Jack Of Shadows

"Nothing. Have a cigarette."

"Thanks."

He heard a tiny bleat of thunder, and the ever-present odor from the laboratories aroused unpleasant memories. That's why I never liked this building, he realized. It's the smells.

"Will you be with us this coming semester?" Poindexter asked.

"I think not."

"Oh, you got your leave approved. Congratulations!"

"Not exactly."

A look of concern flashed at him through thick glasses.

"You're not quitting, are you?"

"It depends-on several things."

"If I may be selfish about it, I hope you decide to stay."

"Thanks."

"You'll keep in touch, though, if you do go?"

"Of course."

A weapon, he decided. I need something better than what I've got. But I can't ask him. It's good that I stopped in here, though.

He drew on his cigarette, glanced out the window. The sky had continued to darken; there appeared to be some moisture on the pane.

He gulped and dropped his cup into the wastebasket. Mashing out his cigarette, he stood.

"I'd better run if I'm going to make it to Walker before it starts to come down."

Poindexter stood and shook his hand.

"Well, if I don't see you again for a while, good luck," he said.

"Thanks-The keys."

"What?"

"The keys. Why don't you take them off the desk and put them in your pocket now, just in case?"

Poindexter blushed and did it. Then he chuckled.

"Yes. I wouldn't want to do that again, would I?"

"I hope not."

He retrieved his briefcase while Poindexter lit the candles above his desk. There came a flash in the sky, followed by a low rumble.

"So long."

"Good-bye."

He departed and hurried to the Walker Buiding, pausing only to break into a laboratory and steal a bottle of sulfuric acid, taping the stopper in place.

8

HE TORE OUT the first pages of the print-out and spread them on the table he had appropriated. The unit continued its clicking, drowning out the sounds of the rain.

He returned to the machine, tore out the next page. He placed it beside the others and regarded them.

There came a sound like scratching from the direction of the window, and he jerked his head upright, nostrils dilated.

Nothing. There was nothing there.

He lit a cigarette and dropped the match on the floor. He paced. He checked his wrist-watch. A candle flickered above its sconce and the wax slid down its side. He moved to the window and listened to the wind.

There came a click from the door, and he turned and faced it. A large man entered the room and regarded him. He removed a dark rain hat, placed it on the chair beside the door, ran a hand through his thin, white hair.

"Doctor Shade," he said, nodding and unbuttoning his coat.

"Doctor Quilian."

The man hung his coat beside the door, produced a handkerchief and began wiping his glasses.

"How are you?"

"Fine, thank you. Yourself?"

"Fine."

Dr. Quilian closed the door, and the other returned to the machine and tore out more pages.

"What are you doing?"

"Some figuring for that paper I told you about-a couple of weeks ago, I guess."

"I see. I just recently learned about your arrangement here." He gestured toward the machine. "Whenever anyone cancels out, you're right there to take over his computer time."

"Yes. I keep in touch with everyone on the roster."

"There have been an awful lot of cancellations recently."

"I think it's the flu."

"I see."

He drew on his cigarette. He dropped it and stepped on it when the machine stopped printing. Turning, he removed the final printouts. He took them to the table where the others lay.

Dr. Quilian followed him.

"May I see what you've got there?" he inquired.

"Surely," he said, and offered him the papers.

After a moment, "I don't understand them," said Quilian.

"If you had, I would have been very surprised. They're about three times removed from reality, and I'll have to translate them for my article."

"John," said the other, "I'm begi

The other nodded and lit another cigarette before he recovered the print-outs.

"If you want the computer yourself, I'm finished now." he said.

"I've been thinking a lot about you. How long have you been with us?"

"Around five years."

There came a sound from the window once more, and they both turned their heads.

"What was that?"

"I don't know."

After a time, "You get to do pretty much what you want to around here, John..." said Quilian, adjusting his glasses.

"That's true. I appreciate it."

"You came to us with good-seeming credentials, and you've proven to be quite an expert on darkside culture."

"Thank you."

"I didn't exactly mean it as a compliment."

"Oh, really?" He began to smile as he studied the final page of the print-out. "What do you mean?"

"I've got a strange feeling you've misrepresented yourself, John."

"In what way?"

"On your application for a position here, you stated that you were born in New Leyden. There is no record of your birth in that city."

"Oh? How did this come to light?"

"Doctor Weatherton was up that way recently."

"I see. Is that all?"

"Outside of the fact that you are known to keep company with hoodlums, there is some doubt as to the validity of your degree."

"Weatherton again?"

"The source is unimportant. The conclusion is not. I do not feel that you are what you purport to be."

"Why choose tonight, here, to air your doubts?"

"The semester's over, I know that you want to go away, and tonight was your last session with the machine-according to the time you applied for. I want to know what you are taking away with you and where you are taking it."

"Carl," he said, "what if I admitted that I did misrepresent myself a bit? You've already stated that I'm an expert in my area. We both know I'm a popular lecturer. Whatever Weatherton dug up-What of it?"

"Are you in some kind of trouble, Jack? Something I might be able to help you with?"

"No. Not really. No trouble."

Quilian crossed the room and seated himself on a low couch.

"I've never seen one of you this close before," he said.

"What are you implying?"

"That you are something other than a human being."

"Like what?"

"A darkborn. Are you?"

"Why?"

"They are supposed to be taken into custody, under certain conditions."

"I take it that if I am, those conditions will be deemed to have been met?"

"Perhaps," said Quilian.

"And perhaps not? What do you want?"

"For now, all that I want is to know your identity."

"You know me," he said, folding the pages and reaching for his briefcase.

Quilian shook his head.

"Of the things about you which trouble me," he said, "I've just recently found a new one which gives me considerable cause for concern. Allowing for a moment that you are a darksider who has emigrated into day, there are certain correspondences which force me to pursue the question of your identity. There is a person whom I had considered possessed only of a mythological existence, on the darkside of the world. I wonder, would the legendary thief dare to walk in sunlight? And if so, for what reason? Could Jonathan Shade be the mortal equivalent for Jack of Shadows?"

"And what if it is?" he asked, striving to keep his eyes from moving to the window, where something seemed now to be occluding much of the dim light. "Are you prepared to place me under arrest?" he asked, moving slowly to his left so that Quilian would turn his head to follow.