I reminded myself I was engaged. The smile congealed on her face when I pulled out my EPA sigil. "I'd like to see Mr. Durani, please, in connection with some of your firm's recent dumping activities."

"One moment. Inspector, uh, Fishman," she said, and disappeared into the back of the building.

Ramzan Durani came out a couple of minutes later, in person. He was a plump, medium-brown fellow in his midforties who wore a white lab robe of Persian cut and an equally white turban. "Inspector Fisher, yes?" he said as we shook hands. I gave him a point for getting it right even though his receptionist hadn't "We spoke on the phone last week, did we not?"

"That's right, sir. In a way, this is about the same matter."

"I thought it might be." He didn't seem as volatile in person as he had over the phone, for which I was duly grateful.

"Please come with me to my office, and we shall discuss this further."

The only thing I'll say about his office is that it made Tony Sudalds' look like a slum, and Tony's beats mine seven ways from Sunday. He poured mint tea, gave me sweetmeats, sat me down, and generally fussed over me until I felt as if I'd gone back to my mom's for Rosh Hashanah dinner, I don't care for the feeling at my mom's and I didn't care for it here, either.

I answered it with bluntness: "Devonshire dump is under investigation for leaking toxic spell components into the surrounding environment. We haven't learned exactly what's getting out yet, but I can give you an idea of how serious the problem is by telling you there have been three cases of apsychia in the area over the past year alone."

"And you think we are to blame? Slow Jinn Fizz?" Durani bounced - no, flew - out of his chair. His volatility was still there, all right; I just hadn't conjured it up in polite greetings. "No, no, ten thousand times no!" he cried. I thought he was going to rend his garment. He didn't; he contented himself with grabbing his turban in both hands, as if he feared his head would fall off. "How can you accuse us of such an outrage? How dare you, sir!"

"Calm yourself, Mr. Durani, please." I made a little placating gesture, hoping he'd sit down again. It didn't work. I went on quickly, before he threw the samovar at me. "Nobody's accusing Slow Jinn Fizz of anything. I'm just trying to find out what's going on at the dump site."

"You dare accuse Slow Jinn Fizz of causing apsychia!" He extravagantly wasn't listening.

"I haven't accused you," I said, louder this time. "Have - not. I'm just investigating. And you must admit that Solomon's Seals are very potent magic, with a strong potential for polluting the environment."

Durani cast his eyes up to the ceiling and, presumably, past it toward Allah. "They think I am destroying souls," he said - not to me. He glared my way a moment later. "You wretched bureaucratic fool. Slow Jinn Fizz does not cause apsychia, I - we - this consortium - am - are - is on the edge of curing this dreadful defect."

I started to get angry at him, then stopped when I realized what he'd just said. "You are?" I exclaimed, "How, in God's name?"

"In God's name indeed - in the name of the Compassionate, the Merciful." Durani calmed down again, so fast that I wondered how much of his rage was real temper and how much for show. But that didn't matter, either, not if he really was on the edge of beating apsychia. If he could do that, I didn't mind him chewing me out every day-and twice on Fridays.

"Tell me what you're doing here," I said. "Please." People have been trying to cure apsychia since the dawn of civilization, and probably long before that. Modem goetic technology can work plenty of marvels, but that… "Jinnetic engineering can accomplish things no one would have imagined possible only a generation ago," Durani said.

"Combining the raw strength of the jinn with the rigor and precision of Western sorcery-"

That much I know," I said. Jinnetic engineering outfits have fueled a lot of the big boom on the Bourse the past few years, and with reason. The only way their profit margins could be bigger would be for the jinni to fetch bags of gold from the Other Side.

But Durani had found something else for them to do Over There: jinn-splicing, he called it. What he had in mind was for the jinni to take a tiny fraction of me spiritual packet that made up a disembodied human soul, bring it back to This Side, and, using recombinant techniques he didn't - wouldn't - describe, join it with a bunch of other tiny fragments to produce what was in essence a synthesized soul, which could then be transplanted into some poor little apsychic kid.

"So you see," he said, gesturing violently, "it is impossible-impossible, I tell you!-for Slow Jinn Fizz or any of our byproducts to cause apsychia. We aim to prevent this tragedy, to make it as if it never was, not to cause it."

Whether what he aimed at was what he accomplished, I couldn't have said. For that matter, neither could he, not with any confidence. Sorcerous byproducts have a way of taking on lives of their own.

But that wasn't what was really on my mind. "Have you actually transplanted one of these, uh, synthesized souls into an apsychic human being?" I knew there was awe in my voice, the same sort of awe the Garuda Bird program raises in me: I felt I was at the very edge of something bigger than I'd ever imagined, and if I reached out just a little, I could touch it.

"We have transplanted three so far," he answered with quiet pride.

"And?" I wanted to reach out, all right, reach out and pull the answer from him.

"The transplants appear to have taken: that is to say, the synthesized souls bond to the body, giving the apsychic a true spirituality he has never before known." Durani held up a warning hand. "The true test, the test of Judgment, however, has not yet arisen - all three individuals who have undergone the transplant procedure remain alive. Theory indicates a risk that the synthesized soul may break up into its constituent fragments when its connection to the body is severed at death. We shafl research that when the time arises."

"Yes, I'd think so," I said. A soul, after all, exists in eternity: it lives here for a while, but it's primarily concerned with the Other Side. What a tragedy it would be to give a living man a soul, only to have him lack one when he died and needed it most. Worse than if he'd never had one, if you ask me - and till that moment, I'd never imagined anything worse than apsychia.

Something else struck me: "What happens to the souls from which you're taking out your little packets? Are they damaged? Can they still enspirit a human being?"

This is why we take so little from each one," Durani answered. To the limits of our experimental techniques, no measurable damage occurs. Nor should it, for is not God not only compassionate and merciful but also loving and able to forgive us our imperfections?"

"Maybe so, but do your artificial imperfections leave these, hmm, sampled souls more vulnerable to evil influence from the Other Side?" The further I got into the case of the Devonshire dump, the more hot potatoes it handed me. This new technique of Durani's was astonishing, but what would its environmental impact be? The lawsuits I saw coming would tie up the ecclesiastical courts for the next hundred years.

You may think I'm exaggerating, but I mean that literally.

For instance, suppose somebody does something really horrible: oh, suppose he bums down a monastery. And suppose he's able to convince a court that, on account of the Durani technique, he's been deprived of 1% or 0.1% or 0.001% of the soul he would have had otherwise. Is he fully responsible for what he did, or is it partly Durani's fault? A smart canon lawyer could make a good case for blaming Slow Jinn Fizz. Or suppose somebody does something horrible, and then dams as a defense that he's been deprived of part of his soul by the Durani technique. How do you go about proving him wrong, if he is? I'm no prophet, but I foresaw the sons of a lot of canon lawyers (and the nephews of Catholic canonists) heading for fine collegia on the profits of that argument alone.