“Jollies we get,” Buzz said, dropping into a chair.
“Listen, Buzzo,” Ed said. “What do I do first?”
Buzz looked at the tip of his stogie critically, then let his eyes go around the office in thought. “We might go about finding out what a curse is. The next time we—you, that is, I’m going to be A.W.O.L. at that point—the next time you go up against Tubber, it’d be better if you had some ammunition.”
“A curse? Everybody knows what a curse is.”
“So fine. What?”
Ed thought about it. He flicked his desk switch. “Major Davis, please.” Lenny Davis’ face appeared in the screen.
“Yes, sir.” The major wasn’t yet quite used to having as his chief the man he’d been interrogating and considering throwing out of the office but a day previously.
Ed said, “We want to find out just what a curse is. Send in some scientists who know what curses are.”
The major looked at him blankly. “What kind of scientists know what a curse is, sir?”
“How would I know?” Ed told him curtly. He flicked off the set.
Buzz De Kemp was impressed.
Ed said, “What do we do now?”
“Have lunch,” Buzz told him. “We ought to pick up Helen. What’s Helen doing?”
“She’s in charge of the Homespun Look department,” Ed said. “She’s going to find out everything possible about the Homespun Look.”
Buzz looked at the end of his stogie. “That’s a good idea. You got some scientists working with her?”
Ed Wonder pursed his lips. “No. You’re right. If we’ve got unlimited resources, we better use them. The devil only knows how much time we’ve got before Tubber goes into his act again.” He flicked on his desk switch. “Major Davis.”
The major’s face was even slightly more harassed than it had been the evening before, Ed decided. The major said, “Yes, sir.”
“Lenny,” Ed told him, “send up a few scientists to Miss Fontaine’s office. We want to know what it is that makes women itch.”
The major opened his mouth, shook his head, and closed it again. “Yes, sir.”
When the army man’s face had faded from the screen, Buzz looked at it thoughtfully. “You know,” he said, “I don’t think the major is going to last very long. He’s already getting sort of a greenish look around the gills.”
Ed Wonder stood up. “There’s more where he came from,” he said.
When they got back from lunch and crossed the outer offices of Ed Wonder’s suite, he could only notice that they’d moved in another score or so of staff, and a selection of I.B.M. machines complete with operators and files of punched cards. Ed wondered vaguely what they were going to use them for. Possibly nothing. Dwight Hopkins probably just wanted them to be handy and ready, just in case a use for them did come up.
Randy, his receptionist, said, “Professor McCord is waiting in your office, Mr. Wonder.”
“Who the devil is Professor McCord?”
“Major Davis sent him, sir.”
“Oh. He’s probably an expert on either hexes or itching, then.”
After Ed and Buzz had entered the inner office, Randy Everett looked after them for a long frustrated moment, somewhat as though she had put her last dime in a pay telephone and got the wrong number.
Professor McCord came to his feet at their entry. They went through the usual banalities, finally winding up seated.
Professor McCord said, “I was picked up by two security officers and rushed here to your office. I submit that although I am available for my country’s service, I haven’t the vaguest idea of…”
Ed said, “What are you a professor of?”
“Ethnology, specializing in the African Bantu tribes.”
Buzz said, selecting a fresh stogie from his jacket pocket. “The major is sharper than I thought he was. Professor, what is a curse?”
The other’s eyes came around to the newspaperman. “You mean is the sense that a witchman might curse someone?” When the two nodded, he went on. “It is the expression of a wish that evil befall another. A calling down of something wicked, harmful on some victim.”
“Well, that’s not exactly the word, possibly,” Ed Wonder said. “Possibly the word I want is spell, or hex.”
The professor obviously hadn’t the vaguest idea of what they wanted of him. He said, “A spell is usually a combination of words, or pretended words, supposed to accomplish something magical. The term, if I’m not mistaken, is derived from the Old English. A hex is much the same thing, an act of witchcraft. It is American idiom, originally derived from the Germanic.” The professor was frowning puzzlement.
So were both Ed Wonder and Buzz De Kemp.
Ed said, “I know, I know. But I didn’t want just definitions. Now, take one of your Bantu witchdoctors. He puts a spell on somebody, usually because somebody else paid him to do it, right? Okay. Just what does he do?”
Professor McCord looked at him blankly.
Buzz said, “How does he go about it? How is it accomplished?”
The professor said, “Well, in actuality, each witchman will have a different procedure. Usually an elaborate mumbo-jumbo involving unusual ingredients to stir together, and an incantation involving magical words.”
Ed leaned forward. “We know that. But, what we wanted to know was, just what is a curse? You know, what is it…?”
The professor blinked at him.
“What we’re trying to do is find out what a curse, a hex, a spell really is.”
“Why, I just told you.”
They looked at each other for a long unprofitable moment. Finally, he said. “Do you believe in the devil? You know, Lucifer?”
“No. What has that got to do…”
“Or black magic?”
“I don’t believe in any kind of magic.”
Ed had him. He pointed a finger. “Then how come a witchdoctor can cast a spell on somebody? Don’t tell me they can’t. Too much evidence exists.”
“Oh,” Professor McCord nodded. “I see what you’re driving at, at last. Do you know what a liban is? I took my doctorate in their study.”
“I thought on my kooky Far Out Hour I’d heard of everything in this line, but evidently not.”
The ethnologist’s face took on a pleased expression. “The libans are such a vital part of African witchcraft that I’m amazed they are known so little. A liban isn’t exactly a witch-man, since he’s born into the caste and can’t enter into it from outside. They’re just a handful of families, not numerous. He’s the Eminence grise in the tribe and they wouldn’t dare do anything without his advice. For instance, if the warriors are going out on a raid, he lets them know whether or not it’s going to be a success, gives them little bags of sacred dust, or some such, to tie to their daggers. What I wish to impart is that the liban is not a fake. His position is hereditary, comes down for a thousand years and more. Believe me, if a liban puts a curse on a tribesman, the curse works.”
“How?” Buzz said flatly.
The professor looked at him. “Because everybody involved knows it will work. The victim, the liban, and all the other members of the tribe.”
It was the same sort of answer Ed had got from Varley Dee. It accomplished nothing. The fact of the matter was, hardly anybody, of all the billions of persons involved, even knew that Ezekiel Joshua Tubber existed, not to speak of knowing he was laying hexes right and left.
Buzz said to Ed, “What’s all this about libans got to do with Tubber?”
“Tubber?” Professor McCord said. “Tubber who?”
“Ezekiel Joshua Tubber,” Ed said wearily. “You wouldn’t know about him.”