Chapter 2

The gypsy woman closed her eyes for a second. "All right," she said, and snapped them open. "Four o'clock this afternoon."

"I will be here."

"It is a strong curse."

"You will help me," Mrs. Wladek said.

"I will help you," Marya Proderenska said.

But, after the old woman had left, Marya Proderenska sat alone and her face was troubled. The strength of the curse--she had felt it herself--was enormous. She did not know of any magician who had such power.

She listed over the members of her own clan in her mind, and became satisfied that none she knew was responsible. And yet, the strength of the curse argued real power; was it possible that a power existed within the city, and she did not know of it? Marya felt a cold wind on her back, the wind of fear.

Such a power might do--anything.

And yet it was being used to coerce one useless old woman into taking a job!

Marya Proderenska lay flat on the floor, her arms outstretched. Thus one might gather the vital energies. Four o'clock was not many hours distant, and by four o'clock she would need all of the energy she could summon.

She did not allow herself to become doubtful about the outcome.

And yet she was afraid.

* * * * *

Gloria smiled understandingly at the woman who sat across the desk.

"I understand, Mrs. Francis," she said.

"It's not that Tom's a bad boy, you know," the woman said. "But he's--easily led. That's the only thing."

"Of course," Gloria said. She looked at the middle-aged woman, wearing a gray suit that did not fit her overweight frame, and a silly little white hat. "I'm sure everything's going to be all right," she said.

Mrs. Francis gave a little gasp. "Oh, I hope so," she said. "Tom doesn't mean to cause any trouble. He just doesn't understand--"

Gloria went over the report sheets mentally. Tom didn't mean to cause any trouble, but he had been involved in a gang war or two--nothing in the way of Thompson sub-machine guns, of course, or mortars, just a few pistols and zip-guns and rocks and broken bottles.

Tom hadn't been killed yet. That was, Gloria thought sadly, only a matter of time. He hadn't killed anybody yet, either--but he'd come close. Tom had seen the inside of a jail or two a lot more recently than he'd seen the inside of a classroom.

Tom was easily led.

Sure.

Well, Gloria thought, the problem was to lead him into something more productive and satisfying than the gangs of New York. And that didn't seem to be too hard.

Of course, she had very little practice as yet. The theoretical knowledge she'd been able to dig up in college was mostly on the magic and superstition shelves of the library--and, while she got full credit in her minor, Anthropology, for the research she'd done, a great deal of it just wasn't any practical help.

Not if you _were_ a witch--or what passed for one.

"You see what I mean, don't you?" Mrs. Francis said.

"Of course I do," Gloria said, and gave the woman her most reassuring smile. "I'm sure something can be done. Do you know where your boy is now?"

Mrs. Francis nodded, birdlike. "He's home now. I think he's sleeping. He usually doesn't wake up until after noon."

"I see." Gloria hesitated a moment. "Can you describe him for me?"

"Describe him?"

"That's right," Gloria said. "You see, the somatotypes have, we've discovered, a great influence on mental and emotional makeup."

She didn't feel right, lying to the woman--but chances were that what she'd said didn't make any sense to Mrs. Francis and, in any case, Gloria could hardly tell her the real reason she wanted a description.

It would aid in making the doll she needed.

"He's about six feet tall," Mrs. Francis said, "but he's very thin, and sometimes I worry about that. I try to give him the best nourishment I know how, but he--"

"What color is his hair?" Gloria interrupted.

"Oh," Mrs. Francis said. "Brown. And brown eyes. Really nice eyes; they're his best feature; everybody says so."

"Any distinguishing marks, or anything unusual about him?"

"He has a scar now, on his left arm just below the elbow, but he got that in a fight with these boys--"

"All right," Gloria said. "Thank you very much."

"What are you going to do?" Mrs. Francis said. "You're not going to have him arrested or anything, are you? Because he's not a bad boy, you know that. He's only--"

"Easily led," Gloria finished. "Of course. There won't be any need for arrest, or for anything as drastic as that. You just go home now, and don't worry. I'm sure everything's going to be all right."

"I only want to help my boy," Mrs. Francis said.

"Of course you do," Gloria said. "I want to help him, too."

Mrs. Francis stood up and swallowed hard. "I appreciate that," she said.

