The Dinosaur Chronicles (13 page)

Okay, ‘fess up. Who’s never wanted to off the Easter Bunny? And No, you don’t want to know what I have planned for the Tooth Fairy.

Skovar watched as Casimir flipped a page in the sign-in register. “The Chicago delegation hasn’t yet arrived,” Casimir tsked. “If they’re late, The Progenitor will not be pleased.”

Skovar patted his gray-haired assistant on the shoulder. “They’ll be here,” he said, “even if they have to fly in themselves.”

Casimir turned and looked him in the eyes. “Old Olaf didn’t have a sense of humor. I much preferred it that way.” Skovar’s assistant harrumphed and walked off, aligning the napkins and flatware as he passed the long banquet tables, occasionally stopping to pick up a fork or a knife and polish the stainless with a kitchen towel.

Skovar pulled a watch from his vest. In less than an hour, all the delegations—and The Progenitor—would have arrived, and the annual meeting would proceed. He put the watch back as two of the several-dozen guests now milling about approached.

“You are the Event Director?” A woman, by looks in her thirties, with long black eyelashes and blond hair pulled tightly into a bun, made the question an accusation.

Skovar reached around his neck and brought forth a small, dime-sized medallion. The woman’s eyes fell upon the piece, and she nodded. But her companion, a tall man with muddy features and a navy blue tux, was not so easily satisfied. “Where’s Olaf?” he asked. “He usually runs the meetings.”

“Olaf couldn’t make it this year. He’ll be back next year.”

“What’s he doing?”

“He didn’t confide. He merely asked me to fill in. Are the accommodations not to your liking?”

Skovar had made certain the accommodations—a large hall decorated in Rococo patterns, with ornate tables and chairs—some even true eighteenth-century pieces—could not but satisfy his guests’ tastes for Old World excess. The heavy curtains and inch-thick carpet were but a bonus—icing on this excess.

The man extended his hand. “I’m Albert Breedsly; this is my wife. Yes, the accommodations are more than adequate.”

Skovar took Breedly’s hand and nodded to the woman. “Radivan Skovar, at your service.”

The man went on, “How did you find this place?”

“I used to run a travel agency, and I received a flyer about the manor.”

“Direct solicitation? That seems suspicious.”

“I’m not naive, Sir. I found that Columbia Manor, built some twenty years ago at the behest of an—er—eccentric with funds on his hands, fell into disuse when the owner moved to another state. To reduce the upkeep on the place, the meeting hall is periodically rented to various organizations. It’s been this way for years. The Kiwanis meets here, the Better Business Bureau, even the local chapter of the NAACP.”

Skovar added, “The flyer that I received was received by all the agencies and caterers in the city. I checked.”

Breedsly grumbled, but the woman spoke. “We found this on the floor, under one of the tables.” She handed Skovar an oblong pink pill.

Skovar blinked and raised his brows questioningly. Breedsly turned briefly to his wife and said, “He
is
naive.” To Skovar he said, “None of us need medication. You know what that means.”

Skovar’s eyes widened. “Surely you don’t think—here? Such a person would be worse than a fool!” He held the pill up to his eyes. “Perhaps it’s a recreational drug.”

Breedsly snatched the pill from Skovar’s fingers. “We’ll find out right now. Where’s Langley?” He looked about the chamber, lit with soft incandescents, and spotted the glow of a cigarette.

Breedsly waved, got the man’s attention and motioned him over. “Cyrus Langley, meet Radivan Skovar, Event Director.”

Langley, a large man with a broad, flat face, took the cigarette from his mouth. “Pleased, I’m sure. So what’s up, Breedsly? You look dour enough to gloom up a funeral.”

“You used to be a doctor. Do you know what this is?” Breedsly handed Langley the pill.

Langley laughed. “Sure. Verapamil. Treats high blood pressure. Which bloody near killed me, too, before I was recruited. So what?”

“So it was found on the floor, within this room.”

Langley shrugged. “Who knows how long it’s been there?”

Skovar said, “Perhaps—perhaps we
can
know.” He found Casimir and called him. The assistant approached the small group warily.

Very formally, Casimir said, “What is your pleasure, Director?”

“This room was vacuumed and cleaned thoroughly this morning, was it not?”

