“That thoughtless little brat, I’m gonna—”
She shut her mouth. Babbling? That didn’t sound like Dairine. It was too simple an insult. And why “just go home” instead of “just come home”? There’s something wrong—
She stopped to lean on the wall next to Kit, who looked over at her and didn’t move for the moment: he was sweating and looked pale. “That gate was fastened to Mars real tight,” he said after a moment, sounding as if he was having trouble breathing. “I thought half of Mariner Plain was going to come with it when I uprooted the forcefields. But you look awful. What happened?”
“Something’s wrong,” Nita said. “Dairine’s home.”
“What’s awful about that? Good riddance.” Then Kit looked at her sharply. “Wait a minute. Home? When she’s on Ordeal?”
That hadn’t even occurred to Nita. “She sounded weird,” Nita said. “It didn’t sound like her. And though we were at home for our Ordeal—at least, at the beginning…” Nita shook her head. “Something’s wrong. We need to go see Tom and Carl.”
Kit nodded and pushed away from the wall, wobbling a little. “Sounds good. Grand Central?”
“Rockefeller Center gate’s closer.”
“Let’s go.”
*
A Senior wizard usually reaches that position through the most strenuous kind of training and field experience. All wizards, as they lose the raw power of their childhood and early adolescence, tend to specialize in one field of wizardry or another; but the kind of wizard who’s Senior material refuses to specialize too far. They are the Renaissance people of wizardry, every one of them tried repeatedly against the Lone Power in both open combat and the subtler strife of one Power-influenced human mind against another. Seniors are hardly ever the white-bearded wizards of archetype… mostly because their constant combats with the Lone One tend to kill them young. They advise other wizards on assignment, do research for them, lend them assistance in the losing battle to slow down the heat-death of the universe.
Few worlds have more than thirty or forty Seniors. At this point in Kit’s and Nita’s practice, Earth had twenty-four: six scattered through Asia, one in Australia and one (for the whales) in the Atlantic Ocean; three in Europe, four in Africa, and eleven in the Americas—five in Central and South America (one of whom handled the Antarctic) and six in the north. Of these, one lived in Phoenix, one in the Seattle area, the third and fourth in Los Angeles and Des Moines, and the other two lived together in Nassau County.
Their house in Nita’s town was very like their neighbors’ houses… perhaps a little bigger, but that wasn’t odd, since Carl worked as chief of sales for the big CBS flagship TV station in New York, and Tom was a moderately well-known freelance writer of stories and movie scripts. They looked like perfectly average people—two tall, good-looking men, one with a mustache, one without; Carl a native New Yorker, Tom an unrepentant Californian. They had all the things their neighbors had—mortgages and phone bills and pets and occasional fights: they mowed the lawn and went to work like everybody else (at least Carl did: Tom worked at home). But their lawn had as few weeds as Nita’s did these days, their pets understood and sometimes spoke English and numerous other languages, their phone didn’t always have a human being on the other end when it rang, and as for their fights, the reasons for some of them would have made their neighbors’ mouths drop open.
Their backyard, being surrounded by a high hedge and a wall all hung with plants, was a safe place to appear out of nothing: though as usual there was nothing to be done about the small thundercrack of air suddenly displaced by two human bodies. When Nita’s and Kit’s ears stopped ringing, the first thing they heard was someone shouting, “All right, whatcha drop this time?” and an answering shout of “It wasn’t
She shut her mouth. Babbling? That didn’t sound like Dairine. It was too simple an insult. And why “just go home” instead of “just come home”? There’s something wrong—
She stopped to lean on the wall next to Kit, who looked over at her and didn’t move for the moment: he was sweating and looked pale. “That gate was fastened to Mars real tight,” he said after a moment, sounding as if he was having trouble breathing. “I thought half of Mariner Plain was going to come with it when I uprooted the forcefields. But you look awful. What happened?”
“Something’s wrong,” Nita said. “Dairine’s home.”
“What’s awful about that? Good riddance.” Then Kit looked at her sharply. “Wait a minute. Home? When she’s on Ordeal?”
That hadn’t even occurred to Nita. “She sounded weird,” Nita said. “It didn’t sound like her. And though we were at home for our Ordeal—at least, at the beginning…” Nita shook her head. “Something’s wrong. We need to go see Tom and Carl.”
Kit nodded and pushed away from the wall, wobbling a little. “Sounds good. Grand Central?”
“Rockefeller Center gate’s closer.”
“Let’s go.”
*
A Senior wizard usually reaches that position through the most strenuous kind of training and field experience. All wizards, as they lose the raw power of their childhood and early adolescence, tend to specialize in one field of wizardry or another; but the kind of wizard who’s Senior material refuses to specialize too far. They are the Renaissance people of wizardry, every one of them tried repeatedly against the Lone Power in both open combat and the subtler strife of one Power-influenced human mind against another. Seniors are hardly ever the white-bearded wizards of archetype… mostly because their constant combats with the Lone One tend to kill them young. They advise other wizards on assignment, do research for them, lend them assistance in the losing battle to slow down the heat-death of the universe.
Few worlds have more than thirty or forty Seniors. At this point in Kit’s and Nita’s practice, Earth had twenty-four: six scattered through Asia, one in Australia and one (for the whales) in the Atlantic Ocean; three in Europe, four in Africa, and eleven in the Americas—five in Central and South America (one of whom handled the Antarctic) and six in the north. Of these, one lived in Phoenix, one in the Seattle area, the third and fourth in Los Angeles and Des Moines, and the other two lived together in Nassau County.
Their house in Nita’s town was very like their neighbors’ houses… perhaps a little bigger, but that wasn’t odd, since Carl worked as chief of sales for the big CBS flagship TV station in New York, and Tom was a moderately well-known freelance writer of stories and movie scripts. They looked like perfectly average people—two tall, good-looking men, one with a mustache, one without; Carl a native New Yorker, Tom an unrepentant Californian. They had all the things their neighbors had—mortgages and phone bills and pets and occasional fights: they mowed the lawn and went to work like everybody else (at least Carl did: Tom worked at home). But their lawn had as few weeds as Nita’s did these days, their pets understood and sometimes spoke English and numerous other languages, their phone didn’t always have a human being on the other end when it rang, and as for their fights, the reasons for some of them would have made their neighbors’ mouths drop open.
Their backyard, being surrounded by a high hedge and a wall all hung with plants, was a safe place to appear out of nothing: though as usual there was nothing to be done about the small thundercrack of air suddenly displaced by two human bodies. When Nita’s and Kit’s ears stopped ringing, the first thing they heard was someone shouting, “All right, whatcha drop this time?” and an answering shout of “It wasn’t
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