I stared at the charts with my mouth gaping. For the last hour, every trace looked like the output of a seismograph during an earthquake. But in the short interval following, the pens returned to the same solid baseline values I had seen before the changes of the last few weeks took place.

"My G.o.d," I said, looking at Mike. "Now I have to believe."

"The dam is whole. You are a medicine man, as I said. You and I and Tonochpa, we worked together to make the healing. We have done even more than that."

I paused, staring at him. "What?"

"The line of cornmeal that Tonochpa laid during her pa.s.sage through the pipe will do more than ward off evil magic. It will bind the dam together against all attempts to destroy it." He paused. "In truth, I did not want this to happen, but it was the price I have paid to save my uncle and his family." He paused and looked at me steadily. "Black Canyon Dam will never fall."

It didn't matter whether I believed him or not. We had no way to undo what we had done, even if we wanted to. What mattered now was that I had my cable in place as the contract specified and I could hook up my instruments permanently and finish the job.

There isn't much more to say, I guess. A week or so later, Mike told me he was leaving the site. Now that the preparation for the inlet tower foundations was done, the company was laying off all the high-scalers. I thought that was a pretty mean reward for all Mike had done for the dam, but as he pointed out, no one would ever believe such a wild tale anyway.

"Things are happening as I said they would," he said philosophically the last time we met. "The dams provide work for me, nothing more. I'll go up to Washington, to that new Grand Coulee project."

I stroked Tonochpa. She seemed pretty well recovered from her experience; all that remained were two round scars in a bare patch on her flank. "You taking her with you?" I asked.

He grinned. "There are some fine big mountain wildcats up in Washington. Maybe Tonochpa will find herself a mate, hey?"

He opened his knapsack, the bobcat jumped in and he trudged off across the construction site, disappearing into the rolling dust. That was the last I saw of him.

Well, Black Canyon's holding up mighty well for a dam its age. Holding back more water and putting out more power than its designers ever thought it would. You know, I have a sneaky feeling that Mike was right. The lake might silt up, but the dam will never crumble. Perhaps in a few million years people will dig it up out of the sediments and asked how the h.e.l.l a man-made thing lasted so long. Well, you and I will know, won't we?

Borrowing Trouble.

by Elizabeth H. Boyer.

"You are the sorriest excuse for an apprentice I've ever encountered!" roared the Meistari, blinking through the soot floating around him. "Imbecile! You nearly incinerated us all! I swear I can't tolerate another eighty-nine years of your presence in my school! The next traveling tradesman I see, I'm going to sell your articles of apprenticeship to him and be rid of you, Agnarr Henstromsson!"

Agnarr sneezed and commenced righting the blackened crucibles, spilling more of the materials inside as he did so. The brazier was still smoking and stinking, and sinister little orange flames lapped out hungrily for another taste of the Meistari's cloak.

"I can't fathom what went wrong," Agnarr said anxiously. "Perhaps a word in the wrong place, or it's possible those troll bones were still a bit dampa"

"It's nothing so small as a mistake!" the wizard snorted, and the rest of the apprentices all sn.i.g.g.e.red smugly and exchanged winks and nudges and grins. "It's general incompetence! It's a total lack of apt.i.tude for magic! I'm sick of being blown up and set on fire! I'll never make a fire wizard of you, Agnarr! I rue the day I ever set eyes on you at that hiring fair! Your clan chieftain must have been ecstatic to get rid of you, and at an exorbitant price, at that. I never expected to be cheated by the Galdur clan!"

Agnarr drew himself up indignantly at this insult to the clan known for producing the most and best wizards in the Alfar realm. "You weren't cheated," he declared, pushing back the shreds of his charred hood. "I was born to be a wizard, and I'm going to be one. Let me try this experiment one more time. The third time is always lucky for me."

"By the remains of my beard, no!" bellowed Bjarnadr, his eyes bulging with rage. "You've had all the chances you're going to get! You're a failure! Get out! I don't want to lay eyes upon you again! I wash my hands of you!"

