PRAGMATIC

Professor Piers Knight was more than happy to hand his bags to the young man offering to carry them. His flight from New York City’s JFK airport to its counterpart in Munich had been exhausting for him. Despite the inordinate amount of air travel the fates had forced upon him over the years, the professor had never been able to accustom himself to surrendering that much control over his life to outside forces. His distrust of airplanes was so intense he found it impossible to sleep on them, no matter how long the journey.

“So, Herr Knight, how was your flight?”

“Not very restful.”

His phobia over water travel was not quite as intense. As he explained it, he preferred to drive places over any other form of transportation simply because when driving he was in command of the vehicle. And, while the professor was readily willing to admit he knew little to nothing about piloting boats, the back of his mind was somehow comfortable with the thought that if the captain of some ship he might be traveling upon were to suddenly become incapacitated, he might be able to pinch hit for them. But, if such were to happen to an airline pilot, he knew that if everyone was counting on him to come to the rescue, the craft would be going down.

“So,” asked Knight as he settled into the back of the vehicle to which the young man escorted him, “do we have time to go to my hotel first before you take me to see Herr Strassen?”

“I’m afraid not, sir. Things have actually gotten a bit complicated.” When the professor inquired as to what degree of complication had been reached, he was told, “Actually, sir, we’re heading straight for the hospital.”

“What? What are you talking about? Why would we do that—that doesn’t make any sense,” Forcing himself to stop chattering, Knight took a deep breath, then asked sensibly, “What’s happened?”

“Frau Hoffman suffered a fall late last night,” the chauffeur explained. Pulling out into traffic, he proceeded to weave in between the other cars on the road. Notching his speed higher by the second, he added, “She’s been stabilized, but it’s forced everyone to step up the timetable. She’s going to have to deliver the baby as soon as possible.” The man paused for a moment, then added:

“Really, they’re just waiting for you.”

The professor said nothing to his driver, as his brain began pelting him with non-stop worries. The news he had just been delivered was in no way anything he had been prepared to receive.

“What in Hell do I do now,” he wondered, rivulets of panic searching for cracks in the granite of his calm exterior, splashing forward to erode his confidence. His eyes unblinking, staring off at the passing scenery, catching none of it, his mind hissed at him:

“This means no prep time, no way to study the situation, to prepare the room…there’s no time to interview the mother—does she know what she’s getting into? There’s no time to talk to the doctors…do they understand what’s being attempted? Will they listen to me, listen to me when it really matters? Do they fully, actually understand what we’re attempting? Do they believe—do they?

“Can they?”

Professor Piers Knight suddenly began to cough violently, as if somehow having a physical reaction to his thoughts. So unexpected was his brief seizure, his driver called back to him.

“Herr Professor, are you all right?”

“Well, now that, my dear young man,” answered Knight in a voice cracking with strain, “will remain to be seen.”

* * * *

“Piers, ach du lieber, it’s good to see you again.”

“Herr Strassen, do we still have time?” Knight took the extended hand of the beefy German, barely noticing exactly how sweaty its palm was, or the slight tremble running through it and the rest of the large man.

“You Americans, always right to das point.” Dr. Otto Strassen was large in the academic manner, a swelled balloon of a man, the type whose back and front were so similar when seen in silhouette as to be indistinguishable from one another if not for the fact of his massive nose.

“That doesn’t answer the question, though, does it?” Knight, half a foot taller than Strassen, looked practically emaciated next to the beef-ball of a man.

“No, you are correct, as always.” Taking the American by the arm, Strassen lead his fellow academic to a quiet corner of the maternity ward. Once out of earshot of anyone else, the rotund doctor whispered:

“Frau Hoffman has been stabilized for the moment, but both she und die baby are in danger if die baby isn’t delivered soon.”

“What’s the problem?”

“The fall has wrapped the umbilical cord around die baby’s neck as well as shifting it into some other sort of bad position. Along with die mother’s injuries, they are both at risk if die baby is not delivered quickly.”

Knight found himself sweating despite the plentiful air conditioning. He was not prepared, had not readied his equipment. It was why he had flown to Germany when he did, giving himself what all had assumed would be a minimum of two weeks to make certain everything would go flawlessly.

