“Bah,” grumbled the Lord of the Lions, sounding disgusted. “In my day, things were a lot easier. None of this sneaking around in the shadows nonsense. I was a god. My followers worshipped me. They treated me with respect. When I spoke, the world trembled. I was feared.”
“I know, I know,” said Roger, shaking his head. He was tired of listening to the demigod’s complaints. Over the past few weeks, the Lion God had repeated its catalog of woes hundreds of times. It took very little to start its complaining. No more virgin priestesses. No more blood sacrifices. No more holy wars. The list went on and on. God or not, the Crouching One was a colossal bore.
“Well, best that we assume the worst,” declared the Lord of the Lions. “I remember how all of us gods laughed at that character, Gilgamesh. What a pest he turned out to be. And then, of course, there was Moses. Nobody expected that sanctimonious busybody would cause such trouble.”
“Moses?” repeated Roger, his mouth open in astonishment. “You knew Moses?”
“All of the Immortals knew Moses,” said the Crouching One. “He was our bane—the first link in the chain of events that banished me and all those like me from the face of the Earth. Damned Hebrew was a lot more dangerous than he looked.”
The Lord of the Lions smiled its special smile, the smile that gave Roger the shakes every time he saw it. The catlike smile, ancient and mysterious, without a trace of humor—or humanity. “But now I am back, and I won’t be fooled so easily a second time. Not at all.”
Blue sparks flashed as the demigod rubbed its hands together. “Call back our allies in Chicago. Let them put out the word to all those who roam the night. This mortal champion must be found and destroyed. He must be crushed before he can interfere with our plans. I want him dead. Now.”
“They might not be able to locate him so easily,” said Roger, edging back to the door. When the Crouching One started playing with hellfire, it was time to leave. “And, if he’s this champion like you think, he might not be a pushover.”
“Perhaps,” said the Lord of the Lions. “Perhaps. But, he can be traced by the talisman in his possession. Von Bern will know how to do that at least. Night will soon fall in Chicago. The forces of darkness are strongest in the midnight hours. The German and his allies will not fail me.” The demigod clenched its hands into fists. “They dare not fail me.”
“Yes, sir,” said Roger, scurrying out of the room. “Yes, sir.”
He dashed for the telephone. For the moment, he was in the clear. Von Bern and his stooges had let this champion escape. He was their responsibility.
Roger shivered. Dealing with the Lord of the Lions always left him shaken. He had raised the entity by mistake and was stuck paying for his mistake. Only death could sever his ties with the evil demigod.
Like an echo, that thought reverberated through his mind. Carefully, analytically, Roger reviewed his conversation with the Crouching One. According to the basic principles of science, the final result of any operation was guaranteed if the initial conditions of the experiment were duplicated exactly.
Roger smiled. It was time for him to do some reading. About Moses.
6
“Well, doc,” said Jack, only half in jest, “will I live?”
“That depends entirely on whether you learned anything from this unfortunate experience,” replied Doctor Nelson seriously. “You were lucky, Jack. Next time, you might not escape with just a few bruises and a bad headache.”
A tall, thin, middle-aged man, Nelson was the campus physician. Though he rarely smiled, he had a droll sense of humor. His bland features concealed a razor-sharp wit and a keen mind that rarely missed anything.
“There won’t be a next time,” said Jack. “I’m not that stupid.”
“I hope not,” said Nelson. “Though I can’t entirely blame you. No one expects to be assaulted during broad daylight. Not even in this neighborhood.”
The university was located in one of the worst sections of Chicago’s south side. An imposing metal fence supposedly sealed the campus off from the streets, but no one really believed it provided any real security. Campus police did their best to maintain order, but it was a no-win proposition.
“Tell me about it,” said Jack, tenderly rubbing the bump on his head. “I’ve warned my students for years about the problem, but it never occurred to me that I might be the one assaulted. Can I get dressed now, doc?”
“Of course,” said Nelson. “You know I have to report this incident to security, Jack.”
“Sure,” said Jack, pulling on his clothes. “I was going to head over there right after leaving here. But I won’t argue if you want to fill out the report. Facing Benny Anderson won’t make my headache feel any better. I’d rather wander back to my apartment and lie down for a while.”
“You could use the rest,” said Nelson. Anderson was chief of campus security. An ex-marine, dealing with him was always an effort.
Reaching into a file drawer, the doctor pulled out a police report form. “I keep a stack of these handy,” he said, almost apologetically. “You can’t imagine how many of my patients need one of them.”
Careful of every detail, Jack retold the story he had concocted to explain his injuries. There was more than enough truth to the recital to make it believable.
“A motorcycle gang,” said Nelson, sighing. “As if we didn’t have enough trouble around here already. You didn’t, by any chance, notice anything special about their jackets? Many gangs sport distinctive colors or emblems. It might provide the police with a clue. Not that they’d be able to do much anyway.”
Jack shook his head, causing him to wince in pain. “They jumped me from behind, doc. The only thing I saw was a metal-studded glove that hit me in the face. And a boot that finished the job.”
“Funny that they didn’t rob you,” said Nelson, scribbling down notes on the police form. “You’re positive, Jack, that these hoodlums had no reason to rough you up?”
It took Jack a minute to realize what the physician was thinking.
“Hey, I’m innocent, doc. I’m not into drugs and never have been. I don’t use them, and I definitely don’t sell them. And you’re crazy if you think different.”
Nelson raised his hands in protest. “Sorry. I had to ask. If I didn’t, you can be sure campus security would. Anderson is obsessed with drug dealers. It’s the nature of the times.”
“Great,” said Jack, standing up. “Talk about guilt by association. I get mugged for no reason by a bunch of lunatics and that means I’m a dope pusher. Meanwhile, logic takes a holiday.”
The physician shrugged his shoulders. There was an odd expression on his face. “I’m only doing my job, Jack. No reason to get upset. Take it easy for a few days. Use the whirlpool bath in the gym whenever you can. It’ll help those bruises. If the pain bothers you too much, give me a call and I’ll prescribe something. Otherwise, check back with me in a week. By then, you should be back to normal.”
Still fuming, Jack left the doctor’s office. Nobody ever accused the hero of any fantasy novel he ever read of dealing in drugs as a sideline. Nor, for that matter, did he recall any of those heroes experiencing any real aches and pains other than an occasional hangover or arrow wound. Most of them shrugged off anything less than a life-threatening injury.
Head throbbing, Jack shuffled down the street towards the student union building. He needed food. It was nearly six o’clock and all he had eaten since the morning was the cheeseburger and Coke at Merlin’s office. The college cafeteria stayed open till nine. Once he grabbed a bite, he intended to head back to his apartment and collapse. Jack smiled wistfully. So far, his career as a world-saver was not progressing very well.