More Magic by Larry Niven

Author:Larry Niven
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3, pdf
Published: 2014-12-27T16:00:00+00:00

“Mana from Heaven”

♦

by Roger Zelazny

I felt nothing untoward that afternoon, whereas, I suppose, my senses should have been tingling. It was a balmy, sun-filled day with but the lightest of clouds above the ocean horizon. It might have lulled me within the not unpleasant variations of my routine. It was partly distraction, then, of my subliminal, superliminal perceptions, my early-warning system, whatever…This, I suppose, abetted by the fact that there had been no danger for a long while, and that I was certain I was safely hidden. It was a lovely summer day.

There was a wide window at the rear of my office, affording an oblique view of the ocean. The usual clutter lay about—opened cartons oozing packing material, a variety of tools, heaps of rags, bottles of cleaning compounds and restoratives for various surfaces. And of course the acquisitions: Some of them still stood in crates and cartons; others held ragged rank upon my workbench, which ran the length of an entire wall—a rank of ungainly chessmen awaiting my hand. The window was open and the fan purring so that the fumes from my chemicals could escape rapidly. Bird songs entered, and a sound of distant traffic, sometimes the wind.

My styrofoam coffee cup rested unopened upon the small table beside the door, its contents long grown cold and unpalatable to any but an oral masochist. I had set it there that morning and forgotten it until my eyes chanced to light upon it. I had worked through coffee break and lunch, the day had been so rewarding. The really important part had been completed, though the rest of the museum staff would never notice. Time now to rest, to celebrate, to savor all I had found.

I raised the cup of cold coffee. Why not? A few words, a simple gesture…

I took a sip of the icy champagne. Wonderful.

I crossed to the telephone then, to call Elaine. This day was worth a bigger celebration than the cup I held. Just as my hand was about to fall upon the instrument, however, the phone rang. Following the startle response, I raised the receiver.

“Hello,” I said.

Nothing.

“Hello?”

Nothing again. No…Something.

Not some weirdo dialing at random either, as I am an extension…

“Say it or get off the pot,” I said.

The words came controlled, from back in the throat, slow, the voice unidentifiable:

“Phoenix—Phoenix—burning—bright,” I heard.

“Why warn me, asshole?”

“Tag. You’re—it.”

The line went dead.

I pushed the button several times, roused the switchboard.

“Elsie,” I asked, “the person who just called me—what were the exact words—”

“Huh?” she said. “I haven’t put any calls through to you all day, Dave.”

“Oh.”

“You okay?”

“Short circuit or something,” I said. “Thanks.”

I cradled it and tossed off the rest of the champagne. It was no longer a pleasure, merely a housecleaning chore. I fingered the tektite pendant I wore, the roughness of my lava-stone belt buckle, the coral in my watchband. I opened my attaché case and replaced certain items I had been using. I removed a few, also, and dropped them into my pockets.

It didn’t make sense, but I knew that it had been for real because of the first words spoken.

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