“Damn all the fools who plague me so,” he thought bitterly. “The things I do in the name of the Brooklyn Museum.”

With Strassen waiting for his reply, the professor allowed himself a moment’s reflection. It had been over four months previous when the entire affair began, when he had received the call from his old colleague, asking him if he had ever heard of the resonant frequency. When Knight had confessed he had not, Strassen had explained:

“It is das perfect pitch of der human voice, das note, which when struck, can shatter glass. You are familiar, yes?” When Knight assured Strassen he was, the rotund man had continued, asking him how many people he thought were capable of achieving such a sound. When the professor guessed that it must be relatively few, he had received a surprising answer.

“Nein. Believe it or not, many people are born with such capability. But, most of them do not live very long.”

“Are you saying,” Knight had asked, “that something in being born with the ability causes early fatality?”

“Ya, but not any something of which most people would be capable of imagining.” Strassen then paused dramatically enough for the professor to hear the deep intake of breath being swallowed on the other end of the line. After a few more dramatic seconds of silence, the doctor said:

“You are one of der only men I would even dare mention this to. Most in our field are not so, ah…‘liberal of mind,’ shall we say, as you and I.”

“Otto,” asked Knight, genuinely intrigued, “just what is this all about?”

“The resonant frequency, it does not just shatter glass. It is also mankind’s perfect weapon against das supernatural. That one particular pitch, when focused correctly, can repulse, and even destroy…demons.”

The professor, of course, had been stunned by the information. Piers Knight did not instantly judge his colleague mad, however. Strassen had been correct; the professor was one of the few academics in the world he could trust to hear him out after making such a statement. And the doctor knew why. Like himself, Knight was a student of the occult, a studier of the unbelievable, of those things beyond. Together, ten years earlier the two had ridded Strassen’s beloved Munich Opera House of a particularly obnoxious poltergeist infestation which, if left unchecked, would have guaranteed the ruination of the fall season that year, as well as threatening the closure of the magnificent music palace altogether.

To Strassen, such was completely unacceptable. It was a horror beyond thought, and thus he had risked his career to prevent its occurrence. Now, another such situation had arisen, and he had once more turned to the only other academic whom, once he had told him his tale, would assist him rather than seek his ruin. He had not, of course, asked for Knight’s cooperation in the matter on the blind chance the professor would possibly be willing to help him. Strassen might be blindly loyal to the Opera House whose board he had sat upon for nine years, but he was by no means a foolish man. When he had first called Knight to enlist his assistance, it was not only because of his beliefs, but also because of his position.

“Piers, mein old friend,” he had begun when first he had called, “still sitting atop der most under-used collection of artifacts the world has ever seen?”

Professor Knight was one of the directors of the prestigious Brooklyn Museum. Originally the site had been planned to be massive, one of the greatest repositories of art and culture, as Strassen had said, the world had ever seen. But, while its collection was gathered, one which could easily fill to overflowing the designed series of galleries, its actual construction was cut short. In the end, the museum ended up being only a fourth of the size initially planned, with its massive, and ever growing, collection forced into storage in its basement as well as in buildings all around it.

The professor took the budget cuts, political manipulations and societal apathy which had reduced the museum so in size as a personal affront. Thus Strassen had begun their conversation by appealing to that chink in Knight’s otherwise fairly solid armor. Realizing that he was being maneuvered, but still curious as to the particular destination to which he was being guided, the professor had insisted Strassen get to the point. Comfortable with being blunt, the doctor had said:

“I want you to go through your overcrowded storage bins and find something, something I want you to bring to Germany. In other words, old friend…I have a deal I want to purpose.”

The bargain in question turned out to be a thing so fantastical that even Piers Knight had to raise an eyebrow. After informing the professor about the resonant frequency, as well as those horrors which seek to destroy any whom might grow to be able to utilize it against them, Strassen had then sent Knight to his keyboard. Checking through the museum’s data records, it only took a matter of a few moments to find what his colleague was after.

