Wilma remained indifferent to her employer's diabolical expression. No doubt if Peez had burst into a melodrama villain's Mwahahahahahaha! the stoic secretary would have likewise maintained her composure.

"Very good, Ms. Godz," she said. "I've downloaded all the pertinent information to your laptop and palmtop. Have a nice trip."

Peez snapped her fingers. There was a papery rustling from the inner office as Teddy Tumtum came floating out to her hand, a few scraps of torn-up phone memo slips and a used tissue clinging to his fur. He was followed closely by Peez's laptop and palmtop, both of them among the most recent influx of up-to-the-minute cutting-edge office equipment that Edwina had given her daughter.

With teddy bear and electronic arsenal in her grasp, Peez turned to leave, then paused at the door. "If those idiots from Chicago call again, tell them I'm gone and you don't know when I'll be back."

"That would be lying, Ms. Godz," Wilma reminded her quite needlessly. "The Great Mother doesn't like—"

"Then just tell them I'm gone. That'll be true enough to suit the Great Mother."

"You can tell them yourself," Wilma said. "They're on the list."

"They're what? But they can't possibly represent more than a handful of—"

"You didn't ask for a search based on numbers alone. Some of the items on the list are actually individuals. As far as impact goes, the members of the Chicago group are very good at drawing a crowd, when it suits their purposes. As for income, I checked their books: They're loaded."

Peez stared, taken aback by this revelation and the manner in which her secretary had chosen to voice it. Wilma Pilut used slang sparingly, the way some people used profanity, so that when she did employ it at all, it made a much bigger impression. For Wilma to say "loaded" rather than "rich" was a red flag of the first order. Attention must be paid.

"Are they now?" Peez said slowly, one eyebrow raised in speculation. "Are they indeed?" She left E. Godz, Inc.'s New York City office still pondering this information sotto voce to herself.

The office itself was not located in any of the commercially zoned skyscrapers that formed the Manhattan skyline, but rather in a residential high-rise on the Upper West Side. Edwina didn't believe in zoning laws—or any other laws that told her she couldn't have things her own way—and she had used her magic to establish the two subsidiary offices of E. Godz, Inc. wherever the hell she wanted them to be. The authorities never caught wise, and an A.R.S. or Automatic Rationalization Spell kept the residents of the buildings comfortably clueless.

Thus when Peez stepped onto the elevator, juggling her laptop, her palmtop, and Teddy Tumtum, the nice little old lady already riding down to the ground floor took one look and said, "Oh, isn't that nice! You must be going to pick up your child at school and taking his favorite teddy bear along as a surprise. It's such a joy to see one of you young women who cares more about your family than some silly little career. I think family is so important, don't you?"

Peez smiled pleasantly and replied: "Ma'am, you are a dinosaur. I refuse to accommodate your outdated prejudices by spending my life barefoot, pregnant and in the kitchen, even if you could somehow guarantee me one that comes with its own Iron Chef. I have no children, this teddy bear is possessed by the devil, I despise my baby brother with an intensity that could liquefy diamonds, and my mother is dying."

"You don't say? Four of them, and all boys! My dear, I don't know whether to congratulate you or pray for you." She smiled serenely, for as soon as Peez's words left her lips, the A.R.S. had kicked in, causing the old lady's mind to do an immediate slash- and-burn editorial job on every syllable. She only heard what her mind told her she ought to be hearing.

It was a wonderful spell. It let the New York City office of E. Godz, Inc. exist unmolested and it gave Peez the freedom to say anything that popped into her head to anyone she wished. As long as she restricted uttering her rants to the confines of the building proper, she could vent to her heart's content. Who needed a therapist when you could unload all your peeves and problems on whoever happened to be sharing the elevator, doing laundry, or getting the mail?

Unfortunately, there were times when you needed a therapist to do more than listen. The Automatic Rationalization Spell wasn't equipped to make its subjects give Peez any kind of feedback, and as for handling breakthrough moments of realization ...

"My mother ... is dying," Peez repeated dully as the full import of the fax from Edwina sank in. She stared at the illuminated display above the closed elevator doors and saw it not as simply the passing floors counting themselves off but as the passing days of Edwina's final months of life falling inexorably away, one by one.

Peez dropped everything she was carrying except Teddy Tumtum and, hugging him fiercely, burst into tears.

"There, there, dear," said the little old lady, solicitously patting Peez's shoulder. "I know just how you feel. Men really are all sex-crazed pigs, but maybe this time you'll have a girl."

Dov Godz was enjoying his daily massage-and-aromatherapy treatment when the fax from Edwina arrived. His long, limber, beautifully bronzed torso was stretched out full length on the masseuse's portable table, his muscles almost purring under the ministrations of her gifted hands, his eyelids growing heavy, and his consciousness drifting blissfully off to the edge of slumber.

Then that blasted watchdog amulet on the fax machine let out a Rebel yell shrill enough to raise General Robert E. Lee himself from the grave and Dov's gilded barge to dreamland was torpedoed by a single yeeeeehaaaaw amidships. He jumped straight up off the towel-covered massage table so high that he nearly left an oily imprint of his body on the white acoustic tiles overhead.

It was a mercy that Solange hadn't set up her table under the ceiling fan.

"Damn it, I'm going to have to fix that thing," Dov announced as he strode across the room to retrieve the incoming message. With one hand he nabbed the fax, with the other he tore the amulet from the front of the machine and held it at eye level. "Okay, sport," he told it. "Either tone it down, change it entirely, or get ready for an unguided tour of the Greater Miami sewer system."

"I'm afraid I can't let you do that, Dov," the amulet replied in a level voice that reeked of rationality. It was cast of the purest silver in the shape of a human face with the full, pouting lips, curly hair, and classically beautiful features found on ancient statues of Greek youths. There was, of course, one salient difference: The faces of the old, old statues were as lifeless as the marble from which they were carved; the amulet's features were animated.

"I don't think you understand the situation, friend," Dov said. "You're the one working for me."

"I am not," the amulet replied. "I am working for the corporation."

This was true; Dov knew it. His mother had furnished his office and his bank account with a liberal hand, but with enough strings attached for Dov to start his own marionette theater. One such string was decked out with tags reading If Thou Touchest Any Item of Thine Office Equipment, O Heedless Chump, Verily Thine Ass Belongeth Unto Me. The tags were all in Edwina's handwriting and were attached to Dov's life by strings of solid carborundum. Mom was very protective of the family business, and since she allowed Dov the freedom and the money to do whatever he fancied in all other aspects of his life, he found it convenient to bow to her inclinations in this small matter.