I said. “The Greenway,” Harmon corrected. “There is only one. It’s … magnificent, a marvel for the ages. It’s the philosopher’s stone, the Holy Grail, a magic artifact in an age of dull skepticism and anorexic wit.” Harmon snorted in disgust as he climbed off the floor and then winced in pain from the exertion. He dropped back onto the couch and took another long pull on his drink. “Mr. Hillbilly,” he said, “do you have any concept of what drives the higher orders of magic?” I shrugged. “I’ve heard lots of different answers to that question from a lot of different masters,” I said. “None of them satisfied me. I say it’s basic, unbendable will. You dominate the universe into doing what you want it to do. Mind over matter, in the simplest terms.” “Quite the simplest terms,” Harmon said. “Magical theory from a street-brawling banjo player. Quaint. Your grasp of magic is as homespun as your accent.” “Okay,” I said. “What’s your take?” “My take, as you so quaintly put it, is the true path to power in this world and others,”
