The creature went into convulsions, thrashing and writhing, knotting and unknotting. I struck at the head again and again, but this was not really necessary. My first blow had broken its neck. Its skin now decorates my den.
Esau Drexel said: "Willy, we've got to do something. Some day I'll have to retire, and the Harrison Trust will need at least one man with his head screwed on right."
I said: "True enough, Esau, but what? The return address on that package was a phony. The cobra was stolen from the zoo—by a pretty brave thief, I'd say. The cops say they're up against a dead end. That private detective didn't do a thing but send in a whopping bill."
"Maybe if you gave your story to the newspapers, it would flush out the Hagnophilists."
"All that would get me would be litigation. I have nothing but an inference to connect them with this sending of serpents. My lawyer warns me that those characters are both crazy and dangerous. If anybody writes something they don't like, they sue him for ten megabucks. The suits never come to trial, but the threats and harassment keep most of their critics quiet."
"Well," said Drexel, "when all the natural means have been exhausted, we must try the unnatural ones. I told you about my grandson George and the Scientific Sorcerers, didn't I?"
"Yes. Set a thief to catch a thief, so to speak?"
"What have we got to lose?"
"Will it cost more dough?"
"The bank will pick up the tab. We'll charge it to 'security,' which won't be any lie."
'"Public relations' might be better. Anyway, better not let the stockholders or the Federal Reserve boys know."
"I won't. But I'll get in touch with the Reverend Sung's cult."
The Reverend Sung Li-pei, late of Taiwan, was a short, round-faced man with an air of intense sincerity. I did not assume that this air truthfully reflected the inner Sung. Having come across many con men, I have found that all of them radiated bluff honesty and sterling worth. Otherwise, how could they make their livings as crooks?
Sung began: "Mr. Newbury, you wish to have this persecution by the minions of Mr. Bergius stopped, is that light?"
"That's light—I mean right."
"That is what I said, light. Now the spell of the Red Dragon is very expensive, as its results are often fatal—"
"I don't want to kill the guy," I said, "just make him harmless, so he'll let me alone. Better yet, make him stop conning my depositors into giving him all their worldly goods."
Sung put his fingertips together and thought. Then he said: "In that case, the spell of the Gleen—ah—Green Dlagon would be more suitable. Some of the entities I control can, I believe, lender our Mr. Bergius as harmless as a new-hatched chick, ha-ha." He gave a little forced smile.
"You won't hurt him physically?"
"No, nothing like that. You will have to attend the Sabbat. It will be held in my house this evening, beginning at eleven p.m. Now may I have your check for one thousand dollars, prease?"
"I prefer to pay in cash," I said, handing him an envelope containing ten hundreds.
He counted the bills, held them up to the light, and finally grunted satisfaction. "Good-day, then, Mr. Newbury. I shall see you tonight, yes?"
Sung held out, not in some spooky, crumbling old mansion, but in a neat, prosaic modern suburban home a few miles from my own house. The lights on the front terrace were lit to show the house number. Inside, a couple of white-clad fellows in turbans, evidently Sung's servants, flitted about.
"Ah, right on time, Mr. Newbury," said the Reverend Sung, shaking hands. "Light this way, prease ... You understand that you will not be introduced to the other members of the coven. They might incur unfortunate plejudices if their scientific activity were known. Here is the dressing room. Please put your valuables in this box, lock it, and hang the key around your neck."
"Why?"
"Because you will next lemove all your clothing and leave it here. The box is to make sure that nothing will turn up missing, ha-ha."
"You mean, I've got to strip to the buff?"
"Yes. That is necessary for the spell."
I sighed. "Well, my wife and I have gone nuding in France, but this is the first time for me in this country."
I started to unbutton and unzip, wishing that I did not have that slight middle-aged bulge below the equator. It is nothing like Drexel's real paunch; but, despite exercise and calorie-counting, I am no longer so flat in the belly as in my youth.
Sung donned a black robe. He led me, feeling very naked and a little chilly despite the summer warmth, down the cellar stairs.
The place was lit by black candles, burning with a greenish light. On the concrete floor had been drawn or painted a pentacle or magical diagram. Around this sat twelve naked men and women.
"You will take that vacant space, Mr. Newbelly," said Sung, pointing.
I lowered myself between two of the women. The concrete felt cold on my rump. I glanced at my neighbors.
The one on the left was elderly and not well preserved; she sagged and bulged in all the wrong places. The one on my right, on the other hand, was young and well-stacked. Her face was not pretty, at least in the crepuscular light; but she more than made up for it elsewhere. She whispered:
"Hello—ah?"
"Call me Bill," I whispered back. Nobody calls me "Bill," but "Willy," short for "Wilson." Still, this seemed the best way to handle the situation. "Good-evening—ah?"
"Marcella."
"Good-evening, Marcella."
Somebody shushed us, and the Reverend Sung stepped into the diagram. He raised his arms and said something in Chinese; then to the circle:
"Tonight, fliends, we shall invoke the spell of the Green Dragon for our friend here, to protect him from the unjust persecution to which he have been subjected by that gang of pseudo-scientific, pseudo-magical fakers, of whose abominations we are all aware. We shall start by singing the Li Piao Erh. Are you ready?"
The gang went into some Chinese chant. I am told that Chinese music, like that of the bagpipes, can be enjoyed as much as that of Beethoven and Tchaikovsky, when one has been educated to it. 1, alas, never have had this opportunity, so to me Chinese music still sounds like a cat fight.
The song over, Sung stepped outside the circle' and said: "Now join hands, prease. You, too, Mr. Newbury."
I joined hands with those two women. There followed endless chants, invocations, and responses, some by Sung and some by the circle. It went on and on. Since most of it was in Chinese, it meant nothing to me.
I began to find this spate of meaningless chatter tedious. My mind wandered to my right-hand companion. Now, I am no swinger; but still, the sight of well-turned female flesh still arouses my normal male reactions.
In fact, it aroused them in an all-too-visible way. My God, I thought, what shall I do about this? I'm sure it's not on the program. What will they do to me if they see me here with a totem pole sticking up from my lap?
By doubling up my legs, I managed to hide the offending organ. I tried mentally reciting the multiplication table. But the devil would not down.
Then something drove lustful thoughts from my head. In the center, a dim luminescence took form. It looked like a patch of luminous fog, glowing a faint, soft green. It brightened and became more substantial but did not take any definite shape.
Sung shouted in shrill Chinese. The circle repeated his phrases in unison. Sung's voice rose to a shriek. The green light faded. Sung staggered and collapsed.
A couple of sitters caught him as he fell and eased him down. Someone else flipped the light switch. The light showed thirteen naked people including myself, some sitting, some standing, and some scrambling ungracefully to their feet. They were of various ages, displaying a variety of bushes of pubic hair.