“How did you know it was here?” The professor had asked the question in a tone of complete and quiet amazement. He had always been certain he knew more about the Brooklyn Museum, its exhibits and stores and its hundred thousand treasures not seen in decades, than anyone. He would have been surprised if one of his fellow directors had known of an artifact he did not. To have such come from an outsider struck him as defying logic.

“Piers, you are ever such der controller. You have heard of die Shield of Tol’kaimi previously, ya?”

“Of course I have,” answered Knight, still somewhat amazed. “Who in our business hasn’t?”

“Exactly,” answered Strassen. “You are merely upset by der fact I knew it was hidden away und forgotten within your treasure trove und you did not. Relax your grip a bit. I have been hunting for the past three months, combing old records, calling in favors—finding the shield has practically become my life’s work recently…”

“Why?” The professor thought he might know where the heavyset doctor was going, but preferred to hear it spelled out. Strassen was more than willing to oblige him. The Shield of Tol’kaimi had been created by the Incas, their greatest shamans called together to forge a weapon to help them hold off the hordes of demonkind. Those ancients had knowledge of the resonant frequency, and had determined to protect those who would be born to survive and then in turn protect their people. Much was sacrificed to bring the desired safeguard into being, but the shield proved worth the effort.

Indeed, so powerful were its protections, its reliability against those supernatural predators that attempted to make prey of the Incas for the next several hundred years were all repulsed without effort. Sadly, however, it was that very effectiveness which lead to the great race’s downfall.

When the Spanish had arrived, they were, as most schoolchildren have been taught for centuries, misbelieved to be magical beings. What was not taught said youngsters over the centuries was the additional information that when the Conquistadors began raping and slaughtering their way across the Central Americas, the Incas had unleashed those of their race whom the shield had protected on the day of their birth. Songs, no matter how perfectly pitched, however, had little effect on the invaders. The Incas fled, their faith in Tol’kaimi’s Shield shattered beyond repair.

“You ask ‘why?’” Strassen had sounded monumentally disappointed. “I would have thought it an easy enough intellectual exercise for one such as you, my friend. You know my position with the Munich Opera House, ya?” When Knight admitted as much, the doctor had continued, saying:

“The simple truth is, demons are not der only beings in this universe that can locate those about to be born with the ability to hit the frequency.”

And then, finally, Strassen had revealed to the professor a most unusual proposal. He had found a family of music lovers who were expecting the birth of their second child five months hence. That baby, the doctor’s people were certain, would be born with the resonant ability. Greatly desiring to protect the child, desperately wanting to be the board member who secured a pitch perfect soprano for the opera company, the doctor had searched relentlessly until he had found the whereabouts of the Shield of Tol’kaimi. Overjoyed to learn it was in the Brooklyn Museum, under the control of one of the few men in all the world he could approach with such a scheme, he had made his proposal.

“I know this is greatly in the order of ‘duty now for der future,’” Strassen had admitted, “but I plan on being a board member of the Munich Opera House for a long time.”

He wished for Knight to bring the shield to Germany at the proper time, and to assist him in protecting the baby in question during its birth. At first the professor had been a bit stunned at the scheme suggested to him, but Strassen knew how to appeal to his former “ghostbusting partner,” and after not much discussion at all Knight had agreed.

Digging the shield out of storage proved to be not much of a problem, either. A carved granite circle some six inches in diameter, the piece weighed roughly eight pounds. Not a terribly great burden, thought the professor at the time, but the legends made note of the shield needing to be raised to the heavens while being used.

“Eight pounds can get more than a trifle heavy after a while,” he told himself as he carefully lowered the piece into his valise. Then, hefting the black leather shoulder bag into place, he concentrated on the additional pull on his shoulder, calculating what it would be like to hold Tol’kaimi’s defense above his head for any extended period of time.

“And just what will it be,” he wondered. “Five minutes? An hour? A day and a half?”

Knight had stared forward into a mirror resting against a back wall of the storage area at that point. He recognized the piece after a moment—it had come from the petits appartements of Marie Antoinette at Versailles. The decorator had been her architect, Richard Mique. The paneling surrounding the still bright glass had been carved and gilded by the Rousseau brothers. Beautiful in its simplicity, it deserved to be seen by the world, and yet due to the pedestrian minds of those who ran the world, the money for such things went elsewhere.

