The Reign of the Brown Magician. Lawrence Watt-Evans
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but instead would most probably be incinerated in its fiery dissolution. You’ve naught to fear from us.”
“Good,” Pel said.
“Indeed, meseems ’twould be very much in our interests to serve you honestly and well,” Athelstan continued, “for else how shall we flourish, when all the reins of power are held in your own two hands? Look you upon the pitiful estate of all known wizardry, when only we four can be found of the myriad magicians who once flourished in this realm—and this, merely that Shadow was not pleased others should wield the arts arcane. How, then, shall we not rejoice that Shadow has passed, and that a new overlord is come who, by your profession heretofore, seeks not exclusive dominion?”
By the time Pel had interpreted this speech, and debated with himself how to respond, Athelstan had taken his pause for silent consent.
Pel knew that Athelstan was making at least one wrong assumption; he knew that there were a few other wizards besides these four still scattered about the far corners of Faerie—but only a matrix wizard could have seen that, and it didn’t matter anyway. He let Athelstan continue.
“What learning we might have we place gladly at your disposal, O Brown Magician,” the wizard said. “What would you have of us?”
There it was, the question Pel had been waiting for. He took a deep breath.
“I want to learn to raise the dead,” he said.
* * * *
“I want to be useful,” Prossie said. “I feel as if I should be doing more, not just sitting here in your house, eating your food and wearing your clothes.”
Amy hesitated. “You can’t drive a car, though,” she said. “You don’t have any marketable skills, or any educational record, or anything. I don’t know what sort of work you could get. I mean, if I were still in business, I could maybe hire you myself for awhile, but right now…I mean, I’m going to be job-hunting myself.”
“There must be something,” Prossie said desperately; she was on her feet, standing by the living room couch, as if, Amy thought, she couldn’t bear to stay seated.
“I’m sure there is,” Amy agreed, getting up herself. “Maybe working at McDonald’s, if nothing else. We’ll want to get you a GED, maybe sign you up at Montgomery College or somewhere—maybe those Air Force people could help…” She glanced out the front window at that, at the car that waited out on the gravel shoulder of Goshen Road.
It would be nice to get some use out of all this mess, she thought. “Maybe you could sell souvenirs…” she began, as she turned to look out through the kitchen, through the glass panel in the back door, at the spaceship that lay in her back yard.
She stopped in mid-sentence and stared; her mouth fell open.
Prossie asked, “What is it?” She hurried to the kitchen door and looked.
Not realizing at first that Amy was looking out the back, it took her a moment to see what was wrong; she wasted several seconds scanning the kitchen itself, and saw nothing out of the ordinary. At last, though, her gaze reached the window.
“Oh, my…” she began.
“Someone better tell the Air Force men,” Amy said. She turned and ran for the front door to do just that, leaving Prossie staring wide-eyed out the back, staring at the men in purple space suits climbing down a rope-ladder that seemed to hang from empty sky.
Chapter Six
Samuel Best sometimes wondered whether his name had helped him in his career in Imperial Intelligence. Nobody would admit such a thing, of course, but sometimes he wondered whether, on some level, people expected more of him because of his name, and chose him for tough assignments because he was, after all, the Best.
Not that he necessarily believed he actually was the best; to think such a thing could lead to overconfidence, and that could easily be fatal.
He did try to be good at his work, though, and in this case that had resulted in delays that had irritated the hell out of that officious twit, John Bascombe, Under-Secretary for Interdimensional Affairs.
Best didn’t much care. Bascombe might be an up-and-coming politician, he might be able to ruin Best’s life—but screwing up a field assignment could get a man killed. Better to annoy one’s superiors and live than to do as one’s told and die.
It had just seemed to be common sense to insist on speaking to anyone in the Empire who had actually been in this Shadow place, and it wasn’t his fault if the surviving crewmen of I.S.S. Ruthless had been reassigned and scattered.
It was too bad no one from Colonel Carson’s squad had made it back alive, but they hadn’t; there were only the six men from Ruthless.
Not that they had been able to tell him much, in any case; they had only been there for about twenty minutes, and in an area hundreds of miles from his intended point of arrival.
Still, it was useful to know about the heavier gravity, the lower-than-optimum oxygen content of the atmosphere, the blue-shifted sunlight, the pseudoterrestrial ecology, the appearance of a feudal social structure—and the clothing. Best had no desire to be obvious; he wasn’t about to go in in uniform.
The squad sent to the other universe, the place called Earth, could make their own decisions; he and his boys were going in in the closest approximation of local costume they could manage.
This meant that the Earth squad went first, of course—Bascombe hadn’t been willing to wait.
That was fine with Best; he wasn’t eager to be the first to try this trick of climbing through a space-warp on a rope ladder. And the fact that the Empire only had one space-warp generator operational at the moment—though he knew that more were under construction, a fact he was not supposed to know—meant that he and his three underlings couldn’t go anywhere until the Earth squad was through, and the generator shut down, recalibrated, and re-started.
It seemed to be working, though; having finally approved the preparations, he stood behind Bascombe and to the side, hand shading his eyes, and watched through the thick tinted glass as the four space suited figures vanished into the blinding white glare of the space-warp field.
A fifth figure, also suited, emerged from the glare and waved to the control room.
“They’re through,” one of the engineers said.
“Good,” Bascombe said. “Then get this thing shut down and open the warp to Shadow’s universe.”
“But, sir,” someone protested, “If you do that, you’ll cut off the men on Earth—the ladder will be sheared off, and we won’t be able to retrieve them.”
“Roll the damn ladder up,” Bascombe said, “and then use it to get Best, here, and his crew, to Shadow’s world. Then you can reopen the warp to Earth. We’ll do four-hour shifts hanging that ladder in each universe.”
“Give them another hour, sir,” Best said. “It’ll take me that long to get my men ready.”
Bascombe turned to glare at him, looked down at the phony peasant garb Best wore, then shrugged.
“Forty minutes,” he said. “I want you and your men in the staging area, suited and ready to go, in forty minutes.”
“Yes, sir,” Best said. He saluted, and stood at attention as Bascombe left the room.
“What an idiot,” an engineer muttered when the door had swung shut.
Best didn’t bother to reply aloud, but his own opinion was the same.
* * * *
“It didn’t work,” Pel said, glaring at the dead dog. It had stopped twitching.
“Well, O Great One,” Athelstan said, “did we not say that we knew not the way of it?”
“You said you thought you could, if you had enough