring out how leprechauns would affect the local thecology wasn’t going to be easy: tracing the interactions of beings from This Side is complicated enough, but when you start having Powers involved—I moaned again, medium loud. One of the things I’d have to examine was the impact importing leprechauns would have on the Chumash Powers (assuming those weren’t extinct). If the Chumash Powers were still around, hanging by a metaphorical fingernail, would bringing in leprechauns rob them of the tiny measure of devotion they needed to survive?
Bea walked by the open door just in time to hear that moan. She stuck her head into the office. “Why, David, whatever is the matter?” she asked, as if she didn’t know.
This,” I said, pointing to the orange cover of the environmental impact report request. “Do you by any chance have a spell for making days forty-eight hours long so I can do everything I’m supposed to?”
“If I did, I’d use it myself,” she said, “but I don’t think God’s been in the habit of holding back the sun since Joshua’s day.”
“This is going to be a bear to handle,” I said, “especially on top of the Devonshire dump case and the Chumash extinction study—” St. Elmo’s fire came on above my head, just like you see in the cartoons. “That’s why