Hypodermic needles were purchased to give away to drug addicts, condoms needed to be bought to distribute throughout the city’s high schools. The state needed to pay women to have children, as long as they kept those children’s fathers out of the picture. It also needed to pay for the sandblasting of buildings to remove the names of monsters from the past such as Washington, Franklin, Jefferson—others.

Knight stared at the reflection of his bag in the mirror, thinking on what it contained, on what he meant to do with it. For a moment he had been feeling guilty over his actions. He was, after all, considering removing a registered antiquity from the museum without permission, preparing to take it into what might be a hazardous environment. Did he have such a right?

As the question floated naggingly within his mind, his gaze suddenly moved outward from his reflection to the body of the mirror itself. As he focused on the compelling simplicity of the frame’s uniquely delicate work, he found a streak of anger sizzling within him.

“No,” he told himself finally, “I don’t have any such right. But then again, what about the rights of the Rousseau brothers, to be remembered down through the ages, to have their artistry admired?” Hefting his bag once more, he had then turned and headed for the exit, muttering:

“Somebody should get some use out of the things stored away here. I’ll hold the damn thing over my head if it takes a month to deliver the damn baby.”

And, so saying, the professor had relocked the storage area and headed for home. He had nearly half a year to study the history of the Shield of Tol’kaimi, to learn its proper use, and to prepare himself for holding it aloft for who knew how long.

That had been months earlier. Now, in the present, standing in the hallway of the hospital whispering with Strassen, suddenly Knight had been presented with an entire new set of problems. He had come to Germany two weeks early to rehearse with his support team, to meet with the doctors who would be performing the delivery. Yes, his colleague would have made certain the medical professionals present would be sympathetic to their cause, but to go in cold, with no sounding out of each other, learning the necessary procedures, where to stand, what to expect—he, after all, knew as little about delivering babies as these others did the theory behind rejecting demonic presences from the tangible world. What a recipe for disaster if—

“Dr. Strassen, Professor,” it was Knight’s chauffeur from earlier. “The doctors are calling for you. They say they have to deliver the baby now!”

“Ready, Piers?”

“Oh, I’m ready all right,” agreed the professor sourly. “Just don’t ask me exactly what it is I’m ready for.”

* * * *

In less than ten minutes Knight was inside the delivery room, scrubbed sterile and dressed in a cotton gown. The Shield of Tol’kaimi had been sterilized as well, making it much too hot for the professor to handle for the moment. While waiting for the eight pounds of stone to cool, the professor called for the chauffeur to bring him his bag. Having the younger man open it so that he might remain sterile, Knight directed him to remove a somewhat bizarrely shaped mechanical item, calling out at the same time:

“Where can this be plugged in?” When both Strassen and the attending physician asked what the device was, Knight replied:

“It’s basically nothing more than an illuminator, but one that goes through all the various spectrums at a high rate of speed. For the most part its effects will be invisible to our eyes, but if there are things here lurking in between those spectrums, they will be revealed to us.” Turning more to his colleague, he added:

“Handy little gizmo, invented by Nikola Tesla. Others since his time outfitted it to run on AC or DC, as long as the proper adaptor is used.”

“Enough!”

The single word came from the doctor in charge. Turning away from the academics, no longer caring what purpose they hoped to suit twenty years in the future, he began snapping orders to his nurses. The doctor was concerned only with the lives of his patients, and knew there was no more time to spare concerning what had to be done in the then and now. Frau Hoffman and her baby were both in mortal danger. Far more time had been spent waiting for Knight’s arrival than he would have preferred. Now that the professor was there, his contraptions and devices ready, the doctor’s duty was clear.

As the physician turned to those on the table, consulting with the nurses in attendance, the chauffeur found an out-of-the-way spot for Tesla’s light. Setting it atop a cabinet in the corner furthest from the operating theater, he uncoiled its power cord. Making certain he could plug it in without straining the cord, the young man did not hesitate to do so and, with that action, the doorway to Hell was opened.

“Mein Gott in Heimel!”