Agnarr measured the distance to the door in a quick glance and haughtily glared back at Bjarnadr. "Very well, but I think you're giving up much too soon," he declared. "One of these days you'll be sorry, when I'm a better wizard than you. I intend to join the Fire Wizards' Guild and fight the Dokkalfar, rather than teach a lot of boring, useless nonsense to a bunch of thick-headed, snotty-nosed little apprentices!"

He almost made it through the door before a sizzling dart of flame caught up with him, setting his breeches ablaze. Bjarnadr bellowed something after him, but he was halfway to the horse trough to extinguish his trousers and didn't catch all of it, but he supposed it was more words to the effect that his presence was no longer desired in Bjarnadr's magic school and what ill effects his return might have upon his person.

Agnarr sighed and heaved himself out of the horse trough. Sacked again, and he'd have to sew up the burn holes in his pants. Sacking Agnarr was getting to be a regular ritual with Bjarnadr, one which the other apprentices enjoyed immensely, especially the younger ones. Spoiled brats, all of them, bestowed with gifts and talents they had not earned or deserved, while he, Agnarr, had to struggle so desperately to control the smallest fire-raising spell.

Worse yet, a closer inspection revealed that his breeches weren't going to tolerate another scorching from Bjarnadr. There was nothing left to repair, so the only alternative was to visit the laundry-drying lawn and steal a pair from one of the other apprentices.

Already the bright side of the situation was occurring to Agnarr as he pulled on his stolen pants and contemplated his situation. Here he was, liberated in the middle of the day, out in the sunshine while the other seven scholars were grinding off their noses over tedious spells and smelly experiments. Another glorious holiday lay before him, while Bjarnadr's temper cooled. Usually it took only a day or two until the Meistari had regained his composure and was in the humor to try again. After all, Agnarr was a son of the clan Galdur, the wizards' clan. Somewhere in that unprepossessing and inept lump of potential, there was a magnificent talent waiting to be discovered and taught.

In the meantime, Agnarr would make himself scarce, lying low until he could waylay an apprentice and inquire into the condition of Bjarnadr's temper. It did give him a bit of uneasiness to note that with each sacking, Bjarnadr's temper seemed to take longer to recover. Next time, he told himself sternly, he would try harder to do exactly what the Meistari told him, no matter how ridiculous and elementary it seemed, instead of trying to find shortcuts. Shortcuts were his downfall in every case. He would begin to work a spell, with the appropriate words, gestures, and magical apparatus, but all of a sudden a brilliant idea would pop into his head. Sometimes it was a seemingly ingenious shortcut; sometimes it was a hilarious practical joke obtained by twisting the words of the spell just slightly.

Given his Galdur heritage and great latent talent, he had no choice except to give in to inspiration. Once or twice the results had indeed been spectacular successes and he had conjured wonderful elemental creatures of wind, fire, earth, and water, or he worked some witty shape-shifting spell upon one of his fellow apprentices that made everyone laugh. Unfortunately, the failures had outnumbered the successes far too many times and they were, of course, in the manner of all failures, absolutely dazzling in their awfulness, thereby eclipsing any good Agnarr had ever done in his entire lifetime, and thus raising Bjarnadr's doubts about Agnarr's future as a wizard.

In these times of duress, Agnarr departed Bjarnadr's moss-covered ruined fortress which housed the magic school and took up a temporary abode at Finn's inn, some five miles on the other side of Geltafell. Old Finn was always glad of more help and set him to work at scything hay or digging potatoes or putting up endlessly fallen stone fences or any one of the innumerable ch.o.r.es essential for the husbandry of creatures as troublesome and stupid as sheep.

Young Finn, however, hoisted one black eyebrow and grunted, "Sacked again? That's the fifth time, isn't it?"

"I haven't been keeping count," muttered Agnarr, pretending to be in a great hurry to go pick ticks off the sheep.