"It's my job, that's all," Gloria said, feeling unaccountably shy. As the woman left she thought about that embarrassment and finally decided that she felt she had no right to be complimented. She was doing a job; it needed to be done; that was all.

True, she had special talents for the job--but Mrs. Francis didn't know that, and she hadn't made the talents anyhow, but been born with them.

Congratulations?

Don't be silly.

As a matter of fact, Gloria thought, she deserved a good talking-to. She hadn't had enough experience, and that was the simple truth. It was all very well to work on a boy like Rudi, or another one like Tom Francis, when they didn't have any idea who you were or even that you were trying to do something. That was easy.

But a woman like Mrs. Wladek--

She was suspicious from the start, and Gloria thought that perhaps she shouldn't have done anything. But it was obvious that the woman needed help to become a functioning member of society.

The only trouble was that Gloria hadn't been quite expert enough. Oh, given enough time, the command would work, and eventually become part of the personality. But, because Mrs. Wladek had been afraid and a little forewarned, she'd been able to fight off the command a little.

_Practice_, Gloria told herself, _makes perfect._ And it wasn't her fault that she couldn't do any better. Next time, she'd have a little more practice and she'd be able to do a clearer and more complete job.

And, in the meantime, there was no real harm done. Mrs. Wladek would come round, before long, and then everything would be all right.

Why, after all, there was Rudi, too. And Rudi undoubtedly had a job by now, or at least a good chance of one through an employment agency.

There was no reason to be depressed.

* * * * *

Her son was waiting for her when she arrived at her home once more. Mrs. Wladek looked at the boy with relief and some suspicion. It was not natural for Rudi to be at home during such an hour; he was out with his friends through the day, and this was good for a boy.

"Ma," Rudi said, "guess what?"

"You are in trouble," Mrs. Wladek said at once, in a heavy voice.

"Trouble? I got no troubles, ma," Rudi said. He stood before her in the dusty living room, self-assured and proud, and it came to Mrs. Wladek all at once that her boy was a man.

"What is it?" she demanded. "Tell me at once."

"Sure I will. Ma," Rudi said. "I got a job. I start tomorrow. In an office, wrapping things. The mail room, they call it."

Silence descended on the little room.

"Ma," Rudi said at last. "Ma, what's wrong?"

"Wrong?" Mrs. Wladek said. "What should be wrong? Nothing at all is wrong. You have a job, very well, you have a job."

"You're not happy about it, Ma?"

Mrs. Wladek gave a short bark. "Happy? Indeed I should be happy? My son goes to work, like a dog, and I should be--" She paused and gasped suddenly. "Why did you go to work?"

"You mean why did I get a job, Ma?" Rudi said. "Listen, let's have supper and we'll talk about it, huh?"

"Supper?" Mrs. Wladek snorted. "Supper we will have when I find out what I need to know. Not before."

"But I'm hungry, Ma, and ... oh, all right." Rudi sat down on the old brown couch and sighed. "I just thought it would be a good idea to get a job, bring some bread into the house, you know? So I went down to the agency, and they had this application waiting, and I went down and got the job, and I start tomorrow. That's all. Now let's eat."

"You got the idea to have a job?" Mrs. Wladek said. "Fine. Fine. Just fine. And when did you get this idea?"

"I don't know," Rudi said, and shrugged. "Some time. This morning, maybe. Look, what difference does it make? I thought you'd like the idea, Ma. Some more dough coming in ... you know."

"This morning." Mrs. Wladek raised clenched fists over her head. "Cossacks!" she screamed. "Monsters! Witches!"

Lunchtime.

Gloria looked up and smiled sweetly and distantly as Harold Meedy appeared at her desk. "Got any special place to go?" he said.

"As a matter of fact--" she began, but he was too quick for her.

"It's always 'as a matter of fact,'" he said. "What's the matter--you got another boy friend or something? You don't like poor Harold? Look, Gloria, if you want to avoid me, then you go ahead and avoid me. But--"

"It's nothing like that," Gloria said.

"So come on," Harold said. "Listen, I'm really a sweet guy when you get to know me. You'd like me. Sure you would."

"I'm sure," Gloria said. "But I really do have something to take care of."

"Can't you take care of it later?"

She shook her head.

"Well ... all right, if you want me to grow up all frustrated." He grinned at her and moved away.

