Page 4 - Psychoceramics and the Test of Fire

Prologue

“Mr. Baker,” he said, shaking my hand. “I’m Al Magnus. Let’s
talk in the bar.”
The bars I had frequented would not be conducive to a job
interview, unless I wanted work as a cashier or bouncer, but this one
was different: dark, lushly carpeted and upholstered, with a level of
background music designed to permit—and mask—private
conversation. It was not a time of day during which the normal
commerce of any class of saloon would be at its peak, so we were
virtually alone. Magnus steered me to a booth in the back.
“This will do nicely.” We sat down; the barman came over to take
our orders for ginger ale and a Bloody Mary—you can guess who
ordered what—and our conversation began.
“Do you know who I am?”
“No, sir, I do not. Nor do I know how you recognized me.”
“You are Clayton Baker, age forty-two; at your present address
three months. Your resumé is far from accurate, but your complete
employment history, beginning in high school, can be easily obtained
by anyone with means and know-how. The same is true of other
aspects of your background: friends, family, ex-wives, habits and
weaknesses. I have several photographs of you in what is a rather fat
dossier. Please do not be alarmed. You must know this immediately
because I am going to make you an offer you would do well to
consider: of all the applicants you most closely conformed to my
requirements.”
My jaw must have been hanging open and my larynx paralyzed.
The drinks arrived and I gulped at mine, reassured by the familiar
acid sweetness.
“Fine. I didn’t think you would be scared off by that revelation,”
said Magnus, obviously pleased. “Now, given that I think you are the
man I seek, you should know what is involved. My own personal
history is relevant. Please listen carefully and ask any questions when
I have finished.”
I nodded mutely. If this fellow is mad, I was thinking, I can easily
humor him until the opportunity for escape presents itself. Until then
he had rented an audience for the price of a soft drink.
“My father died a broken man,” began Al Magnus, “a visionary
surrounded by blind and ignorant people. He was a scientist, and like
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