Even in the first few seconds of light cast from Tesla’s lamp, shapes began to appear all about the room. Humanoid in the most casual sense of the word, they were strange and twisted forms, clawed and winged, gangly, leathery and possessed of nothing to indicate they were anything but monstrous in all manners and intentions.

“Keep the light safe,” Knight snapped at the chauffeur. The younger man nodded, closing his eyes at the terrors all about him, holding onto the light as tightly as he could. Not having the luxury of closing their eyes, however, both the nurses in attendance recoiled in horror, only to turn around and find that more of the hideous things were behind them. Frau Hoffman’s husband, present to act as her coach, screamed along with the women. The doctor, an older man made of tightly wound fibers, barked orders to his nurses as well as Herr Hoffman in German, cursing the lot of them for their weakness, reminding them of the job they were there to perform.

At the same moment, Knight grabbed up a towel and hoisted the still burning hot Shield of Tol’kaimi aloft, holding it above his head. Turning slowly, he presented the face of the Incan artifact to each demon in turn, forcing them if not backward, to at least halt their advancement. As the medical team began their work with the expectant mother on their table, the professor attempted to circle them, using the stone disc to turn back those things straining to break through the protective circle.

Of course, the demonic shapes those assembled could see were not physically present. They could not simply grab up a chair and bash in the baby’s skull. Restrained by whatever barrier it was which had held them at arm’s distance from the human race over the millennia, the demons had been forced to find other ways to wreck havoc across the earthly plane of existence. As Knight continued to circle the delivery table, several of the creatures began their traditional assault.

*Wretched flesh bag,* one of the terrors sneered at the professor, *take your foul stone and begone, or pain and suffering will follow you all your days!*

“Pain and suffering have followed me longer than you can imagine, Helldweller. You’ll have to do better than that.”

Despite the air conditioning, the presence of so many demonic forms within the room’s ether had begun to drive the temperature upward. In less than a minute the mercury had climbed ten degrees, with no evidence it would stop any time soon. Sweat pouring down his face, Knight could feel the heat of the shield oozing its way through the towel. His fingers were warming quickly—burning—his palms growing moist.

*This thing shall not be born,* came the snarling voice within the professor’s head once more, *shall not be born/notnotnot be born/not be not be not be not be born!*

Knight blinked his eyes hard, staring from one demon to another, trying to ascertain which one was actually barking within his mind. Continuing to circle the table, trying not to step in too close where he might interfere with the operation in progress, trying also not to give the trio too much room where he might leave them open for demonic invasion, his eyes kept darting, straining against the odd flicker of Tesla light, searching out the individual thing he needed to silence.

“Which one are you,” he asked the voice within his mind. Then, inspiration striking, he directed more questions at the chattering annoyance. “And by that, what I mean is, which of you is the one so puny, so useless, so utterly worthless that you were given the task of whispering in my ear? A task, I imagine, given you as a means to keep your incompetent self out of the others’ way.”

As Knight continued firing off his own mental barrage at his unknown adversary, he wondered how the others were holding up. The professor was certain both the doctor and his nurses were being urged on toward mayhem in the same manner as himself. It was the way demons had been destroying those capable of reaching the resonant frequency for ages—to slither inside the mind of the attending midwife, or of a mother wondering if she was capable of all that was required of her, a father uncertain if he could support another mouth—searching for the doubting, the weak-willed, the confused, whomever they might find shallow and frightened enough to be manipulated into doing their bidding.

*Death to the meat/death to the meat/deathdeathdeath—*

In the maternity ward in Munich, however, the demons were at a disadvantage in that they could not maneuver anyone into thinking the murderous thoughts crossing their minds were their own. Tesla’s light had revealed the truth. As long as Tol’kaimi’s Shield kept the foul creatures from actually making contact with any of the medical personnel’s auras they could not be fooled into believing the voices they were hearing were their own thoughts. Despite its weight, Knight managed to keep the eight pound disc above his head. But, he could feel his strength fading.