"You'd better buckle down, lad, or you'll be picking ticks off sheep's bellies for the rest of your life," went on Young Finn with an admonitory gleam in his eye. "And that would be a great waste now, wouldn't it?"

It was enough to make Agnarr think he might have to find some other place to lie up while Bjarnadr was in one of his foul humors.

Toward evening, during the long hours of northern twilight, when the trolls were roaring and grunting in the rough heights of Geltafell, a cart came rolling into the inn yard, drawn by a monstrous s.h.a.ggy black ox with wicked curling horns. Agnarr went out reluctantly to stable the beast, while the two Finns rather warily made the traveler welcome. He was tall and lean and well-cloaked and hooded about, but in spite of his secretive manner, Agnarr sensed magical powers emanating from the stranger. Perhaps the stranger sensed something about Agnarr also; he glanced at him sharply and said, "Mind your step around that ox, or he'll hook you a good one. He kicks like a demon, too."

The stranger availed himself of the plentiful food and drink offered by Finn's wife, warmed himself briefly near the fire, then, announced that he preferred to sleep in his wagon, which was enclosed against the weather and perfectly comfortable. Agnarr felt powerfully compelled to follow him outdoors, on the pretext of seeing if the stable was securely locked up for the night. When he was well away from the house, the stranger stopped and waited for Agnarr to approach him.

"Well? What is it you wish?" the stranger asked. "You're simply burning for something, aren't you? Is it a necromancer's ring you want, to put under the tongue of a corpse so it will tell you the future? Rune sticks, with almost every spell you can imagine on them, for summoning storms, trolls, giants, or for finding treasure? Secret names of all elements and the beasts of the earth, cloaks of invisibility, swords of power, belts of strength, boots that will take you anywhere in a stridea"a veritable enchanted wardrobe awaits you in my wagon. And the philters, potions, distillations, extracts, and liquorsa""

Agnarr was shaking his head as the list went on, until the stranger broke off sharply, "What's the matter? You haven't got any money to pay? Well, good night then."

"No, no, that's not it," Agnarr protested, swiftly. "It's just that I don't have the knowledge to use all those things yet. I'm only an apprentice. And not exactly the Meistari Bjarnadr's favorite, either."

"Oh, you're not any good, is that it? And you think I might have something in my wagon to help you?" The stranger rubbed his narrow chin, his eyes making two shining points in the dark. "Perhaps there is. Follow me and we'll see if we can come to terms."

The inside of the wagon reminded Agnarr of Bjarnadr's forbidden storeroom, which he had only, stolen fascinated glimpses into a few times: Shelves lined the sides of the wagon, laden with alluring little boxes, all carefully sealed with blobs of colored wax and strings, dark, tightly stoppered bottles, jars labeled in runic, embroidered bags and pouches, bundles of herbs, dried lizards, snakes, bats, and cages with live creatures peering through the bars with bright, suspicious eyes. The only ordinary thing here was a great orange and white cat bulging over the sides of a basket, sleeping curled half inside out, with one white paw clamped over his face.

The smells alone made Agnarr's head feel like a cork bobbing lightly on the water. He inhaled rapturously, feeling, recognition and wonder burning within him, knowing he was truly in the world. where he belonged.

"It should be something small and un.o.btrusive," the stranger mused aloud, his gaze running over his inventory. "I'm thinking that what you need is a familiar." He raised one unsavory, withered finger to underscore the word.

"Of course! That's it exactly! It would know all the spells, and it would help me do them; and the Meistari would never know the difference! A rat would be ideal. I could keep him in my pocket." Agnarr peered into a cage, where a large black rat bared his teeth at him and took a savage nip at his fingers.

"No, old Rotta's not for you. You're too inexperienced. A familiar can take you over if you're not careful, and you'll be the servant. Let's see now, how about this little cricket? I think you could control him."

Agnarr's expectations of a familiar were not fulfilled by the cricket, or the mouse, or the finch, or the lizard the stranger showed him, although he did hesitate over the lizard. "Haven't you got something bigger?" he asked. "All these things are too cute."

