The risen wind began to make the
same intermittent roaring sound it had for a moment earlier in the
evening. Why not, he asked himself. Three witch women, using magic as Tansy had,
to advance their husband's careers and their own. Making use of their
husband's special knowledge to give magic a modern twist. Suspicious
and worried because Tansy had given up magic; afraid she'd found a much
stronger variety, and was planning to make use of it. And Tansy--suddenly unprotected, possibly unaware of the change in
their attitude toward her because, in giving up magic, she had lost her
sensitivity to the supernatural, her "woman's intuition." Why not carry it a step further? Maybe all women were the same. Guardians of mankind's ancient customs and traditions--including the
practice of witchcraft. Fighting their husband's battles from behind
the scenes, by sorcery. Keeping it a secret; and, on those occasions
when they were discovered, conveniently explaining it as feminine
susceptibility to superstitious fads. Half of the human race still actively practicing sorcery. Why not? "It's your play, Norman," said Mrs. Sawtelle, sweetly. "You look as if you had something on your mind," said Mrs. Gunnison. "How are you getting along up there, Norm?" her husband called. "Those
women got you buffaloed?" Buffaloed? He came back to reality with a jerk. That was just what they
almost had done. And all because the human imagination was a thoroughly
unreliable instrument, like a rubber ruler. Let's see, if he played his
queen it might set up a king in Mrs. Gunnison's hand so she could get
in and run her spades. *       *       *       *       *

After that round, Tansy served refreshments, and the usual shop talk
began. "Saw Pollard today," Gunnison remarked, helping himself to a section
of chocolate cake. "Told me he'd be meeting with the trustees tomorrow
morning, to decide among other things on the chairmanship in sociology." Hervey Sawtelle choked on a crumb and almost lost his coffeecup. Norman caught Mrs. Sawtelle glaring at him vindictively. She changed
her face and murmured, "How interesting." He smiled. That kind of hate
he could understand. No need to confuse it with witchcraft. He went to the kitchen to get Mrs. Carr a glass of water, and met Mrs.
Gunnison coming out of the bedroom. She was slipping a leather-bound
booklet into her capacious handbag. It recalled to his mind Tansy's
diary. Probably an address book. Totem slipped out from behind her, giving what sounded like a hiss as
he dodged past her feet. "I loathe the animal," said Mrs. Carr bluntly, and walked past him. Professor Carr had made arrangements for a final rubber, men at one
table, women at the other. "A barbaric arrangement," said Tansy, winking. "You really don't think
we can play bridge at all." "On the contrary, my dear, I think you play very well," Carr replied
seriously. "But I confess that at times I prefer to play with men. I
can get a better idea of what's going on in their minds. Whereas women
still baffle me." "As they should, dear," added Mrs. Carr, bringing a flurry of laughter. The cards suddenly began to run freakishly, with abnormal distribution
of suits, and play took a wild turn. But Norman found it impossible
to concentrate, which made Sawtelle an even more jittery partner than
usual. He kept listening to what the women were saying at the other table. His
rebellious imagination persisted in reading hidden meanings into the
most innocuous remarks. "You usually hold wonderful hands, Tansy. But now you don't seem to
have any," said Mrs. Carr. But suppose she was referring to the kind of
hand you wrapped in flannel? "Oh, well, unlucky in cards ... you know." How had Mrs. Sawtelle meant
to finish the remark? Lucky in love? Lucky in sorcery? Idiotic notion! "That's two psychic bids you've made in succession, Tansy. Better watch
out. We'll catch up with you." What might not a psychic bid stand for
in Mrs. Gunnison's vocabulary? Some kind of bluff in witchcraft? A
pretense at giving up conjuring? "I wonder," Mrs. Carr murmured sweetly to Tansy, "if you're hiding a
very strong hand this time, dear, and making a trap pass?" Rubber ruler. That was the trouble with imagination. According to a
rubber ruler, an elephant would be no bigger than a mouse, a jagged
line and a curve might be equally straight. He tried to think about the
slam he had contracted for. "The girls talk a good game of bridge," murmured Gunnison in an
undertone. Gunnison and Carr came out at the long end of two-thousand rubber and
were still crowing pleasantly as they stood around waiting to leave. Norman remembered a question he wanted to ask Mrs. Gunnison. "Harold was telling me you had a number of photographs of that cement
dragon or whatever it is on top of Estrey. It's right opposite my
window." She looked at him for a moment, then nodded. "I believe I've got one with me. Took it almost a year ago." She dug a rumpled snapshot out of her handbag. He studied it, and experienced a kind of shiver in reverse. This
didn't make sense at all. Instead of being toward the center of the
roof ridge, or near the bottom, it was almost at the top. Just what
was involved here? A practical joke stretching over a period of days
or weeks? Or--His mind balked, like a skittish horse. Yet--_Eppur si
muove_. He turned it over. There was a confusing inscription on the back, in
greasy red crayon. Mrs. Gunnison took it out of his hands, to show the
others. "The wind sounds like a lost soul," said Mrs. Carr, hugging her coat
around her as Norman opened the door. "But a rather noisy one," her husband added with a chuckle. When the last of them were gone, Tansy slipped her arm around his
waist, and said, "I must be getting old. It wasn't nearly as much of a
trial as usual. They seemed almost human." Norman looked down at her intently. She was smiling peacefully. Totem
had come out of hiding and was rubbing against her legs. With an effort Norman nodded and said, "Yes, they did." V.


There were shadows everywhere, and the ground under his feet was
treacherous and of uncertain texture. The dreadful strident roaring,
which seemed to have gone on since eternity began, shook his very
bones. Yet it did not drown out the flat, nasty monotone of that other
voice which kept telling him to do something--he could not be sure what
except that it involved injury to himself, although he heard the voice
as plainly as if someone were talking inside his head. He tried to
struggle away from the direction in which the voice wanted him to go,
but heavy hands jerked him back. He wanted to look up over his shoulder
at something he knew would be taller than himself, but he couldn't
muster the courage. There were great rushing clouds overhead making the
shadows, and they would momentarily assume the form of gigantic faces
brooding down on him, faces with pits of darkness for eyes, and sullen,
savage lips, and great masses of hair streaming behind.