Casimir blinked uncertainly. “After the drapes were pinned shut, yes. I saw to it myself.”

Skovar took the pill from the doctor. “Any chance you could have missed this?”

“Where was it found?”

Madame Breedsly pointed to the floor near the center of the room.

“Doubtful,” Casimir said. “It seems hardly a topic for such serious discussion, however.”

Skovar said, “It’s
medicine
.”

Casimir’s eyes grew until the others saw white all around.

“My G—My word! There’s an impostor, then, an infiltrator! I must warn the guests—”

Skovar grabbed the assistant by the collar and said, “Get a grip on yourself. We suspect, but we’re not certain. Instead of panicking,
think
. What can we do?”

Breedsly said, “We could get a hand-mirror and see who reflects.”

“A mirror? A
mirror?
” Casimir’s voice rose an octave. “To bring a mirror to the annual meeting would be the highest of insults! And in the presence of The Progenitor, its holder would doubtlessly meet—
finality!
”

Breedsly said, “But the impostor, if there is one, could also be an assassin. Or someone seeking vengeance—”

Langley interrupted, “I say, you four worry too much. No impostor could hope to survive the meeting. Even if
we
can’t tell who he or she is, The Progenitor should be able to spot the bloke immediately.”

“And if he or she
should
survive the meeting,” Skovar added, “we could always use a mirror as the guests depart. I removed several mirrors from this room in preparation, so I know where to get one. I replaced them with portraits I found in the basement.”

Langley looked up at the walls. “Yes, I noticed the gallery as I walked in. The frames don’t match the rest of the decor. Who are these people?”

Skovar said, “I believe they’re ancestors and family members of the owner.”

“At least the blonde above the fireplace looks delicious,” Langley said. “I’d love to sink my teeth into something like that.”

Skovar frowned. “I think that was the owner’s daughter. The portrait’s at least twenty years old. Doubtless she’s aged, if she’s still around.”

“Yes,” Madame Breedsly said. “By now, she probably favors the Pilgrim, or the Sea Captain.” She pointed to two of the other paintings.

“Actually, Sko’ old boy,” Langley said, “I think the Sea Captain favors you just a bit.”

“And I can’t tell port from starboard,” Skovar said. “Ah—here is the Chicago contingent, perhaps?”

A bustle near the hall doors held their attention as several men and women gave up their coats to an attendant and scribbled their names in the register. One apologized for their late arrival. “It was Hell in a Jet-Fueled Fog before we got clearance to leave O’Hare.”

Another man spread his arms and flapped. “I just flew in from Chicago, and boy are my arms tired!” Then he laughed, but was the only one who did.

Casimir turned to Skovar. “I correct myself, Director. Your version of this old joke was at least—palatable.”

Breedsly said, “That’s Perriman—the comedian. If it weren’t for his seniority, he’d have been kicked out long ago. He comes to the meetings, tells jokes that might have been new a century ago, and bitches about how cold it is in Chicago in the wintertime.”

“So why doesn’t he move south?” Skovar asked.

Madame Breedsly said, “He says Chicago is one of the few places left where he can exercise the franchise.”

Skovar coughed. “How patriotic.”

Moments later, a hush fell over the gathering as another figure appeared at the door. Tall and bony, with long, hard lines on his cheeks and lips, he bore the traditional black cape and cane, and the carry of his frame and the confidence he projected let no newcomer in the audience doubt his identity.

No one knew The Progenitor’s real name. Some said he was a Hungarian count; others, a Roman soldier present at the Crucifixion. But all knew that he was the First of their Kind.

And as The Progenitor passed through the door, a great, grand coldness rippled through the chamber, and each shadow cast by the modest lights deepened and stretched until it seemed it would break. And there was an inrush of breath by the congress, and from their eyes a glow of appreciation—and obeisance.

The Progenitor’s presence was—indeed—so powerful that few first noticed the woman on his arm—a lanky, blue-eyed blonde in a sequined gown that revealed far more than it could hide.

“By Jove, I’ve seen that bird before!” Langley exclaimed. Then he spun about, a puzzled look on his face, and pointed. “It’s the woman above the fireplace! But how—”

His question foundered in the rolling hiss expelled by The Progenitor, who in one step sailed to the top of a table, alighting delicately between a pair of crystal tumblers and a porcelain fingerbowl. He inhaled deeply and said, “There is a mortal among you! Who has dared to insult the assembly in this fashion?” He looked around, focusing his gaze on the members, one by one, until he came to the Event Director.

