"Robert Weinberg - Logical Magician 02 - A Calculated Magician" - читать интересную книгу автора (Weinberg Robert)

“We must somehow learn where the Old Man of the Mountain makes his headquarters,” said
Merlin, stroking his beard thoughtfully. “He is the only one who can put an end to these attacks. Though
persuading him to do so might prove difficult.”
Cassandra smiled. It was not a pleasant smile. Even the two ravens appeared shocked. “Give me
a few minutes alone with him,” she said softly. “I’ll show him the error of his ways.”
“Hold on,” said Jack, raising his hands for silence. “We’re ignoring one important fact. The
demigod behind things isn’t merely concerned with killing me. It plans to rule the world. There has to be
another reason it contacted the Old Man of the Mountain than my demise. We have to discover that
scheme and defeat it as well.”
“Sounds simple enough to me,” said Mongo. “I love complicated webs of intrigue. Where do we
start?”
“Searching the pockets of our intended executioners might be a good beginning,” said Megan. “I
know professionals aren’t supposed to keep clues in their pockets. But it never hurts to check.”
As expected, none of the men carried any identification.
However, a tattoo on one assassin’s shoulder served equally well.
“’I love Las Vegas,’” read Jack, astonished. “I find it hard to believe that any respectable
murderer would have his hometown tattooed on his body.”
“These losers weren’t top-notch professionals, Jack,” said Cassandra. “I’d rate them fair at best.
Maybe the Old Man of the Mountain has been experiencing difficulties recruiting new members for the
order.”
“Maybe,” said Jack. “But I still suspect it might be a trap.”
“Who cares,” said Megan. “If that’s where the Old Man of the Mountain has his headquarters,
that’s where we want to go. Trap or no trap. We don’t have much choice, do we?”
“Nope,” said Jack unhappily. “No choice at all.”

8
7

Roger Quinn looked at the blemishes on his elbow and shuddered. There were five of them, evenly
spaced around the bone. Dark marks, the size of dimes, they closely resembled the fingerprints of a child
or a very small adult. That, of course, was impossible. No one’s touch caused skin to brown and age like
old parchment. At least, no one human.
“I’m at a loss to explain them, Mr. Quinn,” said Dr. Philips, frowning. “I’ve never seen their like
before. It’s as if your flesh in those five spots is decaying at an unnatural rate. Nothing in my experience
relates to selective tissue degeneration in such a selective manner. With your consent, I’d like to do some
more tests.”
Roger shook his head. “No, thanks. You’re the third skin specialist I’ve consulted.” There was a
note of quiet desperation in his voice. “The others ran all the tests imaginable. They took samples of skin
tissue from my elbow and analyzed it for weeks. The results were identical in both cases. Absolutely
nothing.”
 “You have no idea what might have brought about this condition?” asked Philips. “You’re a
scientist. Maybe an experiment went wrong?”
Roger grimaced. “I work with computers, doc, not chemicals.”
Wearily, he pulled on his shirt and began buttoning the buttons. He should have known better.
No doctor living could help him with his problem. They were bound by conventional teachings. It never
once occurred to any of them that they might be dealing with a manifestation of the supernatural. In
reality, Roger needed an exorcist, not a specialist.
Unfortunately, finding a real ghost breaker in modern California was no easy task. There were
plenty of spiritualists in the phone directory, offering assistance in everything from love potions to fighting
demons. They came in all nationalities and religions, both sexes, young and old, black and white. Only