"You can't control something bigger," the stranger said. "You've very much a novice at magic, and you might end up with a master far worse than old Bjarnadr."

Agnarr was gazing at the cat as he spoke, and one large green eye popped open suddenly, focusing on him with increasing interest. The cat unrolled himself, stood up suddenly on his toes and yawned ferociously, baring his yellowed fangs in a tortured grimace. Then he sat down heavily and squinted sleepily at Agnarr. Fanning out his whiskers, he started a rumbling purr, kneading his big white paws enticingly. Agnarr reached out and scratched the cat's wide skull, ridged with the scars of many fights, and the purring doubled in volume. "Oh, no! Don't you even think about old Skuggi," the stranger said before Agnarr could speak. "He's too much for you. Too much for almost anyone. He only tolerates me because I feed him well and let him do exactly what he pleases."

"Skuggi? He doesn't fit his name. He's no shadow," Agnarr said. "He's the size of two cats in one skin."

"Don't insult him. He hears and understands every word you say and he holds a grudge forever. Now forget about him. He can get very rude and nasty, can't you, Skuggi?"

Skuggi smiled and rubbed his jowls on Agnarr's arm, still purring like mountain thunder. When Agnarr turned away reluctantly, Skuggi leaped down from his basket with a solid thud and followed him, rubbing himself on Agnarr's ankles at every step. When Agnarr sat down, Skuggi jumped into his lap and settled down possessively, digging in his claws gently whenever Agnarr stirred. His lazy green eyes fairly beamed with benevolence.

"1 think he likes me," Agnarr said. "Why can't I have him? He won't do anything to me. I'm sure of it!"

"I refuse to be responsible for what might happen. I'd lose the good faith of all the wizards I sell to. I simply can't allow you to take him." He reached out to lift Skuggi off Agnarr's knees, but Skuggi flattened his ears and uttered a deadly growl, followed by a hiss that sputtered with menace. His weight seemed to increase, augmented by his sheer determination not to be picked up.

Agnarr smoothed down Skuggi's fur, which was half bristling, and Skuggi resumed his tuneful purring, keeping a wary eye turned upon the stranger. "I'm going to take him. How much do you want for him?"

The stranger sighed dismally and pressed his fingers to his temples. "I can't accept money for Skuggi without grave retributions befalling me. Does that give you an idea of his value? Take him if you dare, but one day perhaps I'll demand a favor of you-if you happen to live that long. All I ask for payment right now is a small surety. Nothing but a lock of your hair to seal our transaction."

That was easily and swiftly done, and Agnarr could hardly contain his impatience to get back to Bjarnadrshol to show off his prize. In the morning, and done with his a.s.signed ch.o.r.es on time for breakfast for a change, he strolled into the sooty great hall which served as dining room, lecture hall, and sleeping quarters for the apprentices. Skuggi paced at his heels, waving his tail and sniffing the food smells approvingly. The other apprentices left off their empty-headed chattering and stared as Agnarr took his place at the table. Skuggi sat down expectantly on the table next to him. No one said a word when Agnarr appropriated Hrifa's sausages and oatmeal for Skuggi.

"Ho, Agnarr," Hrifa greeted him warily. As the apprentice next upward from Agnarr in status, Hrifa always viewed Agnarr as his most threatening rival. "What are you doing with that cat?"

"Having breakfast, you dolt," Agnarr answered.

"That's unusual in itself, and therefore suspect," Hrifa said. "Is this another of your hideously bungled attempts at working some spell, or just another absurd practical joke?"

Agnarr heaved an impatient sigh. "It's none of your business, but I suppose it makes no difference if I tell a bunch of lowly worms like this lot. He's a familiar."

