whatever chilled beverages he could procure. Today it was beer, tepid and barely cooler than room temperature. He offered one to Carlos, who greedily accepted and paced the room as he drank.
The ceiling fan turned agonizingly slowly, stirring only the faintest breeze, imperceptible but for the slight cooling of the sweat on his brow.
âIt is a Stone Age tribe, Dr. Beaumond,â Carlos said hopefully. Albert had passed himself off as a doctor of anthropology from USC, referring to himself as âDoctorâ Beaumond. No one asked to see any verification, and so far no one had bothered to check his background.
Albert Beaumond certainly looked like a professor. His goatee, close-cropped to fetishistic proportions, gave him an intellectual, and slightly evil, persona. The overall effect was convincing. And then there was Albertâs natural intelligence and upper-class background. Carlos had no reason to doubt his authenticity.
Albert had loosened his tie and removed his lightweight summer jacket. His white suit was wrinkled and moist, soiled here and there by the general dirtiness of the country.
White, though reflective of heat, was an impractical color for clothes here. His shirt stuck to his back, defined in geographic detail by the sweat-stained suspenders that hung from his shoulders. As he leaned forward, the pattern of rattan was branded lightly on his back. Albert had been uncomfortable every minute heâd been here. How could these people live like this?
Carlos didnât seem to mind the heat. He swigged down the warm beer and talked excitedly. Albert could smell Carlosâs body scent; it lathered the air with an odor of oniony sweat. He wondered why these people didnât use colognes.
The air barely stirred. Albert mopped at his brow with a dirty white handkerchief. He watched the research assistant pace.
For his part, Albert thought Carlos boorish and common. The little man seemed only interested in the payment that Albert had mentioned for reliable information that might add to his research.
âA tribe so ancient that no one knows how long they have been there. The ruins near their village date back to pre-Inca times.â
Albert seemed mildly interested until he learned of their methodology, then he was intrigued. He would spend much money and many days searching for the tribe to see with his own eyes if Carlos had reported the truth.
This tribe believed that all things, all emotions, and all spirits were born of vibrations. They worshiped the vibrations and had kept a detailed account of every spirit they had conjured over the centuries and what vibration contacted it.
It was the combination of vibrations that did the trick.
They did it through the use of long metallic vibrating devices that resembled tuning forks.
As the fork was struck and resonated, then combined with another vacillation wave coming from a second fork, it summoned forth an entity that was sympathetic to that frequency. Different combinations produced different results. Certain frequencies oscillated between themselves, canceling each other out. Their discord made new vibrations, and those rang with unknown dissonance. The effect built on itself.
Two certain forks, Albert was told, two mysterious antiquities from the dawn of man, had the miraculous power that, once struck, together, made contact with ⦠the other side.
The other side of what? Albert wondered.
Carlos said it was a demon who came forth in the form of a serpent. A Snake God.
To Albert, of course, that entity represented something else entirely. The face of Satan. It appeared in their drawings as a serpent, complete with horns, forked tongue, and a tail. Familiar turf for Albert.
âWill this information be worth money to you?â asked Carlos. âI have gone to great expense to contact a man who can help us, a medicine man. He can help us locate the tuning forks.â
Albert fanned himself with his notebook. Carlos grinned
The ceiling fan turned agonizingly slowly, stirring only the faintest breeze, imperceptible but for the slight cooling of the sweat on his brow.
âIt is a Stone Age tribe, Dr. Beaumond,â Carlos said hopefully. Albert had passed himself off as a doctor of anthropology from USC, referring to himself as âDoctorâ Beaumond. No one asked to see any verification, and so far no one had bothered to check his background.
Albert Beaumond certainly looked like a professor. His goatee, close-cropped to fetishistic proportions, gave him an intellectual, and slightly evil, persona. The overall effect was convincing. And then there was Albertâs natural intelligence and upper-class background. Carlos had no reason to doubt his authenticity.
Albert had loosened his tie and removed his lightweight summer jacket. His white suit was wrinkled and moist, soiled here and there by the general dirtiness of the country.
White, though reflective of heat, was an impractical color for clothes here. His shirt stuck to his back, defined in geographic detail by the sweat-stained suspenders that hung from his shoulders. As he leaned forward, the pattern of rattan was branded lightly on his back. Albert had been uncomfortable every minute heâd been here. How could these people live like this?
Carlos didnât seem to mind the heat. He swigged down the warm beer and talked excitedly. Albert could smell Carlosâs body scent; it lathered the air with an odor of oniony sweat. He wondered why these people didnât use colognes.
The air barely stirred. Albert mopped at his brow with a dirty white handkerchief. He watched the research assistant pace.
For his part, Albert thought Carlos boorish and common. The little man seemed only interested in the payment that Albert had mentioned for reliable information that might add to his research.
âA tribe so ancient that no one knows how long they have been there. The ruins near their village date back to pre-Inca times.â
Albert seemed mildly interested until he learned of their methodology, then he was intrigued. He would spend much money and many days searching for the tribe to see with his own eyes if Carlos had reported the truth.
This tribe believed that all things, all emotions, and all spirits were born of vibrations. They worshiped the vibrations and had kept a detailed account of every spirit they had conjured over the centuries and what vibration contacted it.
It was the combination of vibrations that did the trick.
They did it through the use of long metallic vibrating devices that resembled tuning forks.
As the fork was struck and resonated, then combined with another vacillation wave coming from a second fork, it summoned forth an entity that was sympathetic to that frequency. Different combinations produced different results. Certain frequencies oscillated between themselves, canceling each other out. Their discord made new vibrations, and those rang with unknown dissonance. The effect built on itself.
Two certain forks, Albert was told, two mysterious antiquities from the dawn of man, had the miraculous power that, once struck, together, made contact with ⦠the other side.
The other side of what? Albert wondered.
Carlos said it was a demon who came forth in the form of a serpent. A Snake God.
To Albert, of course, that entity represented something else entirely. The face of Satan. It appeared in their drawings as a serpent, complete with horns, forked tongue, and a tail. Familiar turf for Albert.
âWill this information be worth money to you?â asked Carlos. âI have gone to great expense to contact a man who can help us, a medicine man. He can help us locate the tuning forks.â
Albert fanned himself with his notebook. Carlos grinned
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