Mathemagics Mathemagics
The secretary was a statuesque Hispanic
girl with good legs, which she advertised in lace tights and a very short skirt. The long,
firm thighs with their sleek lines of muscle reminded Mikh of Riva. Unfortunately, the top
half of the secretary didn’t match the promise of the bottom half: she had greasy
hair and protruding teeth. In his two years on this world, Mikh had yet to get used to
people like that. Why didn’t they go to a wizard and get themselves fixed up so they
weren’t so painful to look at? He knew there were equivalents of cosmetic wizards on
this world. They were called plastic surgeons. He had learned a great deal from reading;
at least that part of the transform spell had worked right, bringing him to this world
dressed like a superior businessman and able to read and speak the local language.
Some of the other improvements he’d
made to the spell hadn’t worked quite as he expected. Mikh looked down ruefully at
the palm-size Leibniz Personal Assistant in his right hand. This little black box and the
accompanying manual were a poor exchange for his wizard’s staff and book of spells.
Of course all the magic power that had been stored in his staff still had to be in the
Leibniz. Somewhere. The trouble was, in two years he still hadn’t figured out how to
release most of the magic functions. And an ability to read English was less help than one
might have expected in deciphering the manual.
Now, if only he could figure out how to
operate the Veil of Illusion function, he would at least be able to cast an appearance of
glamour over this woman so that she was a little easier on the eyes. He might even be able
to give her the outer semblance of Riva; the basics were there, the long black hair and
coffee-colored skin. . . .
Mikh surreptitiously consulted his manual.
Most of his magical spells had been translated as Special Functions, briefly described in
an appendix. “To activate the Veil of Illusion,” he murmured under his breath,
“touch function key F6 twice, then direct the infrared beam of the Leibniz at the
item to be veiled and call the appropriate virtual functions.” What in Nauzu’s
name were “virtual” functions? Oh, well, it was worth a try.
He punched F6 twice, then pointed the
Leibniz at the secretary and ran the tip of his finger over the touchpad at the top of the
Leibniz while remembering the luscious shapes of Riva’s contours.
The secretary’s face popped out in
large, lusciously contoured red boils. Hastily Mikh touched the Undo key and saw the boils
disappear.
“You don’t have to keep staring
at me,” the woman snapped. “I told you, Reverend Boatright will see you when he
has time.”
“My appointment was for nine
o’clock,” Mikh pointed out. It was 9:45 now.
“Reverend Boatright is a very busy
man.” She swiveled her chair away from Mikh and touched the intercom. “Reverend,
I’ve sorted all those signed petitions you brought in and entered the names into the
database. Would you care to go over them now?”
Mikh felt his wizard’s temper rising.
This woman was no more than a bondserf to the man he’d come to see; how dare she
treat him so lightly?
At least he could use the only magical
function he’d regained to teach this impudent female a lesson. While she was still
facing away from him, he pointed the Leibniz at the stack of petitions she’d been
sorting with such care and pressed function key F2, button A, and the little green knob at
the bottom of the Leibniz.
The stack of typed papers vanished. The
hand-written signatures didn’t of course, but with no paper to support them they
merely fell onto the bare desk in a little pile of dried ink crumbs.
There was an incomprehensible crackle from
the intercom and the secretary sighed irritably. “Very well, I’ll send him in
now. You c’n g’wan in,” she mumbled without looking at Mikh.
* * *
The walls of Reverend Boatright’s
office were covered with a melange of framed diplomas, letters, and posters in primary
colors. The poster behind Boatright’s desk read, “The Bible isn’t a good
idea--it’s God’s idea.” A single bookcase held a collection of books
with titles like A Call to Righteousness and Secular Humanism--Satan of the New
Age. Boatright’s desk was bare except for a computer, a speakerphone and a couple
of battered textbooks. Mikh read the titles upside down: Make Friends With Mr. Euclid
and Families of Our World. If the Reverend Boatright was as busy as
the secretary implied, he must be very good at keeping his paperwork organized and out of
sight.
Boatright was talking into the telephone
as Mikh entered. He gestured for Mikh to sit down and went on with what sounded like a
prepared speech, something about the importance of supporting family values and fighting
creeping humanism in schools and public life. He was in the middle of a sentence when the
person at the other end hung up on him. Mikh could hear the buzz of the dial tone, but
Boatright didn’t stop talking. People in this reality had relatively inefficient
hearing; probably Boatright didn’t realize Mikh knew he was talking to empty air.
While he waited for the Reverend Boatright
to run out of steam, Mikh glanced around the narrow room. The one window overlooked a
parking lot and a convenience store, somewhat detracting from the dignity of the framed
diplomas and testimonials that covered the walls. He saw that Boatright had a Ph.D. in
Physical Education from the College of Holy Works, a doctorate of theology from the same
institution, several letters praising his untiring work in support of American values, and
a large brass plaque thanking him for the contribution of the Boatright Wing to the chapel
of the College of Holy Works. The signatures on all the letters seemed remarkably similar,
but Mikh didn’t have a chance to examine them in detail; Boatright hung up the
telephone and turned to Mikh with a beam of satisfaction on his face.