Byes rounded in astonishment and knives halted in midair, skewered with sausages and drippings. Hrifa scowled enviously and demanded, "Where'd you get him? I don't think that's fair. The Meistari will never put up with it. Apprentices aren't allowed familiars. How'd you ever pay for one? They're frightfully dear, I've heard. You practically have to ransom your soul to some wizard or demon to get one. but I can't figure out who would want your soul, Agnarr."

"You seem to forget," Agnarr replied in a bored tone. "I was born in clan Galdur of chosen parentage."

"Galdur isn't a real clan," Hrifa snorted. "It's only a sept. It's nothing so special as you'd like to believe. There's just as many cow-herders and wool-dyers in Galdur as any other subclan."

"Perhaps, but there are definitely more wizards," Agnarr shot back. "And far better wizards, one of which I hope and expect to become one day."

Hrifa glowered at him. "Give me back my breakfast. That's no familiar. Knowing you, it's just another joke."

"Take it back if you dare," Agnarr invited.

Hrifa reached out his hand, but Skuggi planted one clawed paw on the edge of the plate to defend his breakfast, and growled softly, watching Hrifa from the corner of his eye. Hrifa jerked his hand back, and the younger apprentices laughed jeeringly.

In a generous humor, Agnarr gave part of his own breakfast to Hrifaa"a rather small part, though. When the food was done away with, Bjarnadr swept into the hall, already spewing forth instructions, reprimands, and encouragements couched in threatening terms, as well as administering his knuckles to a few boyish skulls in pa.s.sing.

"What is that?" He suddenly halted, stock-still, as his gaze fell upon Agnarr and Skuggi.

"A cat, Meistari," Agnarr replied respectfully.

Bjarnadr clasped his hands behind his back. "A cat, you say? Thank you for that information, Agnarr."

The apprentices sn.i.g.g.e.red. Skuggi was occupied with washing his immaculate white paws and did not deign to even glance at Bjarnadr.

"He's a familiar," Agnarr said as casually as he could.

"Indeed! And where did you get him?"

"At Finn's inn. From a traveling magic merchant."

"I see. And with what did you pay the merchant? I hadn't noticed you were so wealthy."

The apprentices began exchanging knowing glances and nudging each other. Agnarr ignored them, replying, "We agreed that I should pay him later, if I would give him a small surety now. All he wanted was a lock of my hair."

Bjarnadr inhaled a deep breath, raising his eyes to the ceiling. He spoke gently, with admirable restraint. "Did it not occur to you that by giving a part of your person to this stranger that he will gain a certain degree of power over you, depending upon his skill? Perhaps he will someday sell that hair lock to one of your many enemies, when you are an adept wizard, enemies who will then be able to do you great harm."

"He seemed an honest fellow," Agnarr answered.

"And a trusting one, to have given a lowly apprentice such a valuable familiar," Bjarnadr went on. "Did he tell you the cat's name? Was it Boots or Mittens or Stripe?"

"I can't tell you his name," Agnarr said. "That's for me alone to know."

"A familiar tells you his true namea"not something a traveling trash merchant tells you. Agnarr, this charlatan has sold you nothing but an ordinary cat in exchange for what could be your entire future as a wizard. You've been completely duped and made a fool of by that fellow, as well as this ridiculous, overfed, lascivious, hairy beast." He ended with a shattering sneeze and dabbed at his reddening eyes, while the other apprentices whooped with mirth. Hrifa grinned with wicked satisfaction, rubbing his knuckles, no doubt plotting where he would waylay Agnarr for his revenge.

Agnarr stole a sidewise glance at Skuggi, who was still washing himself.

"He hears and understands you perfectly," he said. "You'd better not insult him."

Bjarnadr sneezed again. "He's nothing but a furbearing nuisance, and fat and stupid."

Skuggi began washing his hind foot, seemingly oblivious, and the apprentices added their own epithets. All to no effect. Skuggi ignored them all with supreme contempt. For a moment Agnarr felt a small doubt nibbling at his confidence.

"There, you see, he didn't understand a bit of it," Bjarnadr declared triumphantly. "You've been cheated. Now I strongly suggest you get rid of him. Besides, he makes me sneeze." Two more rapid-fire sneezes followed.

