“You mean Josh Tubber?” McCord said. “Academecian Ezekiel Joshua Tubber?”
“Academecian?” Buzz said.
“Josh was taking his academecian degree in political economy while I was studying for my doctorate,” McCord said. “A surpassing scholar.”
Ed Wonder closed his eyes in mute appeal to the higher up.
But Buzz said quickly, “Then you knew him when he was younger. Look, at that time did he have any ideas about starting, say, a new religion? A religion with a lot of socio-economic angles?”
Ed said, “More important, did he ever say anything to you about an ability, a power to curse things? To put a spell on, well, ha ha, say TV?”
Professor McCord said, “Don’t be ridiculous.”
Ed flicked his desk switch. “Bill Oppenheimer,” he said.
Oppenheimer’s face filled the screen. It was the first time Ed Wonder had seen the other since his interview of the day before. Oppenheimer said, “Yes, sir.”
Ed said, “You’re now in charge of backtracking on Tubber. As a beginning, we’ve got a line on his schooling. He took an academecian’s degree in economics at…” he put a hand up to hold Oppenheimer and looked at McCord. “What college?”
“Harvard.”
Ed Wonder looked at him in reproach. “It couldn’t have been some jerkwater college in the Bible belt. It has to be Harvard.” He looked back at Oppenheimer. “Harvard. Put a team on this. We want everything, anything, we can get on Tubber. What he studied. Every book he ever opened has to be analyzed, word for word. Run down his classmates, and find out every detail they can remember. Dig into his social life. Latch onto any women he ever dated, they’d be at least middle-aged by now. He’s got a daughter. Find out who he married. What happened to her. If she’s still alive… Well, I don’t have to tell you. We want a complete rundown on every phase of Tubber’s life. Clear this with General Crew, if necessary. If you need manpower, there’s the F.B.I., the C.I.A. and the Secret Service.”
“Got it,” Oppenheimer said. “Yes, sir.” His face faded from the screen.
Buzz said, “That’s telling them. Little Ed, you’ve got the makings of a really big cheese.”
McCord said, somewhat intrigued, “If you’re interested in checking on Josh Tubber, you won’t get much at Harvard. He took only his academecian’s degree there. As I recall, he took his doctorate at the Sorbonne, and, if I’m not mistaken, studied earlier at either Leyden or Heidelberg. Classical Philosophy, I believe.”
“Philosophy?” Ed Wonder repeated.
“A predilection for Ethical Hedonism, as I recall,” McCord nodded.
Buzz finished his drink, as though desperate. “Hedonism,” he said. “Tubber? You mean like the eat, drink and be merry for tomorrow we die, bit?”
“Hedonism goes further into reality than that, you know,” McCord said stiffly. “Briefly, Epicurus taught that men not only in fact seek pleasure, but further that they ought to do so since pleasure alone is good. However, his definition of pleasure is the crucial…”
“All right,” Ed said. “So Tubber put in a hitch studying philosophy. Look, Professor, I’m going to turn you over to a brace of my assistants who’ll take down everything you can remember about Tubber, and also everything you can think of about libans, witchdoctors, spells and curses.”
When the professor was gone, Ed looked at Buzz who looked back at him.
Finally Ed flicked his screen and said, “Major Davis.” When Davis’ face faded in, Ed said, reproachfully, “Lenny, ethnologists might be scientists but they don’t know what curses are. Round us up some scientists who can tell us what a curse is. Snap into this, Lenny. We want results.”
Major Leonard Davis looked at him plaintively, opened his mouth in what was obviously going to be protest or at least complaint, but then dosed it again. “Yes, sir,” he said. “Scientists who know what a curse is.” His face faded.
Buzz said approvingly, “You’re catching onto this routine fast.”
They looked at each other some more.
Finally Ed flicked on his switch and said, “Get me James C. Westbrook. He lives just south of Kingsburg.”
Randy said, “Yes, sir,” and in moments, Jim Westbrook’s face faded in on the screen.
He said, “Hello, Little Ed. Sorry, I’m awfully busy. If you don’t mind…”
Ed Wonder ignored his words. “Listen, the other day when we were talking about miracles, you said you believed in them. That is, that you believe in things happening that we can’t explain by our present scientific knowledge.”
Jim Westbrook, in the phone screen, looked as though he were in a hurry, but he took the time to say, “I’m glad you qualified, friend, I don’t like the term miracle.”
Ed said, “Well, look, do you believe in hexes?” He waited for the other’s disclaimer.
“Sure,” Westbrook said. “I’ve looked into the subject a bit.”
“Now, I’m not talking about this voodoo sort of thing where the victim is convinced he’s going to fall sick if the voodoo priest puts a spell on him, and then, of course, does. I mean…”
Westbrook said, “Really, I’m in a hurry but… Look, friend, the witchman does not have to convince his victim he’s going to be a victim. The victim gets convinced because he does get sick. I’ve found that it most bodaciously is not something to play games with. It does not depend on faith or belief, on either the part of the victim or of the practitioner. In the same way that dowsing rods work for people who are completely positive they don’t work.”
“Go on,” Ed told him.
“Hexing happens the same way. I found out one Halloween party. If you want some, well, unusual, let’s say, emotional feelings, try figuring out how to go about taking off a hex you didn’t believe you could put on, because hexes don’t exist, only the poor victim is very well hexed and you don’t know anything about unhexing whatsoever. Friend, it’s about six degrees worse than the amateur hypnotist who’s gotten somebody into a trance, imposed a posthypnotic suggestion, and now can’t unsuggest the thing. At least, there are books on hypnotism in the libraries to tell what to do in that case. But try finding a book on unhexing somebody you’ve accidently and unbelievingly hexed. Friend, it’s a matter of I didn’t know the gun was loaded!”
Jim Westbrook began to say more, but then darted a glance down at his wrist. “Listen, Little Ed, I can’t spend any more time with you talking about hexes.”
“That’s what you think,” Ed grinned at him.
Westbrook scowled. “What does that supposed to mean, friend?”
Ed said, happily, “You’ve just been drafted into talking your head off about every aspect of hexes you know about, pal.”
The other said, “Little Ed, you better see a doctor. So long.” He cut the connection.
Ed Wonder said happily, “Stereotype, eh?” He flicked the intercom switch. “Major Davis,” he said.
The major’s face came on and he said, both warily and wearily, “Yes, sir.”
“There’s a James C. Westbrook, who lives on the outskirts of Kingsburg. Have him brought in immediately and take down everything he knows about hexes. And, Major, listen. He might not want to come. However, he’s, ah, crash priority. You’d better send four men.”
“Yes, sir, to speed things up, do we have anything else on him, sir. Where does he work? What does he do? He might not be at home.”
Ed Wonder said, “He’s a consulting engineer, specializes on rhabdomancy.”
“Rhabdomancy,” Major Davis said blankly.
“Yes, rhabdomancy, radiesthesia. He operates dowsing rods.”
Major Davis looked as though he had been cruelly hurt. “Yes, sir. Crash priority. Pick up this man who operates dowsing rods.” His face faded pathetically from the screen.