*Death to the meat/death to the meat/deathdeathdeath—*

The professor had just gotten done with a long flight—a journey during which he was unable to sleep. The heavy stone was putting a strain on his fingers, his wrists, shoulders and spine—even his knees. Sweat was gathering across his body. The dribbling of it, soaking into his clothing, running down his arms, inching over his forehead into his eyes, collecting at the base of his nose, across his upper lip, moving down his chest, trickling into his groin—

“How can it be so hot in here,” he wondered, even as the demon choruses continued to echo within his mind—

*not be born/notnotnot be born/notnotnot be not be not be born!*

“How the hell long is this going to take?” Not looking at the professor, the doctor shouted back at him.

“I’m delivering a baby. These things are done when they’re done—now shut up and stop trying to make it take longer!”

*Death to the meat/death to the meat/deathdeathdeath—*

At first, no one noticed the chauffeur leaving his post. The demons made no attempt to interfere with the now unguarded light. Strassen, busy reading from the Von Juntz text on expulsion, was concentrating on reinforcing his colleague’s magical barrier. Everyone else’s attention was rightly focused on the mother to be. Thus, as the young man crossed the room, he was able to pick up a scalpel, but as he drew within two yards of the table Knight stopped chanting long enough to ask:

“Why have you left your post?”

*not be/notnotnot be born/notnotnot be not be notnotnot be born!*

One look into the chauffeur’s eyes told the professor all he needed to know. Racing around the table, desperate to keep the stone shield aloft, Knight tripped over one of the nurses’ legs, stumbling as he shouted:

“Strassen—your man!”

The chauffeur raised the scalpel, chuckling as he moved forward on those surrounding the mother, his head hanging awkwardly to one side. Catching a glimpse of his approach, the second nurse let out a cry. Her shriek distracted the thing possessing the young man, the terror of it delighting the creature. It sucked the juicy fragrance from the air, then turned back to the table, snarling:

“Death to the meat!”

Strassen hurled his heavy, leather-bound copy of Von Juntz at the chauffeur, catching him in between his shoulder blades. As the younger man went down, the heavyset academic threw himself atop him, crushing him to the floor. Knight managed to untangle himself from the nurse and reach the pair at that point. He attempted to kick the scalpel from the chauffeur’s hand, but off balanced as he was still holding the shield over his head, he missed, allowing the younger man to drive the blade into Strassen’s thigh.

*Death to the meat/deathdeathdeath—*

As Strassen shrieked, rolling off the possessed chauffeur, Knight moved in, kicking at the man’s head.

*Death to the meat/deathdeathdeath—*

The chauffeur dodged the blow, swinging wildly, managing to slash open the professor’s leg below the knee.

*Deathdeathdeath—*

Feeling blood exploding free, Knight knew some vital artery had been opened. Knowing he had but seconds, even as the younger man began to rise, the professor used the only weapon he had—

*Deathdeathdeath—*

And swung the Shield of Tol’kaimi full force, catching the possessed chauffeur in the chest. The stunning blow sent the off-balance man stumbling across the room and into a gurney covered with medical equipment. Even as he turned back toward the operating theater, however, Knight knew the damage had been done.

*Deathdeathdeathdeathdeath!*

In the eerie illumination of Tesla’s lamp, he could see the demons pouring forward, thrusting their insubstantial tongues into the ears of the doctor, the nurses, the Hoffmans—could hear their lies and threats and vile, luring insinuations.

*Deathdeathdeathdeath!*

Turning back toward the table, Knight tried desperately to return to his post. Staggering, he limped along, blood sluicing down his leg, drenching the floor—

*Deathdeathdeath!*

Losing his grip on the shield because of the cumbersome towel, he pulled it away, clenching the still burning stone circle in his bare hands. Doing his best to ignore the burning pain, he shoved the shield skyward, ordering—

“Begone, Hellspawn!”

But he was too late. Although the doctor had delivered the child, safely removed it from its mother, the damage had been done. The demons were everywhere, spreading their poisonous suggestions. Already the nurses’ eyes were glazing over, taking on the same disturbingly blank look the chauffeur’s had held. Herr Hoffman seemed to be swaying as well.

*Deathdeath!*

Finding Tol’kaimi’s defense no longer effective, Knight struggled, his own mind filling with the hissing of demonic tongues. Their voices were so insistent, their assurances so soothing, the professor found himself teetering for a moment. Then, summoning what strength he had remaining, he shouted:

“For God’s sake, Doctor—”

*Death!*

“Slap the baby!”