"Supposing he were a familiar, how would one go about learning his name?" Agnarr pursued stubbornly.

"The names of all things are contained somewhere within them," Bjarnadr answered, quaking with suppressed sneezes. "You can discover his true name if you're diligent and observant. And if indeed he's got one. Now let's proceed with our experiments." He sneezed and stalked away, wiping his nose and glaring back at Skuggi.

"Today we're summoning a minor fire elemental, and hopefully containing him while we stand safely within our rune rings. I hope you've all studied the procedures adequately." One final sneeze almost blew his hood off.

Agnarr eyed Skuggi suspiciously. It seemed to him that Skuggi uttered a little mutter for each sneeze, and he certainly smiled as if Bjarnadr's sneezing amused him. He rubbed his chin on Agnarr's hand and purred. With breakfast and bathing taken care of, he curled up on Agnarr's cloak amongst his magical apparatus on the table and went to sleep, exhausted by his heavy responsibilities.

The day went from bad to worse immediately. Agnarr scratched his rune ring on the floor around himself, reciting the proper words, but the elemental got to him anyway, buffeting him around and setting his clothes on fire. Bjarnadr banished the elemental, the other students laughed, and Skuggi watched from the safety of the rafters. In the uproar, Agnarr heard an unfamiliar voice croak some words, and suddenly the fire elemental returned. A huge, roaring ball of flame caught everyone defenseless, including Bjarnadr. The apprentices fled in terror while the master stood and hurled fire bolts and shouted spells. By the time the fire elemental was banished, the entire hall was blackened. Lessons were canceled for the day to clean up the mess, and Bjarnadr was in a frightful humor. He stalked around looking for Agnarr, snorting smoke.

"Is this your idea of a joke?" he roared. "A fire elemental is nothing to play games with! Someone might have been fired! Agnarr, I know you're responsible for this!"

Wisely, Agnarr took Skuggi and hid in the top of an abandoned tower. The old fortress was large enough to afford him several secret hiding places, where he went to escape the wrath of Bjarnadr or the idiocy of the other apprentices.

With a groan he threw himself down on the improvised bed of moldy hay. At once Skuggi made a mattress of Agnarr's stomach, turning around a few times before settling down to purring and flexing his claws.

"Why won't you speak to me?" Agnarr rubbed Skuggi's ears to awaken him. "If you had helped me, I wouldn't have conjured that elemental. It was some of my finest work, though. A pity I wasn't expecting it. Come on, Skuggia"or whatever your true name isa"I need some help or I'll get sacked for good."

Skuggi bestowed one rea.s.suring lick to Agnarr's hand and rose up to tromp out a more comfortable resting place on Agnarr's stomach. Curling himself up tightly, he went to sleep and refused to respond to Agnarr's questioning with anything but a sleepy grumble. A bar of warm sunlight soon made Agnarr too lazy to worry about any of his problems and he, too, went to sleep, with Skuggi coiled up in the middle of him like a large stone.

When he awakened around midday, hungry, Skuggi was stretched out full length beside him in the sun, sleeping with his orange-spotted white belly turned upward. It was a fascinating pattern of dots and bars. Agnarr ran his hand down Skuggi's belly, and Skuggi stretched luxuriously, making his belly-spots look even more like runic writing m fur. Suddenly remembering what the Meistari had said about names being found on the creature in question, Agnarr tried to stretch Skuggi out again to get another good look at the pattern, but Skuggi took umbrage at such liberties and writhed and kicked indignantly with both hind legs. His dignity much ruffled, he commenced grooming himself from head to toe with obvious exasperation, as if he had been disfigured almost beyond recognition.

Agnarr watched and smiled, congratulating himself. His Galdur heritage a.s.sured him that his instincts were good, and his instincts told him that Skuggi's true name was written on his stomach. He was also certain he had recognized the middle two letters of the name.