Alternating Currents by Frederik Pohl Page B

I was beginning to wonder if my theory, after all, was valid, when I began to approach pay dirt: name number five, a water-witch in Chelsea; number eight, a red-bearded old necromancer in a monstrous old house on the Jersey shore; number ten, a part-time ghoul who taught biochemistry in a New England university . . . and was the idol of the cleaning ladies because he never left messy bits of cadaver on his workbench. It was, they joked with him, as if he ate the corpses, he was so neat.
     
    I think that I didn’t even need the cross or the holy water for these; the shock of confrontation, the realization that they had been tracked down where they thought they were un-findable, was enough. From each I took one thing, as the laws provide. A charm from the witch, a perfectly disgusting recipe from the ghoul; from the necromancer, a curious variation on the crystal ball, an opaque sphere that answered questions - opaquely. None of these were of any great value, but my theory was confirmed, and besides I learned a great deal from their reactions. I felt confident that when the one I sought turned up, I could handle him.
     
    By Friday evening I was two hundred miles from the city, across the line from Pennsylvania, feeling as calmly certain of success as any man can feel. The next name on my list was number thirteen - happy omen! I had been looking forward to it, and when I saw the house I was doubly encouraged. I paid off the driver and, kicking rusted cans and torn copies of The Nation out of my way, reached the front door just at dusk.
     
    No one answered my knock. I tried again, ignoring the fact that the door gave every indication of being on the point of collapse, and thumped it hard. No answer. This was in no way a disappointment; I had discovered early that, in my present occupation, it was best to learn as much as possible about the quarry before meeting them face to face.
     
    I took the ball from my pocket and asked it if the person who inhabited the house would return within ten minutes. The ball’s answer was, ‘According to my information, no’, which was about as satisfactory as it could be, for there was a strong implication that the ball’s prophecy was hampered by opposing strong forces.
     
    For safety, I allowed myself but five minutes to survey the house. It was an ancient frame structure, a potbellied stove in every room, sunset light filtering through cracks in the walls. The cellar was ankle-deep in mushrooms, and it appeared that the occupant of the house had been systematically tunnelling away the foundations. The indications were most promising.
     
    I think, even now, that it is best if I don’t mention the man’s name. He was so clearly that which I sought that I paced the floor waiting for him: It seemed hours, but there was still an aura of sunset in the sky when I heard him at the door.
     
    He was astonished to see me sitting in his living-room, but at once he knew what I wanted. The overnight bag, with its flask of holy water and other useful items, was by my hand; he pretended to ignore it, but I observed that he brought up short at the door.
     
    ‘Hell,’ he said bitterly. ‘Even here.’
     
    I chuckled. ‘Yes, even here,’ I said. ‘Shall we get down to business ? Or would you like to pretend that you don’t know why I came?’
     
    He smiled weakly. It was curious to see the pointed teeth in that round, mild face. ‘I might as well own up,’ he said. ‘You’ve got me. There are only two reasons why you would have tracked me down with all that stuff in your bag. One of them obviously doesn’t apply; if you were going to try to reform me, you wouldn’t be wasting time in talk. Therefore you want something. All right. One thing, though, if you don’t mind. How’d you locate me ?’
     
    I could afford to be casual. ‘Simple,’ I said. ‘Elementary deduction. Farmers read Country Gentleman; bankers read the Wall Street Journal. There aren’t very many magazines dealing