Somehow hearing Knight’s voice over the cacophony within his head, the doctor lifted the child aloft, then forced himself to smack its backside soundly. The action, as it has for tens of thousands of years, forced air into the small girl’s lungs, air she exhaled as babies have since time immemorial, in a startling acceptance of individual life.

And, with that scream, the worlds in between light and darkness exploded, the air fried, and those scores of demons unable to escape the child’s first sound were consumed like dry leaves in a fire.

* * * *

“So, my old friend, was that what you had in mind?”

“Mein Gott,” Strassen replied to Knight, “it most certainly was not. Can’t you Americans do anything without bringing down the ceiling?”

The two academics sat quietly in an observation room, waiting to be discharged from the hospital. Both had received treatment for their injuries, but their blood loss had been such that neither was going to be allowed to leave until their doctor was satisfied with their recovery. The two laughed for a moment over how out of all those involved in that afternoons excitement, only they had suffered any injury beyond the momentary. Even Frau Hoffman had been able to visit them, albeit in a wheelchair, to thank them for all they had done. Once they were certain they would not be interrupted further, Strassen said quietly:

“It was a good thing you did today.”

“It was a damn foolhardy and dangerous thing I did today,” Knight responded. “And before we forget, you know the reason I did it, so…”

“Ya, ya,” answered the rotund academic. Reaching to the floor for the brown leather bag at his side, Strassen hoisted the valise and then handed it to his colleague. Opening the bag, Knight reached inside and then pulled out its contents. The core of what he held in his hand was a nautilus shell, one fashioned into what seemed a semblance of a goblet. A reptilian leg crafted from a metal which reflected like silver, but took none of its tarnish, served as the vessel’s stem, a broad, three-toed foot forming its stand along with a balancing spur. The metal work continued up and over the sides of the Nautilus, dipping down and into its mouth and surrounding the circumference of its lip with a ring of wildly pointed, needle-like fangs.

“Und there you have it,” said Strassen. “I get my singing star, one to train to perfection from birth, und you get that silly looking thing which has gathered dust in the basement of der opera house for no one knows how long.”

Knight turned the prize over in his hands, studying it from all angles. Staring into the mouth of it, not knowing what exactly he might find there, the professor asked about the necessary papers for removing the artifact from the country. Strassen assured him everything he needed was within a side pocket of the piece’s carrying case. As Knight repacked the bizarre goblet, his colleague said:

“Und so you have your prize for your museum; I have mine for my opera house. But tomorrow, another such baby will be born somewhere, und who will be there to save it?”

“There will be more than a single baby in danger tomorrow,” answered Knight, refusing to follow Strassen down the road he was looking to travel. “There have been people of all ages in danger every day since there were people, and there always will be. Some will perish and some will survive.”

“You,” answered the rotund academic, “are a very pragmatic fellow, Piers Knight.”

“‘The Arab who builds himself a hut of the marble fragments of a temple in Palmyra,’” answered the professor, obviously quoting, “‘is more philosophical than all the curators of the museums in London, Munich or Paris.’”

“Jacques Anatole Francois Thibault,” replied Strassen, “The Crime of Sylvestre Bonnard. Very well, your point is taken. We do what we can in this life…”

“Because we can do no more,” responded Knight, finishing his old friend’s thought. The two chatted while they waited for their doctor to return and officially release them. After a bit of inconsequential chatter, Strassen said, almost sheepishly:

“You know, that thing I just gave you…I would hate to let you go without telling you, der rumors are that…well, that it is haunted. Cursed. Some such thing. You don’t feel cheated, do you?”

“Cheated?” Knight laughed, smiling as he added, “Are you kidding? When the board hears it’s supposedly haunted, they’ll be even happier. Nothing packs in Americans like a chance to hobnob with evil—at a safe distance, of course.”

“Ach, that explains your choices in presidents.”

Before Knight could respond, the doctor who had treated the two academics’ injuries returned, announcing that they were discharged. Gathering up their various bags, the pair thanked their physician, then headed for the exit, both content with what they felt had been a good day’s work.