She was in his arms.
“Now tell me, Jeff,” she said. “Tell me!”
And Toms looked at her, and felt, and sensed, searched his classifications, selected his modifiers, checked and double-checked. And after much searching, and careful selection, and absolute certainty, and allowing for his present state of mind, and not forgetting to take into account climatic conditions, phases of the Moon, wind speed and direction, Sun spots, and other phenomena which have their due effect upon love, he said:
“My dear, I am rather fond of you.”
“Jeff! Surely you can say more than that! The Language of Love—”
“The Language is damnably precise,” Toms said wretchedly. “I’m sorry, but the phrase, ‘I am rather fond of you’ expresses precisely what I feel.”
“Oh, Jeff!”
“Yes,” he mumbled.
“Oh damn you, Jeff!”
There was, of course, a painful scene and a very painful separation. Toms took to traveling.
He held jobs here and there, working as a riveter at Saturn-Lockheed, a wiper on the Helg-Vinosce Trader, a farmer for a while on a kibbutz on Israel IV. He bummed around the Inner Dalmian System for several years, living mostly on handouts. Then, at Novilocessile, he met a pleasant brown-haired girl, courted her and, in due course, married her and set up housekeeping.
Their friends say that the Tomses are tolerably happy, although their home makes most people uncomfortable. It is a pleasant enough place, but the rushing red river nearby makes people edgy. And who can get used to vermilion trees, and orange-and-blue grass, and moaning flowers, and three wrinkled moons playing tag in the alien sky?
Toms likes it, though, and Mrs. Toms is, if nothing else, a flexible young lady.
Toms wrote a letter to his philosophy professor on Earth, saying that he had solved the problem of the demise of the Tyanian race, at least to his own satisfaction. The trouble with scholarly research, he wrote, is the inhibiting effect it has upon action. The Tyanians, he was convinced, had been so preoccupied with the science of love, after a while they just didn’t get around to making any.
And eventually he sent a short postcard to George Varris. He simply said that he was married, having succeeded in finding a girl for whom he felt “quite a substantial liking.”
“Lucky devil,” Varris growled, after reading the card. “‘Vaguely enjoyable’ was the best I could ever find.”
THE ACCOUNTANT
Mr. Dee was seated in the big armchair, his belt loosened, the evening papers strewn around his knees. Peacefully he smoked his pipe, and considered how wonderful the world was. Today he had sold two amulets and a philter; his wife was bustling around the kitchen, preparing a delicious meal; and his pipe was drawing well. With a sigh of contentment, Mr. Dee yawned and stretched.
Morton, his nine-year-old son, hurried across the living room, laden down with books.
“How’d school go today?” Mr. Dee called.
“Okay,” the boy said, slowing down, but still moving toward his room.
“What have you got there?” Mr. Dee asked, gesturing at his son’s tall pile of books.
“Just some more accounting stuff,” Morton said, not looking at his father. He hurried into his room.
Mr. Dee shook his head. Somewhere, the lad had picked up the notion that he wanted to be an accountant An accountant! True, Morton was quick with figures; but he would have to forget this nonsense. Bigger things were in store for him.
The doorbell rang.
Mr. Dee tightened his belt, hastily stuffed in his shirt and opened the front door. There stood Miss Greeb, his son’s fourth-grade teacher.
“Come in, Miss Greeb,” said Dee. “Can I offer you something?”
“I have no time,” said Miss Greeb. She stood in the doorway, her arms akimbo. With her gray, tangled hair, her thin, long-nosed face and red runny eyes, she looked exactly like a witch. And this was as it should be, for Miss Greeb was a witch.
“I’ve come to speak to you about your son,” she said.
At this moment Mrs. Dee hurried out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron.
“I hope he hasn’t been naughty,” Mrs. Dee said anxiously.
Miss Greeb sniffed ominously. “Today I gave the yearly tests. Your son failed miserably.”
“Oh dear,” Mrs. Dee said. “It’s Spring. Perhaps—”
“Spring has nothing to do with it,” said Miss Greeb. “Last week I assigned the Greater Spells of Cordus, section one. You know how easy they are. He didn’t learn a single one.”
“Hmm,” said Mr. Dee succinctly.
“In Biology, he doesn’t have the slightest notion which are the basic conjuring herbs. Not the slightest.”
“This is unthinkable,” said Mr. Dee.
Miss Greeb laughed sourly. “Moreover, he has forgotten all the Secret Alphabet which he learned in third grade. He has forgotten the Protective Formula, forgotten the names of the 99 lesser imps of the Third Circle, forgotten what little he knew of the Geography of Greater Hell. And what’s more, he doesn’t want to learn.”
Mr. and Mrs. Dee looked at each other silently. This was very serious indeed. A certain amount of boyish inattentiveness was allowable; encouraged, even, for it showed spirit. But a child had to learn the basics, if he ever hoped to become a full-fledged wizard.
“I can tell you right here and now,” said Miss Greeb, “if this were the old days, I’d flunk him without another thought. But there are so few of us left.”
Mr. Dee nodded sadly. Witchcraft had been steadily declining over the centuries. The old families died out, or were snatched by demonic forces, or became scientists. And the fickle public showed no interest whatsoever in the charms and enchantments of ancient days.
Now, only a scattered handful possessed the Old Lore, guarding it, teaching it in places like Miss Greeb’s private school for the children of wizards. It was a heritage, a sacred trust.
“It’s this accounting nonsense,” said Miss Greeb. “I don’t know where he got the notion.” She stared accusingly at Dee. “And I don’t know why it wasn’t nipped in the bud.”
Mr. Dee felt his cheeks grow hot.
“But I do know this. As long as Morton has that on his mind, he can’t give his attention to Thaumaturgy.”
Mr. Dee looked away from the witch’s red eyes. It was his fault. He should never have brought home that toy adding machine. And when he first saw Morton playing at double-entry bookkeeping, he should have burned the ledger.
But how could he know it would grow into an obsession?
Mrs. Dee smoothed out her apron, and said, “Miss Greeb, you know you have our complete confidence. What would you suggest’“
“All I can do I have done,” said Miss Greeb. “The only remaining thing is to call up Boarbas, the Demon of Children. And that, naturally, is up to you.”
“Oh, I don’t think it’s that serious yet,” Mr. Dee said quickly. “Calling up Boarbas is a serious measure.”
“As I said, that’s up to you,” Miss Greeb said. “Call Boarbas or not, as you see fit. As things stand now, your son will never be a wizard.” She turned and started to leave.
“Won’t you stay for a cup of tea?” Mrs. Dee asked hastily.
“No, I must attend a Witch’s Coven in Cincinnati,” said Miss Greeb, and vanished in a puff of orange smoke.
Mr. Dee fanned the smoke with his hands and closed the door. “Phew,” he said. “You’d think she’d use a perfumed brand.”
“She’s old-fashioned,” Mrs. Dee murmured.
They stood beside the door in silence. Mr. Dee was just beginning to feel the shock. It was hard to believe that his son, his own flesh and blood, didn’t want to carry on the family tradition. It couldn’t be true!
“After dinner,” Dee said, finally, “I’ll have a man-to-man talk with him. I’m sure we won’t need any demoniac intervention.”