“So gratifying to bring another sheep
into the fold,” he said. “Mrs. Rylander didn’t actually commit anything to
our cause, but I could tell that she was deeply touched by my words.”
He pressed the intercom button.
“Sandy, send one of our brochures and a petition to Mrs. Rylander. She’s very
interested in the cause.”
“Hey, Rev, about them petitions, I
gotta tell you something--” Sandy’s voice crackled through the intercom.
“Later, my dear, later.”
Boatright switched off the intercom and leaned across the desk, fixing his eyes on Mikh.
“Now, Mr. Levy, what can I do for you?”
Mikh launched into his prepared speech
about being impressed by the great work done by the American Values Research Center and
his desire to offer his skills to the cause. He proffered the sheaf of references
he’d brought, praising him for his contributions as a political analyst in various
California campaigns. The references were no more bogus than the framed letters on the
walls of Boatright’s office, and considerably better done.
“Ah--yes, I see, I see, but we
aren’t really looking for a political analyst at this time,” Boatright said.
“I advertised for a programmer analyst.” He waved at the computer. “I could
do it myself, of course, but the Lord said to me, He said, ‘Bob, you need to spend
your time on My work, not on fiddling around with computers.’ So I’m looking for
someone who could sort and classify the data Sandy has been collecting and direct our next
efforts. Now, if you could program computers--”
Mikh sighed. “Can’t everybody?
But it would be a waste of my talents. I can do considerably more for you than mere data
analysis, Mr. Boatright. Why, a simple extrapolation from the figures in your last mailing
tells me that your expected return on mailings can be increased exponentially with a
probability of
.”
Boatright blinked and looked impressed.
Mikh suppressed a smirk of satisfaction. At least mathemagics worked to this extent on the
Planet of the Paper-Pushers: you recited an incantatory formula and people backed off and
looked impressed.
It was really unfortunate that anything
more solid than impressing Paper-Pushers required the power stored in what used to be his
magic staff. Mikh felt sure all the magical functions were there; he’d sweated toads
and salamanders on converting the transport spell so that everything he brought with him
would be transformed intact and in a form appropriate to this world. But he hadn’t
counted on his book of spells being transformed into something that no human brain could
decipher. He’d spent months experimenting with the arcane Paper-Pushers’
formulae of “point and click,” and “drag and drop,” and he still
hadn’t managed to get more than a handful of the most elementary mathemagical
functions to work for him.
Quickly, before Boatright could stop
goggling, he added, “A simple finite-horizon dynamic programming model can determine
the precise modality which will establish the American Values Research Center as a serious
political presence in contact with the mainstream of grass-roots American activism.”
He wasn’t sure that actually meant anything, but these Paper-Pushers didn’t seem
to notice as long as one took their favorite words and rearranged them in a pleasing
syntactical order. “In other words,” he went on, “by using my skills as a
political analyst to redirect and focus your efforts appropriately, you can have . .
.” He slipped into the sort of terms he would have used in ki-Dazau. “Power.
Glory. All the wealth and lordship of the world.”
Boatright nodded. “Good man.
That’s from Proverbs, right? I like a man who knows his Scriptures. What made you
decide to relocate to Austin, Mr. Levy? According to these references, you were doing
quite well in California.” He glanced down at the resume in front of him. Mikh
considered this one of his finest works of fiction. He had typed it only the night before
on a computer at the public library, targeting his “background” specifically to
this idiot’s tastes. It wasn’t the ideal job, but he had to have some source of
income while he stayed in Austin, and this pretentious little preacher had seemed like the
kind of idiot who would skip details like checking references. “The governor’s
race, personal advisor to Senator Waxman, fundraising for the League for Human Decency . .
. ”
Mikh leaned forward and fixed Boatright
with an earnest look. “Reverend Boatright, the state of California is a sink of
iniquity, a Godless Sodom whose citizens care only for filthy lucre.” And very
lucrative he’d found it, too, but it was only a stopping place until he located what
he’d really come to this world for. And what a dreary task that had been! Every time
he tried to invoke the Searching Eye function of the Leibniz he got back “NO DATA
FOUND,” instead of the clear images the globe topping his magic staff had once given
him. He’d been forced to resort to purely mundane means. Reading telephone
directories. Tapping into computer data bases. Fortunately, Riva hadn’t disguised
herself very well: once he worked his way down to this nowhere town in the Bible Belt, it
had been easy to recognize “Konneva, Riva” as the Rivakonneva of Dazau.
His Riva.
None of which was any of Boatright’s
business. “As for settling in Austin,” Mikh lied easily, “this is only one
of several possibilities that I’m considering. Some of the larger politically
oriented Christian foundations have offered me very significant remuneration.”
