Your Magic or Mine? (8 page)

“We’re going to be ready for anything,” Ed answered. “The High Council and the Defenders Council both offered their services. The councils recognize the worth of what we’re doing here and want to take the opportunity you two have provided to help set policy for the next century. They could set up meetings through their auspices, but nothing will have the impact of genuine grassroots debates and decisions. Since the Swords can cast offensive spells that stop a man in his tracks, we’ll have order.”

Gloriana looked from one man to the other. Ed was eager, and Forscher was resigned. She and her opponent were on the same side for a change. “Okay, count me in, too.”

“Good,” Ed said. “Neither of you will regret it.”

“I hope not,” she and Forscher said at the same time.

About two hours later, Marcus pulled his silver BMW into his garage. His home in the hills west of the city had never looked so good. He was worn out from dealing with Ed and … that Morgan woman.

In the past four weeks, he’d put her completely out of his mind—if you didn’t count some extremely arousing dreams. He knew he couldn’t be responsible for his subconscious; he hadn’t, after all, been on even a simple date for a while. He’d been too busy in California, and being back in Austin had been a nonstop marathon of holding classes, working with his grad students on their dissertations, and writing his latest books and articles.

He’d barely gotten back to normal before Ed and his traveling circus returned and wanted him to run away with them.

He entered the house to Samson’s chortling greeting, a definite request from the red and white basenji to be let out of his crate, the sturdy wire-framed inside doghouse. He knew Samson didn’t like being cooped up, but that was better than having him loose to get into things like closets, boxes, and cabinets. Marcus had learned his lesson early of how disruptive and messy a curious puppy could be.

He looked around the room before opening the door. Everything was in its place, neat, clean, uncluttered, exactly the way he liked it. One woman had called the white walls, light oak floors, and gray, beige, black, and white furnishings “austere,” but it suited him. So did his collection of art photographs. When she brought him a plant with long thin green and white leaves, claiming it made the space “more cheerful,” he’d put it out on his deck and forgotten about it after they stopped dating. He found it dead the following spring. Oh, well, if he wanted color, he had Samson for that. He opened the crate’s door.

With a frown at his master to remind him of his displeasure, the red and white dog came out and stretched, graceful and almost catlike in his movements.

Marcus knelt down and held out his hand to rub Samson’s wrinkled forehead. The dog, however, smelled his hand first and even licked it, making a grunting noise as he did so.

“What’s gotten into you?” Marcus asked when he was finally allowed to pet the animal. What had Samson smelled? He hadn’t eaten after lunch, and he’d washed his hands since then. He’d left the HeatherRidge and come straight home … but he’d shaken hands with Hearst and Morgan … Did the dog smell
her?

He himself certainly had, that same mix of floral and spice she’d worn before. Despite the distance, her scent had pulled at him from across the table, like a flower attracting insects. Hell, if he were a bee, he’d be diving into …

Stop! A bee? A flower? What was the matter with him?

He hated to admit it. The woman affected him, aroused him, tightened his muscles to the point that he could barely move. He wanted to tangle his fingers in her dark curly hair, run his hands over her skin to see if it was as soft as he imagined, kiss those …

Samson bumped his hand, and Marcus came back to reality. Fat chance for all that.

From what he could tell, he did not have an attractive effect on her. She barely glanced at him, didn’t smile, and looked as unhappy as he felt over their situation. Her lack of response was probably all to the good—it made it easier to resist her, to control himself. She—any woman—was the last thing he needed.

Here they were, however, trapped on an odyssey with Ed Hearst. He should look on the bright side. Maybe the controversy would run out of steam once Prick and the Horners had a couple of chances to fight for the spotlight. Then he could come home and get back to work on what counted.

Yeah, right. The arguments would probably go on forever. He’d be entangled the entire summer.

He gave Samson another pat before rising. To make sure Morgan wouldn’t distract him or his dog again, he washed his hands at the kitchen sink and was drying them when the phone rang.

