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jocular
suggestion that he volunteer as a guinea pig. Conikraul thrashed
about and was subdued by Nuzbek’s four assistants. Nuzbek applied
more unguent with snaps of hand while Conikraul’s exposed skin
seemed to shrink with the application of the gel. The magician
proceeded to chant while Conikraul’s impassioned outbursts went
unheard. The crowd stared gap-eyed. They were met with the
magician’s casual withdrawal from his robe of a strange ebon rod
which he tapped on her crown and which froze all her faculties to
ice.
    Baus eyed the
device with bewilderment. The rod exuded a macabre flux which
seemed genuine, and judging from its effect, an inestimable power,
something which he would not resent tucked in his own pocket.
    Anticipation
ran rife in the air. Nuzbek’s droning chant escalated to a ghastly
cadence at which the crowd murmured in fright.
    Weavil bared
his teeth. Baus whirled, detecting a sudden unnatural disturbance
to his left. Not surprised was he to spy Uyu and Migor elbowing
their way in his direction.
    He tugged at
Weavil’s sleeve, grunting his annoyance.
    “Go, if you
must,” reproved Weavil, “I wish only to view the performance—as
clownish as it appears.”
    Weavil shifted
about, but was conferring to empty air. Baus had disappeared. A
heavyset man with huge, punch-bowl face joggled the poet aside.
Another massive individual kneed him in the thigh—not accidentally
either, and Weavil was less than pleased as he was pitched to his
knees. The two boothkeepers blundered on like sneak fighters after
their quarry. Weavil shouted for retribution. He was about to
inject further outrage into the tumult, but Nuzbek raised his arms
in frightful crescendo and shouted a single, malign word:
     
    Agarharunkujuhara!
     
    A ghastly
explosion ripped across the stage. Ghoulish plumes billowed outward
from the place where Conikraul had stood. All forms were obscured
under a nacreous, mushroom-like cloud.
    The fog
suddenly began to dissipate. Only Nuzbek’s tall, wraith-like figure
emerged from the fumes, with an exultant leer on his face.
Conikraul was nowhere to be seen.
    “Kudos!” The
magician touched a jubilant finger to his nose then thrust it at
the quivering mirror. “Conikraul has vacated herself to the
nesisphere—behind the magic mirror!”
    Weavil gave a
sour, helpless sigh. “This is no achievement, Nuzbek!” he yelled. “
It is the work of a tyro!” He began squeezing himself back through
the gathering before pausing to thumb his nose at the magician.
    Baus was
nowhere to be seen; Weavil scratched at his brow. The comic frown
overshadowing his features suggested wonderment as to where his
clam-happy fellow had fled. A new observation gripped the poet. Odd
that the two foreigners who had bowled him over were tumbling their
way through the crowd, attending a fleeing figure much resembling
Baus . . .
    Several
persons had developed a lingering dissatisfaction for the integrity
of Nuzbek’s spectacle: a result of Weavil’s more pointed remarks
and began to saunter off, grumbling over the implausibility of the
act.
    Piqued
dissatisfaction swept across Nuzbek’s face. With pompous outrage
the magician ordered all members of his audience to return.
“Sceptics! What of my volunteer’s return? Have you no curiosity in
my work? The ‘Resurrection’ has not been completed—which involves
an approved pervolution, of the third order!”
    Weavil cupped
hands in contempt and hurled a denouncement: “Enough bombast,
Nuzbek! There are no demons or nesispheres—only a fakir with a
gulling tongue, lacking a wide degree of subtlety. The woman cached
beneath the stage is testament to my accusation—that much is
sure.”
    Nuzbek’s face
flushed a dangerous crimson. “Careful with your imputations! This
is an impudent assumption!”
    “It is?”
hooted Weavil. “Lift the trap and we shall see.”
    “Impossible!”
cried Nuzbek. “The beobar holds the platform secure, as tight as a
carrack’s