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'I'm waiting for the punch line.'

'The punch line is probability. All events occur along a bell curve - at the edge of that curve, the law of probability ensures that a minute percentage of nonoccurrences is not only possible but inevitable. In everyday life, this percentage is so small there's no noticeable effect. But on the huge stellar scale, the tiny percentage of hydrogen atoms that fuse instead of bouncing apart is still trillions of atoms, and that's enough to power a star.'

'And that,' said Thales, 'is magic'

Rust said, 'I haven't had enough coffee for this.'

'Willing the impossible,' said Thales, 'the magician must necessarily distort those same slender odds in his favour without having trillions of atoms to help him. The central problem for him is always how to get enough power to force probability into compliance with his wishes. What is he to do for fuel? Does he sacrifice others? Does he burn himself up, gradually eroding his health and body -'

'I imagine cutting out a piece of his bone was pretty ungradual,' Rust interrupted impatiently.

'In this particular case, the magician probably chose to gain unusual strength by an active self-sacrifice - such as using his own bone to make a tool -since the theory of magic assumes that what we would call moral or spiritual qualities are not abstractions but have a reality concrete enough for them to be used as necromantic tools. The traditional virtues of courage and self-sacrifice are considered particularly powerful.'

'It's a form of physics, really' said the Doctor. 'An energy problem.'

Rush took the photograph from the Doctor. 'I get it. He gained power through what he was willing to give up.'

'Not so different from real life,' said the Doctor.

Thales smiled thinly. 'Here we are, grown men, talking as if all this were real.'

'Real enough for a man to have been killed for it,' said Rust.

'Yes& You're right, of course.' Thales sat back wearily. 'Is there anything more at present, Lieutenant?'

Rust shook his head.

'I'd like to come back and see the collection,' said the Doctor.

Thales looked at him. For a moment, he seemed about to ask a question.

But he only said, 'Oh, you must, Doctor. I insist.'

'Were you just being nice to the old boy?' Rust asked as they walked back toward the bottom of the Quarter. 'Or is that collection of his really worth something?'

'I don't know what it's worth,' said the Doctor. 'But it's a very fine collection, not a dilettante's work, by any means.'

They came within sight of Jackson Square. Rust could hear a rider-mower's engine, and smell the pungent odour of new-cut grass. He was just thinking that his companion wasn't quite as flaky as he seemed - at least he knew his stuff - when the Doctor turned white as bone and grabbed at the left side of his chest. Reaching automatically to support him, Rust saw with surprise that he wasn't clutching his heart but his collarbone. 'You OK?'

The Doctor was on his knees, taking deep breaths. His colour was already returning. 'Yes.' Rust took his elbow and helped him up.

'What the hell was that?'

'I don't know,' said the Doctor. He sounded bewildered, almost a little frightened. 'Something about the smell of the grass&' He shook his head.

'Anyway, it's over now.'

'Sure?'

'Yes.' The Doctor nodded vigorously and moved on. 'As I was saying, the collection is a sophisticated one. It doesn't, however, contain anything quite as unusual as that charm.'

Rust considered for a few steps. 'I suppose someone who believed in that stuff would kill for a thing like that. And it's not as if there aren't people in town who believe in that stuff.'

'Obviously you've never succumbed.'

'I had a Magic 8-Ball when I was a kid. You know - you shake it and then read your future.'

'And?'

'I gave it up. All it ever said was "Reply hazy."' The Doctor smiled. 'Of course,' Rust resumed, 'the killing could just as easily have something to do with the black market in cemetery artefacts. Kind of a mess of motives.' He rubbed