When they were all gone, and only Mr. Fredericksohn remained in his private office, behind the closed door, Gloria opened a drawer of her desk and took out a piece of modeling clay a little bigger than her fist. Working without haste, and never bothering to look up she made a doll in the shape of a tall, thin boy.

The voodoo sects in Haiti used hair or fingernail parings from the subject, Gloria knew; she had learned that in her college research, but she had known about the doll long before. Hair and fingernail parings: what superstition! And it wasn't as if you really needed the doll; if necessary, you could get along very well without it. But it was a help; it made things easier; and why not?

She tried to picture Tom Francis. His mother's description of him had been pretty vague, but Gloria found she could locate him at his house; she turned the doll until she had the feeling of contact, and then--

There.

It didn't take long, actually, not once you had your subject located. Tom hadn't really been a hard case; his juvenile delinquency, Gloria was quite sure, was a thing of the past. He'd be back in school as soon as the details could be worked out between Mrs. Francis and the Board of Education, and that would take care of that.

With a satisfied smile, she put the doll away in her drawer. She'd mash it back into clay later in the afternoon; that would enable her to use the same piece over and over again.

Clay cost money, and a case worker's salary wasn't large. Gloria could not see how she could put the cost of the clay down on a special requisition, anyhow; she had to pay for it herself, and so she was very careful and saving with it.

After she'd put the Tom doll away with the Rudi doll, making a mental note to take care of both of them before she left for the day, she fished out her beret and put it on and went out for a quick lunch.

* * * * *

It was just after two o'clock when Mr. Gerne came in. The others were used to his periodic arrivals, of course, and Gloria had never felt any fear of the director. He didn't work in the same office, but elsewhere in the building, and once a week he made a habit of touring the various social-work agencies under his direction.

It kept the workers on their toes, Gloria imagined: the actual sight of the boss' boss would do that. Mr. Gerne never smiled; he was a small, thin-lipped man with white skin and very little hair. He stood in the outer office, peering round, for a few minutes, and then, nodding his head slowly, he went on and knocked at Mr. Fredericksohn's door.

"Who's there?" Mr. Fredericksohn called from inside.

"Mr. Gerne," said Mr. Gerne. There was a little pause, and then Mr. Fredericksohn said:

"Ah. Come in."

The door opened and shut and Mr. Gerne was invisible.

Gloria picked up a folder and pretended to concentrate on it. Of course, she could hear what was happening in the private office perfectly well. She remembered studying medieval witchcraft and thought suddenly of astral bodies.

But that had been a guess some distance from the truth.

The projection of the sense of hearing was such a simple thing, really; why did people have to complicate it with all this talk about witches and the soul--she was reminded of Mrs. Wladek but put the woman out of her mind. Mr. Gerne was talking.

"... For instance, the new girl--what's her name?"

"Gloria Scott," Mr. Fredericksohn's voice said. "Yes?"

"What's she like?" Mr. Gerne's voice said. "I don't know her personally--of course I've seen her there in the office, and she seems like a friendly, pretty girl. But you deal with her every day--"

"Very nice," Mr. Fredericksohn said. "Pleasant and easy to work with. A good type. Now, you take her record--"

"That's what I meant," Mr. Gerne said. "A record like that--it's just not possible. There isn't any chance she's faking it?"

After a little silence Mr. Fredericksohn said: "No chance at all. I've had follow-ups on a random selection of her cases--standard practice for a newcomer. Of course, she doesn't know about any of that."

"Of course. And?"

"No fakes," Mr. Fredericksohn said. "And don't tell me it's hard to believe. I know perfectly well it's hard to believe."

"No returns," Mr. Gerne said. "Not a single return in over a month."

"Except the old woman," Mr. Fredericksohn said. "Mrs. Wladek."

Gloria turned a page in the report she was holding, without taking her attention from the conversation in the private room.

It was always helpful to know the kind of thing people said about you, as well as what they thought. It gave you more facts to work with, and made you more efficient and better able to work at your chosen profession.

Mr. Gerne was saying: "You can discount Mrs. Wladek. That one's a trouble-spot."

"Always has been," Mr. Fredericksohn said.

"All right, then discount her," Mr. Gerne said. "Forget about her. And--outside of that one case--there hasn't been a repeat."

