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"That's not a problem here... what did you say your name was?"

"I didn't, but it's Mudge."

"Um. As I said, payment will be no problem for this lad. We'll simply consider

this little repair as an advance against his services."

"Services?" Jon-Tom looked wary. "What services?"

"He ain't much good for anything, from what I've seen," Mudge piped up.

"I would not expect a mere scavenger such as yourself, Mr. Mudge, to

understand." The wizard adjusted his glasses haughtily. "There have been forces

at work in the world only I could fully comprehend, and only I am properly

equipped to deal with them. The presence of this lad is but a small piece of a

dangerously complex puzzle."

There, Mudge thought triumphantly. Knew he'd been muckin' about.

"It is obvious he is the one I was casting for last night. You see, he is a

wizard himself."

"Who... 'im?" Mudge laughed in the manner of otters, high and squeaky, like the

laughter of wise children. "You're jokin', mate."

"I do not joke in matters of such grave import." Clothahump spoke somberly.

"Yeah, but 'im... a wizard? He couldn't even put a new spell on 'is firemaker."

The turtle sighed, spoke slowly. "Coming as he does from a world, from a

universe, other than our own, it is to be expected that some of his magic would

differ from ours. I doubt I would be able to make use of my own formidable

talents in his world. But there is an awesome interdimensional magic abroad in

the world, Mudge. To cope successfully with it we require the aid and knowledge

of one accustomed to its workings." He looked troubled, as though burdened by

some hidden weight he chose to keep hidden from his listeners.

"He is the magician I sought. I used many new and unproven words, many

intergrams and formulae rare and difficult to blend. I cast for hours, under

great strain. I had given up hope of locating anyone, and then chanced upon this

drifting spirit, so accessible and free."

Jon-Tom thought back to what he'd been smoking; he'd been drifting, no doubt of

that. But what was all this about him being a wizard-magician?

Sharp eyes were staring into his own from behind thick lenses. "Tell me, boy.

Are not the wizards and magicians of your world known by the word En'geeniar?"

"En'gee... engineer?"

"Yes, that is the proper sounding of it, I think."

"I guess that's as good an analogy as any."

"You see?" He turned knowingly back to Mudge. "And it is through his service he

will pay us back."

"Uh, sir...?" But Clothahump had disappeared behind a towering stack of books.

Clinking noises sounded.

Mudge was now convinced he'd have been much better off had he never tracked that

granbit or set eyes on this particular gangling young human. He studied the

slumping form of the injured youth. Jon-Tom was spritely enough of word... but a

wizard? Still, one could never be certain of anything, least of all appearances,

when dealing with wizardly doings. Common folk did well to avoid such.

How could anyone explain a wizard who could not spell a simple firemaker, much

less fix an injury to himself? The lad's disorientation and fear were real

enough, and neither spoke of the nature of wizards. Best to wait, perhaps, and

see what concealed abilities this Jon-Tom might yet reveal. Should such

abilities suddenly surface, it might also be best to insure that he forgot who

put the hole in his ribs.

"Now lad, don't pay no mind t' what Clothahump says about payments and such. No

matter what the final cost, we'll see it's taken care of. I feel sort o'

responsible t' make certain o' that."

"That's good of you, Mudge."

"Aye, I know. Best not even t' mention money to 'is nibs."

Laden with bottles and odd containers fashioned of ceramic, the turtle waddled

back toward them. He arranged the collection neatly on the wood chips in front

of the couch. Choosing from several, he mixed their contents in a small brass

bowl set between Jon-Tom's legs. A yellow powder was added to a murky pool in

the bowl and was followed by a barely audible mumbling. Mudge and Jon-Tom

clutched suddenly at their nostrils. The paste was now emitting an odor awful in

the extreme.

Clothahump added a last pinch of blue powder, stirred the mixture, and then

began plastering it directly on the open wound. Thoughts of infection faded when

it became clear to Jon that the paste was having a soothing effect on the pain.

"Pog!" Clothahump snapped short fingers. "Bring a small crucible. The one with

the sun symbols engraved on the sides."

Jon-Tom thought he might have heard the bat mumble, "Why don't ya get it

yourself, ya lazy fat cousin to a clam." But he couldn't be sure.

In any case, Pog did not speak when he returned with the requested crucible. He

deposited it between Jon-Tom and the wizard, then flapped back out of the way.

Clothahump measured the paste into the crucible, added a vile-smelling liquid

from a tall, waspish black bottle, then a pinch of something puce from a drawer

near his right arm. Jon-Tom wondered if the wizard's built-in compartments ever

itched.

"What the devil did I do with that wand... ah!" Using a small ebony staff inlaid

with silver and amethyst, he stirred the mixture, muttering continuously.

Within the crucible the paste had gained the consistency of a thick soup. It

began to glow a rich emerald green. Tiny explosions broke its surface, were

reflected in Jon-Tom's wide eyes. The mixture now smelled of cinnamon instead of

swamp gas.

Using the wand, the wizard dipped out some of the liquid and tasted it. Finding

it satisfactory, he gripped the wand at either end with two fingers of each hand

and began passing it in low swoops over the boiling crucible. The sparks on the

liquid's surface increased in intensity and frequency.

"Terra bacteria,

Red for muscle, blue for blood,

Ruination, agglutination, confrontation,

Knit Superior.

Pyroxine for nerves, Penicillin for curds.

Surgical wisps, solvent site, I bid you complete

your unquent fight!"

Jon-Tom listened in utter bewilderment. There was no deep-throated invocation of

tail of newt, eye of bat. No spider's blood or ox eyes, though he remained

ignorant of the powders and fluids the wizard had employed. Clothahump's mystic

singsong chatter of pyroxine and agglutinating and such sounded suspiciously

like the sort of thing a practicing physician might write to amuse himself in a

moment of irrepressible nonsense.

As soon as the recital had been completed, Jon-Tom asked about the words.

"Those are the magic words and symbols, boy."

"But they actually mean something. I mean, they refer to real things."

"Of course they do." Clothahump stared at him as if concerned more about his

sanity than his wound. "What is more real than the components of magic?" He

nodded at the watch. "I do not recognize your timepiece, yet I accept that it

keeps true time."

"That's not magical, though."

"No? Explain to me exactly how it works."

"It's a quartz-crystal. The electrons flow through... I mean..." He gave up.

"It's not my specialty. But it runs on electricity, not magic formulae."

"Really? I know many electric formulae."

"But dammit, it runs on a battery!"

"And what is inside this thing you call a battery?"

"Stored electric power."

"And is there no formula to explain that?"

"Of course there is. But it's a mathematical formula, not a magic one."

"You say mathematics is not magic? What kind of wizard are you?"

"I keep trying to tell you, I'm..." But Clothahump raised a hand for silence,

leaving a frustrated Jon-Tom to fume silently at the turtle's obstinacy.