“Mal and Norma Gainer!”
Boatright’s fist clenched. “They’re always one step ahead of me!”
“It would be unprofessional of me to
reveal the names of the other groups bidding for my services,” Mikh said smoothly.
“Suffice it to say that I have chosen you, Robert Boatright, because I desire to work
with a man of proven insight and great leadership potential. Working together, we can make
the American Values Research Center a force to be reckoned with in national politics, and
you can assume your rightful place as founder of the center. I’m afraid you might be
required to take on a rather more public role than you would choose. I know you prefer to
work behind the scenes, Reverend Boatright, doing your good works in secret and taking no
credit for them--”
Boatright looked downright crestfallen.
Yes, he was definitely on the right track now. “But,” Mikh went on with a
flourish of his Leibniz, “I’m afraid you will now be called to stand forth as
the leader of your group and all the good American values they stand for. You may even
have to make the deep personal sacrifice of immersing yourself in party politics. Your
party needs new leadership, responsible leadership, moral leadership.” He
couldn’t quite remember the names of the political parties in this part of the world,
but it didn’t matter; the statement was doubtless true of both sides. All three
sides. However many there were.
And Boatright was puffing himself up like
a feathered dilkydeec in heat. “If God wants me to go out in public,” he said,
“if God says to me, ‘Bob, I want you to become a public figure,’ then my
answer to God is, ‘Okay, Lord!’ Do you think I should run for mayor?”
“My dear Reverend Boatright! Your
talents would be wasted on such a minor role. Congressman Boatright has a better sound,
does it not?”
“Senator Boatright . . .”
“High Duke . . . er, I mean,
President Boatright,” Mikh put in.
Boatright shook his head vigorously as if
to clear it of these wisps of glory. “You really interpret the--uh--dynamic
programming that way?”
“It’s a simple recursion on the
optimal strategy. Nothing could be clearer,” Mikh assured him. “There are
special analysis functions built into my Leibniz, you know; I had it custom-made for my
particular specialty.” True enough. The fact that he couldn’t access those
functions was hardly relevant at the moment; neither was the fact that they had nothing to
do with political science. The special functions were about mathemagics, and mathemagics
was power, and that was what he and Boatright were both talking about.
“Really? Let me have a look.”
Boatright reached for Mikh’s Leibniz.
“The numbers are, uh . . . not in a
user-friendly format,” Mikh said, but not quickly enough; he’d made the mistake
of setting the Leibniz down on the desk in front of him while he used both hands to sketch
out the kingdoms of the world in the air before them. Now Boatright had his hands on the
disguised magical staff.
“It’s okay,” Boatright
assured him, “I know all about these things. Read an article in the Journal
just the other day. It said the infrared data transfer function works without any wires or
disks or anything. You just point the Leibniz at your other computer, push the right
function key, and off . . . we . . .”
“Not F2!” Mikh cried out.
Boatright’s broad thumb came down on
the F2 key and the A simultaneously.
“Nauzu klevulkedimmu! Whatever you do
now,” Mikh said, “don’t touch the . . .”
“It’s not transferring
data,” Boatright said. “Oh, I see. You need to press this little green knob at
the bottom to activate it, don’t you?”
The battered textbooks stacked beside the
computer disappeared. Boatright’s eyes swelled outwards. “What the Sam
Hill--?”
The Leibniz dropped from his nerveless
fingers and Mikh scooped it up before Boatright could do any more damage. “I did tell
you,” he said, “that this model had been specially equipped with functions to my
personal specifications.”
“What else can you do?”
Boatright leaned across the desk as if he wanted to grab the Leibniz back; Mikh held it
firmly out of his reach. “Can you make things appear?”
Mikh shook his head. All his efforts to
invoke the Monster Movement Transform Function had resulted in the obscure message
“PARITY ERROR.”
“Can you make anything you want to
disappear? This desk? No, don’t, it cost a bundle. Um, ah--the paper clips?”
Again Mikh shook his head. “Only
printed matter,” he said with regret. “I apologize for the loss of your books;
I’ll personally replace them as soon as possible.”
Boatright chuckled and rubbed his hands
together. “All in good time, my dear boy, all in good time. You’re hired, of
course, and I shall want you to show me exactly how to repeat that little trick--or no, it
wouldn’t do for me to be seen using mechanical aids. Some people might think it a
Satanic contraption. You know, the secular humanist liberal commies call us
book-burners,” he confided in Mikh, “just because we want to keep smut out of
our homes and Satanism out of the schoolbooks. But it’s actually quite hard to burn a
book.” A shadow crossed his brow. “Incredibly hard. But with this--it’s a
miracle. And the state textbook hearings happening right in town this week, too! Oh,
this’ll show the Gainers a thing or two about who really does the Lord’s work
and has the Lord’s ear. A genuine, public, certified miracle in front of witnesses. I
can hardly wait!”
Copyright © 1996 by