They thought for a few moments. Then Mrs. Dee said, “Perhaps his grandfather can do something. He was always fond of the boy.”
“Perhaps he can,” Mr. Dee said thoughtfully. “But I don’t know if we should disturb him. After all, the old gentleman has been dead for three years.”
“I know,” Mrs. Dee said, undoing an incorrect knot in the wind-cord. “But it’s either that or Boarbas.”
Mr. Dee agreed. Unsettling as it would be to Morton’s grandfather, Boarbas was infinitely worse. Immediately, Dee made preparations for calling up his dead father.
He gathered together the henbane, the ground unicorn’s horn, and the hemlock, together with a morsel of dragon’s tooth. These he placed on the rug.
“Where’s my wand?” he asked his wife.
“I put it in the bag with your golfsticks,” she told him.
Mr. Dee got his wand and waved it over the ingredients. He muttered the three words of The Unbinding, and called out his father’s name.
Immediately a wisp of smoke arose from the rug.
“Hello, Grandpa Dee,” Mrs. Dee said.
“Dad, I’m sorry to disturb you,” Mr. Dee said. “But my son—your grandson—refuses to become a wizard. He wants to be an—accountant.”
The wisp of smoke trembled, then straightened out and described a character of the Old Language.
“Yes,” Mr. Dee said. “We tried persuasion. The boy is adamant.”
Again the smoke trembled, and formed another character.
“I suppose that’s best,” Mr. Dee said. “If you frighten him out of his wits once and for all, he’ll forget this accounting nonsense. It’s cruel—but it’s better than Boarbas.”
The wisp of smoke nodded, and streamed toward the boy’s room. Mr. and Mrs. Dee sat down on the couch.
The door of Morton’s room was slammed open, as though by a gigantic wind. Morton looked up, frowned, and returned to his books.
The wisp of smoke turned into a winged lion with the tail of a shark. It roared hideously, crouched, snarled, and gathered itself for a spring.
Morton glanced at it, raised both eyebrows, and proceeded to jot down a column of figures.
The lion changed into a three-headed lizard, its flanks reeking horribly of blood. Breathing gusts of fire, the lizard advanced on the boy.
Morton finished adding the column of figures, checked the result on his abacus, and looked at the lizard.
With a screech, the lizard changed into a giant bat. It fluttered around the boy’s head, moaning and gibbering.
Morton grinned, and turned back to his books.
Mr. Dee was unable to stand it any longer. “Damn it,” he shouted, “aren’t you scared?”
“Why should I be?” Morton asked. “It’s only grandpa.”
Upon the word, the bat dissolved into a plume of smoke. It nodded sadly to Mr. Dee, bowed to Mrs. Dee, and vanished.
“Good-bye, Granpa,” Morton called. He got up and closed his door.
“That does it,” Mr. Dee said. “The boy is too cocksure of himself. We must call up Boarbas.”
“No!” his wife said.
“What, then?”
“I just don’t know anymore,” Mrs. Dee said, on the verge of tears. “You know what Boarbas does to children. They’re never the same afterwards.”
Mr. Dee’s face was hard as granite. “I know. It can’t be helped.”
“He’s so young!” Mrs. Dee wailed. “It—it will be traumatic!”
“If so, we will use all the resources of modern psychology to heal him,” Mr. Dee said soothingly. “He will have the best psychoanalysts money can buy. But the boy must be a wizard!”
“Go ahead then,” Mrs. Dee said, crying openly. “But please don’t ask me to assist you.”
How like a woman, Dee thought. Always turning into jelly at the moment when firmness was indicated. With a heavy heart, he made the preparations for calling up Boarbas, Demon of Children.
First came the intricate sketching of the pentagon, the twelve-pointed star within it, and the endless spiral within that. Then came the herbs and essences; expensive items, but absolutely necessary for the conjuring. Then came the inscribing of the Protective Spell, so that Boarbas might not break loose and destroy them all. Then came the three drops of hippogriff blood—
“Where is my hippogriff blood?” Mr. Dee asked, rummaging through the living room cabinet.
“In the kitchen, in the aspirin bottle,” Mrs. Dee said, wiping her eyes.
Dee found it, and then all was in readiness. He lighted the black candles and chanted the Unlocking Spell.
The room was suddenly very warm, and there remained only the Naming of the Name.
“Morton,” Mr. Dee called. “Come here.”
Morton opened the door and stepped out, holding one of his accounting books tightly, looking very young and defenseless.
“Morton, I am about to call up the Demon of Children. Don’t make me do it, Morton.”
The boy turned pale and shrank back against the door. But stubbornly he shook his head.
“Very well,” Mr. Dee said. “BOARBAS!”
There was an ear-splitting clap of thunder and a wave of heat, and Boarbas appeared, as tall as the ceiling, chuckling evilly.
“Ah!” cried Boarbas, in a voice that shook the room. “A little boy.”
Morton gaped, his jaw open and eyes bulging.
“A naughty little boy,” Boarbas said, and laughed. The demon marched forward, shaking the house with every stride.
“Send him away!” Mrs. Dee cried.
“I can’t,” Dee said, his voice breaking. “I can’t do anything until he’s finished.”
The demon’s great horned hands reached for Morton; but quickly the boy opened the accounting book. “Save me!” he screamed.
In that instant, a tall, terribly thin old man appeared, covered with worn pen points and ledger sheets, his eyes two empty zeroes.
“Zico Pico Reel!” chanted Boarbas, turning to grapple with the newcomer. But the thin old man laughed, and said, “A contract of a corporation which is ultra vires is not voidable only, but utterly void.”
At these words, Boarbas was flung back, breaking a chair as he fell. He scrambled to his feet, his skin glowing red-hot with rage, and intoned the Demoniac Master-Spelclass="underline" “VRAT, HAT, HO!”
But the thin old man shielded Morton with his body, and cried the words of Dissolution. “Expiration, Repeal, Occurrence, Surrender, Abandonment, and Death!”
Boarbas squeaked in agony. Hastily he backed away, fumbling in the air until he found The Opening. He jumped through this, and was gone.
The tall, thin old man turned to Mr. and Mrs. Dee, cowering in a corner of the living room, and said, “Know that I am The Accountant. And Know, Moreover, that this Child has signed a Compact with Me, to enter My Apprenticeship and be My Servant. And in return for Services Rendered, I, THE ACCOUNTANT, am teaching him the Damnation of Souls, by means of ensaring them in a cursed web of Figures, Forms, Torts, and Reprisals. And behold, this is My Mark upon him!”
The Accountant held up Morton’s right hand, and showed the ink smudge on the third finger.
He turned to Morton, and in a softer voice said, “Tomorrow, lad, we will consider some aspects of Income Tax Evasion as a Path to Damnation.”
“Yes, sir,” Morton said eagerly.
And with another sharp look at the Dees, The Accountant vanished.
For long seconds there was silence. Then Dee turned to his wife.
“Well,” Dee said, “if the boy wants to be an accountant that badly, I’m sure I’m not going to stand in his way.”
PARADISE II
THE SPACE station revolved around its planet, waiting. Properly speaking it was without intelligence, for intelligence was unnecessary. It had awareness, however, and certain tropisms, affinities, reactions.
It was resourceful. Its purpose was stamped into the very metal, impressed into the circuits and tubes. And perhaps the machine retained some of the emotions that had gone into its building—the wild hopes, the fears, the frenzied race against time.