a sentence.
" I blew it up? Hardly. I don't have the authority to call down a Class Three pillar of fire, even if I wanted to. Which, of course, I didn't. My ping-pong table was in there."
"But you knew. . ."
"The card trick was the tip-off. Ace of spades. Somebody's idea of a joke."
"So the house blew up because you screwed up a card trick?"
"No, the card trick got screwed up because the house was going to be blown up. You see, I can't perform miracles without—"
"Dammit," Christine spat.
"Something wrong?"
"I don't even know where I'm going. We should have stayed there. The police. . ."
". . .are going to be looking for someone to blame," Mercury said. "Are you familiar with Walter Chatton?"
"No," replied Christine, impatiently. "Should I be?"
"Walter Chatton devised a theory which states that when you're trying to explain something, you should be prepared to keep adding to your explanation until whatever it is that you set out to explain is fully explained."
"Fascinating."
"The idea never really caught on."
"Hard to imagine why," Christine said irritably. "Wilbur Cheetham was clearly a misunderstood genius."
"Actually, it's a rather unhelpful theory, particularly for people who are paid poorly to explain a virtually unlimited number of nearly inexplicable incidents. It was the best response Walter Chatton could come up with to another principle of limited usefulness, called Occam's Razor. You know that one, I suppose?"
Christine was tiring of the lecture. "Something about not trusting an Italian woman who shaves more than twice a day?"
"Occam's Razor states that—"
"I know, I know. The simplest explanation is the best."
"More or less. It might be better summarized as 'Don't needlessly complicate an explanation.' You know who loves Occam's Razor?"
"Kittens?" offered Christine, who was trying to focus on more pressing matters than a rivalry between medieval theologians.
"The police. The authorities. Right now, the simplest explanation is a natural gas explosion. The police aren't going to trouble themselves to satisfy Walter Chatton. They're going to go from point A, unexploded house, to point C, exploded house, and they're going to pencil in 'B, natural gas explosion,' between them. Unless, that is, you and I show up uninvited at point B with a look on our faces that says, 'Something far more troubling than a natural gas explosion.' Understand?"
Christine hated to admit that this person, this clearly insane person listening to catchy early 1990s pop songs in the passenger seat of her rented Camry, was making sense. But of course, he was. What would she tell the police? A pillar of fire descended from the heavens as divine retribution for a bungled card trick?
"So you screwed up a card trick, and now someone is trying to—"
"I executed the card trick flawlessly," countered Mercury. "For a journalist, you're not much of a listener. The card trick was foiled by an interloper. I didn't figure a card trick would show up on Heaven's radar, but somebody must have gotten a trace on me. Two somebodies, in fact. Not just anybody can authorize a Class Three pillar of fire, so that was presumably the work of my superiors. The people I work for aren't known for issuing warnings, though, so the card thing must have been someone else trying to get my attention. It's a good thing they did, too, or we'd never have gotten out of the house in time. Lucky, huh?"
Christine took her eyes off the road to direct a pained glance in his direction.
Mercury began again. "You see, I can't perform miracles without—"
"Oh, good lord," Christine said. "I can't believe I'm listening to this. You're telling me that the card trick was a miracle ?"
"What, you don't believe in miracles?"
"I don't believe that card tricks are miracles."
"Well, most aren't. Neither are most escapes from collapsed buildings."
"You—how did you know about that?"
"Unauthorized miracles of that sort make it on the news."
"The news? They haven't
" I blew it up? Hardly. I don't have the authority to call down a Class Three pillar of fire, even if I wanted to. Which, of course, I didn't. My ping-pong table was in there."
"But you knew. . ."
"The card trick was the tip-off. Ace of spades. Somebody's idea of a joke."
"So the house blew up because you screwed up a card trick?"
"No, the card trick got screwed up because the house was going to be blown up. You see, I can't perform miracles without—"
"Dammit," Christine spat.
"Something wrong?"
"I don't even know where I'm going. We should have stayed there. The police. . ."
". . .are going to be looking for someone to blame," Mercury said. "Are you familiar with Walter Chatton?"
"No," replied Christine, impatiently. "Should I be?"
"Walter Chatton devised a theory which states that when you're trying to explain something, you should be prepared to keep adding to your explanation until whatever it is that you set out to explain is fully explained."
"Fascinating."
"The idea never really caught on."
"Hard to imagine why," Christine said irritably. "Wilbur Cheetham was clearly a misunderstood genius."
"Actually, it's a rather unhelpful theory, particularly for people who are paid poorly to explain a virtually unlimited number of nearly inexplicable incidents. It was the best response Walter Chatton could come up with to another principle of limited usefulness, called Occam's Razor. You know that one, I suppose?"
Christine was tiring of the lecture. "Something about not trusting an Italian woman who shaves more than twice a day?"
"Occam's Razor states that—"
"I know, I know. The simplest explanation is the best."
"More or less. It might be better summarized as 'Don't needlessly complicate an explanation.' You know who loves Occam's Razor?"
"Kittens?" offered Christine, who was trying to focus on more pressing matters than a rivalry between medieval theologians.
"The police. The authorities. Right now, the simplest explanation is a natural gas explosion. The police aren't going to trouble themselves to satisfy Walter Chatton. They're going to go from point A, unexploded house, to point C, exploded house, and they're going to pencil in 'B, natural gas explosion,' between them. Unless, that is, you and I show up uninvited at point B with a look on our faces that says, 'Something far more troubling than a natural gas explosion.' Understand?"
Christine hated to admit that this person, this clearly insane person listening to catchy early 1990s pop songs in the passenger seat of her rented Camry, was making sense. But of course, he was. What would she tell the police? A pillar of fire descended from the heavens as divine retribution for a bungled card trick?
"So you screwed up a card trick, and now someone is trying to—"
"I executed the card trick flawlessly," countered Mercury. "For a journalist, you're not much of a listener. The card trick was foiled by an interloper. I didn't figure a card trick would show up on Heaven's radar, but somebody must have gotten a trace on me. Two somebodies, in fact. Not just anybody can authorize a Class Three pillar of fire, so that was presumably the work of my superiors. The people I work for aren't known for issuing warnings, though, so the card thing must have been someone else trying to get my attention. It's a good thing they did, too, or we'd never have gotten out of the house in time. Lucky, huh?"
Christine took her eyes off the road to direct a pained glance in his direction.
Mercury began again. "You see, I can't perform miracles without—"
"Oh, good lord," Christine said. "I can't believe I'm listening to this. You're telling me that the card trick was a miracle ?"
"What, you don't believe in miracles?"
"I don't believe that card tricks are miracles."
"Well, most aren't. Neither are most escapes from collapsed buildings."
"You—how did you know about that?"
"Unauthorized miracles of that sort make it on the news."
"The news? They haven't
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