"Some of the clients have died," Mr. Fredericksohn said.

Mr. Gerne waited a second. Then he said: "A little higher percentage than normal. So?"

"I mean, that's a reason for some of the non-repeats."

"And the others?" Mr. Gerne paused a minute and then went on. "You can't discount the girl's record like that."

"I wasn't trying to," Mr. Fredericksohn said mildly. "I was only pointing out--"

"Let those go," Mr. Gerne said. "Obviously she had no control over that sort of thing. Unless you think she went out and killed them?"

"Of course not." Mr. Fredericksohn said.

"And outside of that, then--no repeats. The girl's a wonder."

"Certainly," Mr. Fredericksohn said. "Let's see how long it keeps up, that's all."

Mr. Gerne said: "Pessimist. All right, we'll drop the subject for now. Anyway, I did want to talk to you about the progress reports we've been getting from Frazier's office. It seems to me--"

Gloria broke the connection. Frazier, a supervisor for another office, didn't interest her; she only wanted to hear what the conversation about herself would be like. Well, now she knew.

And, thankfully, no one suspected a thing. Why, the subject had been brought up, right in the open, and dropped without a word or a thought.

"Unless you think she went out and killed them."

Gloria didn't smile. The idea was not funny. Sometimes you had to do something like that--but the necessity didn't make it pleasant.

The trouble was that you couldn't always cure something by a simple projection into the mind. Sometimes you ran into a compulsion that was really deeply buried.

If the compulsion was a big one, and went back far into childhood, Gloria couldn't do anything directly about it. Sometimes it was possible to work around, and, of course, you did that when you could. The important thing was society, but you salvaged the individual wherever possible.

Where it wasn't possible--

Well, here's a man who has a compulsion to get drunk. And, when drunk, he's got to pick fights. Maybe he hasn't killed anybody in a fight yet--but some day he will. He's got the strength and, under the influence of sufficient alcohol, he's got no inhibitions about using it.

None.

You can let the man live, and by doing that kill an unknown number of other people. At the least, keeping your hands and your mind off the compulsive drinker-fighter will serve to injure others--how many others, and how badly, you can't tell.

There are times when you've got to take an individual life in your hands.

And yet, because you can't always be sure--

Gloria's "talents" could kill out of hand, she was sure. But she didn't use them that way. Instead, she simply projected a new compulsion into the mind of her subject.

The next time he got drunk and wanted to start a fight, he wanted to do something else, too.

For instance: walk along the edges of roofs.

The original compulsion had been added to, and turned into a compulsion toward suicide; that was what it amounted to.

Gloria didn't like doing it, and she was always glad when it wasn't necessary. But there was a dark side to everything--even, she thought, helping people.

She told herself grimly that it had to be done.

And then she returned to her work.

* * * * *

Mrs. Wladek pounded on the door of the gypsy's store a few minutes before four. Her face was white and her lips set in a thin line; she breathed with difficulty and with every move she made she could feel her old bones creak.

It was a shame what was being done to an old woman.

But did they care? Did any of them care?

Mrs. Wladek gave a little snort that was half laughter and half self-pity. She pounded on the door again and dropped her arm, feeling old and tired and nearly helpless.

But she had to fight on.

There was a limit to what an old woman could be expected to stand. They would learn, all of them, what--

The door opened.

Marya Proderenska said: "Yes? You are early."

"I am in a hurry. Terrible things have occurred."

The gypsy woman sighed and stepped aside. "Come in, then," she said, and Mrs. Wladek entered slowly, peering round the front room.

"Come in the back," the gypsy woman said. "I have been preparing to help you. But more is required."

It was Mrs. Wladek's turn to sigh. She reached into her purse and found a fifty-cent piece, which she handed over very slowly.

"More is required," the gypsy woman said, looking at the coin in her hand as if, Mrs. Wladek thought, it was less than a penny. Did not the woman realize that fifty cents was a great deal of money for a poor old woman?

No one had any pity any more.

She handed over another fifty cents and the gypsy woman nodded sadly, pocketed the money and led the way to the back room.

"You will help me now?" Mrs. Wladek said.

"I will try."

The room was silent as the gypsy woman brought all her knowledge and experience into play. Finally she looked at Mrs. Wladek and said: "A very powerful curse has been put upon you. I can't help you."