At that point, Skovar reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a radio transmitter. He tabbed open a safety cover and pushed the top of two buttons, and the doors to the chamber slammed shut.

The Progenitor turned to look at the doors, then back to Skovar. “What is the meaning of this?”

By this time his escort had noted the wall painting, and now she too pointed to the portrait above the fireplace. “It’s a trap!”

Several men threw themselves at the door, but it refused to budge. They fell back, stunned and surprised. Others tore down the curtains, revealing bars that had shot up from windowsills now hinged away. Perriman, who had waved his arms at his arrival, now said, “‘Nor iron bars a cage!’” and jumped to the nearest window. But when he grabbed the bars, he let out a shriek and fell to the floor, the flesh on his hands peeling and steaming. “Silver!” he cried. “The bars are covered with silver!”

Skovar held his control unit with one hand. With the other, he removed his toupee, pulled off his bushy brows and popped out the inserts that had filled the hollowness of his cheeks.

The woman of the portrait gasped. “Father!”

“Yes, Elena. Not in my wildest dreams did I expect you to be here. I merely wished to cut the head off the serpent that had taken my daughter—a vengeance I’d been planning for twenty years. When I found old Olaf—and discovered who he was, I captured him and bled him dry—you’ll forgive the expression—for all the information I needed to pull off this charade.

“But, just as twenty years ago your appetite for power brought you under the influence of the wrong people, your appetite for power has evidently continued—and brought you to this meeting. So I get to liberate you as well.”

Skovar turned to The Progenitor. “Yes, the bars are silver-plated steel. There are silverized plates in the walls, in the ceiling, under the floor. And within the entry doors, which have so puzzled some of you. You can’t get out.”

The Progenitor snarled. “Neither will you!”

Skovar shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. I had intended to escape, if possible. But it’s not, and for an old man that’s not a great loss. But there’s more. Did you notice the ornate but dull gray moulding along the edges of the ceiling?”

Heads turned and looked.

“It’s made of magnesium, per my order. When you’re an eccentric with funds to spend, you can get most anything built. And the coffee makers in the corners have, in addition to coffee, also been quietly dispensing oxygen from generators hidden in their bases. And lastly, when I push this second button here”—Skovar held up the control—“an electrical current will set the magnesium afire. The results should be—
spectacular
.”

The Progenitor winced. It was a small wince, but Skovar noticed it even if no one else had. As quickly, the caped figure recovered his composure. He lifted one arm, looked Skovar in the eyes and said,
“Listen to me, Mortal!”
 

The power of his words knocked Skovar back, and he stumbled against a table. He choked, fighting for air. But he held on to the control.

The Progenitor sprang to the end of the table.

“Hear me now, Mortal!”

Skovar fought to blink, and the hulking figure of The Progenitor shifted slightly in his vision—and then Skovar could breathe once more. “It won’t work, Old One. I’m wearing polarizing contact lenses and earplugs that filter out all but a selection of frequencies. Your efforts to entrance me have failed. Magic, in the course of the decades, may grow in strength and intensity, but its essential nature remains unchanged. Technology, however,
evolves and adapts
, and it has now reached the stage where, soon, all of your kind shall face extinction. To paraphrase an old saying, ‘Any sufficiently advanced technology is
superior
to magic!’”

The assembly shook its fists and roared its denial. It glared at Skovar with one mind, one thought, one hatred. Fangs unsheathed, and claws unfurled. Skovar moved his thumb over the second button.

Like wolves, they descended on him. But not before he had pressed the button, and not before the conflagration had begun.

Afterword

One of Arthur C. Clarke’s three famous laws (look them up!) is, “
Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.
”
 

I’ve always wanted to put a twist on that.

Now I have.

I followed the gurney as it was pushed down the hall. The doctors and nurses rolled it along, but not fast enough to suit me. They didn’t care. But if you work for the government, for the people’s money, you should always do the best you can. They’d forgotten that. I hadn’t. Besides, doing your best obligates people to you. It gives you power, juice,
influence
.