“Not directly,” said Coop. “Of course, there are indirect spells I have to look out for. Like if I broke in here and, say, there was a poison curse on the place, I could walk right through eating an ice cream sundae and be completely safe. On the other hand, if someone put a failsafe on the room—if they rigged it for the ceiling and walls to collapse—then I’d have to use one of my other skills.”

“What other skills?”

“I’m a fast runner.”

Babylon chuckled, took a small golden pistol out of the desk drawer, and pointed it at Coop.

“What you’re saying then is that if I were to shoot you with this gun, which is imbued with a liquescense curse, it wouldn’t hurt you.”

“That’s right.”

“You know what a liquescense curse is?”

Coop nodded.

“It turns flesh and bones into clam chowder.”

“Yes. It melts them like ice in the desert sun.”

Morty put his hands up, palms out.

“Hey, let’s not get overwrought. You said it yourself, Mr. Babylon, we’re all honest men here.”

Mr. Babylon cocked his head slightly.

“Are we? Reports can lie. People’s pasts can be altered by conjuration or payoffs. If we do business, I’m trusting you with my time, my money, and a very valuable object. Possibly even my life. I think I ought to know exactly who and what I’m paying for. Don’t you, Mr. Cooper?”

Coop straightened. “Shoot me if you want, but it’s going to cost you a thousand dollars.”

Mr. Babylon raised a baby eyebrow.

“Is it?”

Coop nodded.

“You get one shot at me. If I don’t turn to lobster bisque, you owe me a thousand dollars.”

“That’s my jacket you’re wearing,” whispered Morty. Coop ignored him.

“And what if I shoot and don’t pay?”

Coop took a step forward. “I’ll be aggravated.”

Morty squeezed Coop’s arm and held up a hand to Mr. Babylon.

“He’s just kidding, sir.”

“No, I’m not. Is it a deal?”

A blazing bolt of bloodred light exploded from the gun and hit Coop square in the chest. It passed through him and hit a room service cart by the wall, where it turned a sixteen-ounce porterhouse steak into a sizzling, bubbling mess that looked less like a steak than like oatmeal someone had left in a cyclotron. Mr. Babylon laughed and slapped his leg. He tossed the pistol back in the drawer and closed it.

Morty withdrew his hand from Coop and looked at it, like he was surprised it was still attached to his arm.

“Damn, that was exciting,” said Mr. Babylon. “I’ve never fired a gun at anyone before. I’ll have to try it again sometime.”

“Shoot me with curses all you want. As long as you pay.”

Mr. Babylon raised a finger in recognition.

“Your money. Yes.”