“Hello, Marcus,” his mother said when he flipped open his cell phone and answered.

“Hello, Judith, how are you and Stefan?” he asked. As the words came out of his mouth, he suddenly remembered Gloriana Morgan calling her parents “Mother” and “Daddy” when they’d been talking outside the ballroom—names he had never used with his own parents. At their specific request, they had been “Judith” and “Stefan” as long as he could remember.

“Stefan and I are fine, thank you. He’s off at a physics department meeting. I have an appointment with a possible new assistant professor here in economics in a little while, but have some free time. Are you busy?”

“No, I’m free at the moment,” he said. He could picture her at her precisely organized desk in her office at the university in Massachusetts where both his parents were on the faculty. She’d be sitting upright—”No slouching, Marcus, it’s so common,” was her mantra—and look more like a business executive than a professor in her crisp suit with her hair neatly coiffed and her fingernails polished a muted pink. He looked down at himself and could almost hear her telling him to put on a tie and look more professional.

“I read the articles in
W
²
about your formula and the reception it received down there in Austin. At the Boston HeatherRidge last Saturday, that’s all they were talking about.”

“Oh, really? What are they saying?” Good, some reports from the outlying regions instead of Ed’s correspondents. Although not totally unbiased, his mother was an astute observer.

“Practitioners who are more, shall I say, ‘mathematically or numerically inclined’ are trying your equation in their casting. They say they need more precise instructions and calibrations, but believe it shows promise. Those who are not ‘talented’ in that manner don’t want to try it or associate with those who favor it. I must admit, some of the former have been rather impolite, even indelicate, in their statements about the latter. A few of those against it have responded in kind, I’m afraid.”

“Have the discussions gotten out of hand?” he asked, remembering how quickly the arguments had escalated at the so-called debate.

“No, everyone has been exquisitely civil in public. Of course, rumors are flying privately about who is no longer speaking with whom because of their discussions.”

“Has anyone spoken one way or the other directly to you or Stefan?”

“Only those who favor the equation. They’ve praised you for the excellent work, as is certainly your due.”

“Thank you, Judith.” He knew her statement was the highest accolade she’d give him. He’d never discussed the equation or its development in depth with either of them, although he knew they’d read his articles. Stefan had said only, “Good job,” his most effusive praise. Marcus could count on his fingers the times his father had said those words to him.

“But that’s not the reason I called,” she said. “Not the primary reason. I’m afraid we’re going to have to cancel or postpone our usual Fourth of July gathering on Cape Cod this summer.”

“Oh?” he said, while a feeling very close to relief flowed through him.

“Yes, the conference I usually attend in Helsinki has been moved to the end of June. Stefan wants to visit with some of his German colleagues, and we thought we’d see them during the first week in July.”

“I’m sorry we can’t make the Cape in July,” Marcus said, infusing his tone with as much sorrow as he could. Which wasn’t much, given the fact that the four or five days they spent together annually had grown more and more difficult for him over the years. They had almost nothing in common. It had reached the point where, outside of academic subjects and current events, they had little to talk about. He’d begged off visiting over the Christmas and New Year holidays for the last three years; they hadn’t pushed him to reconsider.

“Would you like to meet us in, say, Berlin, instead? I’m sure Stefan’s colleagues could make some appointments with mathematicians for you.”

He blinked at the tone in her voice. She sounded almost … wistful. He must be hearing things. His mother was never wistful. He pulled his thoughts back to his situation and said, “As it turns out, I’m not certain what my own schedule will be. The editor of
W
²
wants to take the debate across the country, hold meetings in a number of cities so everyone can participate. Dr. Morgan and I would be the main speakers.”

“Will that keep you from your regular research and writing? It’s important you produce another article or two. Aren’t you working on a book also? A real book, not that science fiction—”

“We’ll only travel on the weekends, and I’m making good progress on my mathematical theory book and my fiction,” he said quickly. He didn’t want to discuss his other calling—his “hobby,” as his parents called it. “I’ve already polished and submitted the articles I wrote in California.”