"The Church will help me!" Mrs. Wladek screamed. "They have the power to exorcise--"

"Do not speak to me of churches," the gypsy woman shouted.

Mrs. Wladek shook her head. "You, who steal my money, who steal the bread from my old mouth without pity--"

"A woman must live," Marya Proderenska said, with great dignity.

* * * * *

The housekeeper had said Father Seador was at supper. This did not make a difference. Mrs. Wladek's problem was certainly serious enough to interfere with any man's supper. Father Seador was overweight in any case; should he miss the entire meal it would not do him any harm. Marie Wladek had a problem, and a serious one; let him miss his supper. It was his job to help people.

But Father Seador would certainly not be in the best of moods.

He was not.

He arrived with his face set in firm lines of disapproval. Mrs. Wladek got up from her chair and curtsied toward him, being very careful of her old bones. He nodded.

"Rudi in trouble again?" he said at once, taking a chair.

Mrs. Wladek sat herself down slowly. When she was settled, she looked over at the middle-aged man. "Rudi has a job."

"A job? A job?" Father Seador blinked. "That's fine. That's certainly good news."

"So you think," Mrs. Wladek said crisply.

"Well, of course it's good news," Father Seador said. "Responsibility ... steady income ... Mrs. Wladek, I'm sure this has made you very happy, but if you'll pardon me." Father Seador stood up. "I'm in the middle of--"

"Wait," Mrs. Wladek said. "This is not what I have come to talk to you about. It is _why_ he has taken a job. It is _why_ I will be taking a job."

"You?" Father Seador seemed incapable of speech. "Well, I--"

"I am bewitched," Mrs. Wladek said. "A curse is upon me."

"A curse? Well--" Father Seador stopped and cleared his throat. He sat down again. He blinked. At last he said: "What's wrong, Mrs. Wladek?"

"I have told you," she said. "A curse. A curse. I want you to exorcise this witch that has put on me a hex."

"Exorcise? Curse?" Father Seador coughed. "I'm sure you must be mistaken, or--"

"Mistaken? I am not mistaken. I tell you there is a curse upon me."

The parlor was very quiet for a long time. At last Father Seador said: "If you really believe you've been hexed, you'd better give me all the details. When did you feel this ... this curse put upon you?"

"This morning," Mrs. Wladek said.

"And what kind of curse is this? I mean, what effect has it had?"

Mrs. Wladek's voice was as hard as iron. "It has made my son take a job. It has made me want to look for a job. In time, I will not be able to fight the curse, and I will take a job. And then--"

"I don't see anything wrong about that," Father Seador said mildly.

"You see nothing wrong in a poor old woman being forced to work? In a boy forced to grind out his youth among package-wrappers? You see nothing wrong in this?"

"Well, I ... we all have to work."

"Here?" Mrs. Wladek said with astonishment. "Here in America, you believe that? It is not so. My own uncle Bedrich has told me years ago it is not so. Do you dispute the word of my own uncle Bedrich?"

"My good woman," said Father Seador, "look around you ... your friends, your neighbors--"

"Let us say no more about it," Mrs. Wladek interrupted. "There is a curse upon me and I have called on you to remove this curse."

"How do you know this is a curse? Our minds do change, you know, and they do strange things--"

"I have been told," Mrs. Wladek said.

"You've been told? By whom?"

Mrs. Wladek drew herself up in the chair. "By Marya Proderenska, the gypsy fortune teller. She knows that--"

"A gypsy? You consulted a fortune teller?"

"I did."

"Mrs. Wladek, do you know what you are saying ... what you have done? Don't you realize you have committed a sin against--"

But he was speaking to empty air. Marie Wladek was gone.

* * * * *

Gloria looked up at the little clock and sighed briefly. Five o'clock. Another day gone already.

It was a shame, in a way, that time passed so quickly. Gloria didn't feel the least bit tired. After all, she had spent the day in helping people, and that was what made life worthwhile.

But it was quitting time. Staying late would give her the reputation of an eager beaver, and that would make her unpopular. Not that she cared for popularity for its own sake--certainly not!--but you couldn't do your best work unless the others in your office were willing to help you.

Leaving on time was a simple sacrifice to make for them.