Except an audience-and that had become increasingly difficult over the last few years as stage magic had reentered the mainstream of pop culture. Magic had become show business, and Augie couldn’t compete with the expectations of the spectacle-sated crowds. He didn’t object to Siegfried and Roy or David Cop perfield when they took their illusions to a ludicrously large scale, because he knew they were at heart master craftsmen, and the tricks they performed were based on the same set of skills they all shared.
But then there was P’tol P’kah, whose act, he was certain, was designed to destroy everything Augie loved about his art. Because what Augie did-and what every one of his predecessors had done for generations before him-was based on precise technical skill. Uncountable hours of practice went into the tiniest movement. This was the real secret of the professional magician. The genius of the act lay not in the trick, no matter how clever, but in the huge amount of work it took to master it.
The so-called Martian Magician was something else entirely, Augie was sure. This dissolving man trick really was just that-a trick. He didn’t know how the green guy was pulling it off, but he could tell that the secret was technological, not manual. And if all it took to be considered a great magician was access to the most expensive toys, then his art would be reduced to the level of the pop music industry, where computers could turn any moderately talented teenage girl into the next singing sensation.
Augie was not going to let that happen. He’d been studying P’tol P’kah’s act for months, and he was almost certain he would have figured it out if he could have seen the Dissolving Man just once or twice more. That, he knew, was why the green giant had vanished after his aborted performance at the Fortress of Magic. He must have known he was going to be exposed. He must have known he was going to be exposed by Augie Balustrade.
But if this fraud thought that simply dropping out of sight was going to protect his secret, Augie was going to make sure he learned just how wrong he was. Let the others chatter on about what a terrific exit they had seen. Let them scramble for the opportunity to take over the enormous showroom. Augie was going to expose him.
It wasn’t going to be easy, but nearly drowning in the Martian’s tank at the Fortress performance had finally given Augie an idea of what the trick’s secret might have been. He hadn’t been able to see much when he was upside down and underwater, but as he looked out at the audience, he was pretty sure he could see a tight grid of tiny wires running through the glass walls. The most likely explanation was that these were merely reinforcements to keep the tank from exploding over the audience, but Augie thought they might have another purpose, as well.
It was still just a theory, but he was chasing hard after further evidence and hoping for some real information soon. If he could have had a few uninterrupted minutes with the dissolving tank, he was sure that what he’d find would match up with what he was assuming. But since that wasn’t going to happen in this or any lifetime, Augie had begun to make some phone calls. He wasn’t asking specific questions yet, just grounding himself in basic theory. But every bit he learned made him more confident that he was on the right track.
Augie scooped the cards up in his left hand and with a graceful wave arced them through the air so they landed facedown in his right palm. He twitched the muscles of his right hand, and the cards flew up again, this time landing in his left, the faces alternating up and down. One more twitch and the deck disappeared from sight. He reached into his jacket pocket-Augie always dressed for business before practice-and pulled out the cards, which were now arranged by suit.
He was about to fan them across the toilet tank again, when he heard a hissing noise. That was nothing new for the bungalow his father had left him; Augie spent almost as much time jiggling the toilet handle to stop it from running as he did working with the cards. His hand was halfway to the lever when he realized that the sound was both higher and louder than any running water he’d ever heard.
And it was coming from outside the bathroom door.
Maybe a pipe broke and there’s water spewing all over the kitchen , Augie thought. But before he could visualize the location of the main valve, he heard something else outside the bathroom.
A footstep.
No, more than a footstep. It was a deep, hard thud pounding against his floorboards.
There was another thump and Augie realized what it was: the sound of a heavy boot stomping across his living room.
A huge, heavy, black boot.
There was another stomp, this one much closer to the bathroom door.
Augie’s hands shook with fear, and the cards scattered over the floor. The green giant was here. It was coming for him.
Get hold of yourself, he commanded his body. He’s not a real Martian. He’s not a real giant. He’s probably not even a real magician. If only he could make his hands stop shaking, he knew he could figure out what he should do.
But for the first time in sixty-eight thousand, four hundred thirty-two hours, Augie Balustrade had no control over his hands. Or his feet, which seemed to have sunk two inches into the tile floor so that lifting them was impossible.
At least his neck still worked, and he swiveled his head around to look for a way to escape. There was a window, but it had been nailed shut years ago when Augie’s father thought he was using it to slip out of the house during his mammoth bathroom sessions. He could break the glass and slither out, but it was so small that only his ten-year-old self could have made it through.
Flight was impossible. The only alternative was to fight. But Augie’s hands had never been formed into fists. In junior high, he was beat up every day for a month by a bully named Stacy Starkweather, who kept telling him that all he had to do to stop the punishment was fight back. Augie never did, not once, and finally Starkweather-who was related to the serial killer of the same name only in temperament-finally gave up on him. Although Augie liked to tell himself that his tormentor finally came to respect his principled stand, he knew deep down that he really only got bored.
But Augie also knew the only principle behind his stand was the love of his craft. He would sacrifice nose, eyes, stomach, legs, and whichever other part of him the bully chose to pick on, before he’d risk damaging one of his hands on the kid’s thick skin.
He needed a weapon. A razor would do. At least, an old-fashioned straight razor would. But Augie shaved with a rechargeable electric, and unless the intruder was insanely ticklish, it wouldn’t help him at all. Augie yanked open drawers, tearing through their contents, hurling Q-tips and cotton swabs and Band-Aids and tube after tube of hand cream on the ground. If only he had a proper nail file, the kind with the sharpened point, but Augie’s superstitions about damaging his fingers kept him away from those dangerous tools. Instead, he tossed box after box of disposable, blunt-ended emery boards into the bathtub. Somehow he didn’t think the threat of mild abrasion would do much to keep the Martian monster away from him.
Augie saw a glint of steel at the back of a drawer. He thrust his hand in and came out with the prize: a set of nail clippers. They weren’t Augie’s-he’d never trust his fingers to anything so imprecise. They must have belonged to his father and been hidden in this drawer for years.