Catweazle and the Magic Zodiac

Maiden,’ he muttered as he hacked
away.
    He
hadn’t dug down very far when, all of a sudden, water spurted up from the hole
and poured over him. ‘The spring! The hidden spring!’ he cackled.
    Cedric
roared with laughter. ‘Hidden spring, my foot!’ he spluttered. ‘You’ve hit an
old water main!’
    When
Jack Victor left Kings Farthing late that evening, he and the Collingford family
had become surprisingly good friends. As he slowed down to go through the gate
Catweazle stepped out of the shadows. Victor stopped the car and wound down the
window.
    ‘I
can’t thank you enough for finding that underground river.’
    ‘ ’Twas
naught,’ replied Catweazle truthfully. ‘Anyway,’ said Victor, ‘the... er...
next time you’re in Town — look me up,’ and he gave Catweazle his card and
drove back to the safe world of traffic jams, computers and office blocks.
    Catweazle
stared at the card for a long time. In the top left-hand corner was the emblem
of the company — a young woman holding up an ear of corn. The stranger had
given him the Sign of the Maiden! Underneath it were the letters V.I.R.G.O.,
which Catweazle was unable to read, and which, of course, were the initials of
Victor Industries Rehousing Group Organization.

LIBRA
     
    ‘Come, infernal,
terrestrial and celestial demons. Come Mar bas, Nebrios, and Glasyabalos — servants
of the Zodiac, Spirits of the Brazen Vessel. Show thyselves!’ chanted
Catweazle, quite worn out. He had spent three days and nights at the station
conjuring demons to help him in his quest, but so far not one of them had
appeared.
    ‘Lead
me to the Sign of the Balances.’ He waved his wand over the Sacred Fire in the
red bucket and threw a handful of dried herbs on the flames. The fire began to
throw out such clouds of foul-smelling smoke that Catweazle was forced to pick
up his familiar and run out on to the platform. ‘Nothing works!’ he coughed,
wiping his eyes and wondering how he would ever find the next magic Sign.
    Catweazle
wasn’t the only unsuccessful one that morning. In the sitting-room at Kings
Farthing, Groome and Lord Collingford were struggling with the television set,
which was flickering and humming. ‘I don’t know what you’ve done to it, my
lord,’ said Groome, as he fiddled with the knobs.
    ‘I
haven’t done anything to it,’ said Lord Collingford, giving it a bang. The
humming stopped abruptly.
    ‘Well
you have now,’ said Groome. ‘The sound’s gone. You need a qualified engineer
for this,’ he said and banged it on the other side.
    ‘But I
shall miss the match! Can’t you do anything?’
    Groome
shook his head. ‘They don’t last forever,’ he said. ‘Not without being
carefully maintained.’
    ‘Are
you suggesting we oil it,’ said Lord Collingford coldly.
    ‘No, my
lord,’ replied Groome. ‘I’m suggesting we leave it to warm up for an hour. Like
we did for the Grand National.’
    Lord
Collingford agreed, and went off to the drawingroom where Lady Collingford was
busy with a rather tedious visitor.
    She’d
been invited by the Town Council to unveil a statue they had commissioned from
John Gobling, a famous sculptor who lived just on the edge of the Kings
Farthing estate. He had called round to see her before the ceremony took place
and was showing her photographs of his other work.
    ‘And
that’s my “Creation of Man”,’ he said as he handed her another photograph from
a pile on the drawing-room floor. Lady Collingford stifled a yawn. He had
already been there for two hours.
    ‘Twenty-five
feet high,’ the sculptor droned on. ‘Reinforced concrete, of course.’
    He was
a large, untidy man, with a big black beard. He wore a polo-necked sweater
under a shapeless tweed suit with bulging pockets. ‘What do you think of it?’ he
asked Lady Collingford.
    ‘Er...
very powerful,’ she said.
    Cedric
came in with some coffee, followed by his father. ‘That’s “The Creation of
Man”, darling,’ she said giving the photograph to Lord Collingford who looked
at it upside down.
    ‘How
about this one,’ Gobling went on, handing her yet another photograph. ‘
“Hercules”, Bogata Railway Terminus, 1950. Fibreglass and polyurethane.’
    ‘That’s...
er... powerful too... isn’t it?’
    ‘Very,’
said Lord Collingford.
    ‘By the
way,’ said Lady Collingford, ‘has the new statue got a name?’
    ‘Themis,’
replied Gobling, ‘Greek, of course.’
    ‘Of
course,’ said Lady