“Good. You may have made full professor at an even earlier age than either myself or Stefan, but you can’t rest on your laurels. You may want to leave the University of Texas someday and come back East. The more established you are in your field, the more attractive you’ll be.”

“Yes, Judith,” Marcus said, indulging himself by rolling his eyes. Neither she nor Stefan would be thoroughly approving until he was on the faculty of Harvard or MIT. They never understood how he could be happy in Texas, of all places.

“Let me know your schedule when you have it, and I’ll send you ours. We might go to the Cape after we return. If you have a few days, you could still join us.” He heard some commotion on her end, then her voice continued, “Oh, it looks like my appointment is here.”

“I’ll see what the calendar permits. Give my best to Stefan.”

“I will. Good-bye, Marcus.” She hung up before he could even answer.

He closed the phone and looked at the dog. “No Cape Cod,” he said.

Samson yawned, walked to the door, and looked pointedly back at him.

“Okay, let me change and we’ll go for a walk.” He had to laugh as he climbed the stairs to his bedroom. Sometimes he wondered who had trained whom in this household.

On the walk, Marcus paid no attention to the houses or the view from the hills overlooking the Colorado River while Samson pulled on the leash until an intriguing smell distracted him. Instead Marcus thought about his mother’s phone call.

What was that old saying about dark clouds and silver linings? At least he didn’t have to spend time on Cape Cod with his parents, hearing their opinions about his career, his place of employment, or his other, non-sanctioned activities. His alter ego Frederik Russell was doing fine, thank you, with six novels published to critical acclaim and good sales.

He also, however, did not want to spend time running around the country with Ed and his touring zoo. They hadn’t determined even a tentative schedule for the meetings, although they had come up with a list of possible cities. Ed was going to check availability of the ballrooms in the HeatherRidges and propose a plan.

Bad idea. If he let Ed set the agenda, he’d lose control of the situation. Ed wouldn’t stop at six weeks and six cities—not when they had identified twelve in their preliminary list. Not if the debates became hotter, and more people got involved. Swords notwithstanding, there would be more and greater fireworks with Prick and the Horners egging each other on. Of course, the excitement would create more demand. Result? Ed would run Morgan and him all over the country all summer. Perhaps even into the fall.

To accomplish his work, he needed calm and structure in his day-to-day activities. The fewer interruptions the better. He had been looking forward to long summer days of reading, thinking, and writing.

If the present was an indication, he’d have no peace. He’d already received a number of e-mails about his formula and that ridiculous debate. He’d refused to be drawn into arguments and had developed a standard answer referring the letter-senders to
W
²
. Once they started traveling, however, he could only expect the number of messages and demands on his time to double or triple. Hell, if he had time left for walking the dog, it would be a miracle.

Control. That’s what he needed. Control of his own schedule, his own life. He’d dance to no one’s tune.

Samson went still for a moment and stared at something next to a curve in the road. Marcus gripped the leash tighter. When the hound assumed that posture, he’d usually spotted an animal to chase. Sure enough, a cat emerged from behind a gatepost and started to cross the street.

The dog lunged against the chain. Marcus braced himself, held on with two hands, and said, “No, Samson!” At the sound of his voice, the cat took off running for the house across the road.

“Damn it, Samson! No! You are not hunting the neighbor’s cat.” Marcus hauled on the leash and used it to pull himself close to the hound, who was still trying to follow his supposed prey. For a relatively small dog, a basenji packed a lot of power, and Marcus held on tightly until the cat had disappeared.

“Come on, boy, let’s go back.” He tugged on the leash. Samson looked after the cat once more, back up at him, and gave an audible sigh, but he followed readily enough. In a few strides, he was out in front again.

“Control,” Marcus said. Samson only flicked an ear back and forth at the word.

Marcus shook his head. Samson was usually obedient, except when he spotted live, furry prey. Then his instincts and genes took over, and discipline was left by the wayside.