The Silver Eggheads

TEN

"Well, Zane Gort," Flaxman said genially, "Gaspard tells me you were quite a hero at the wordmill smash."

The atmosphere in the office had relaxed noticeably since Miss Blushes had departed to compose herself in the ladies' room-with a parting shot about publishers too cheap to maintain a restroom exclusively for robixes.

The small dark publisher's face sobered. "It must have been rough on you, though, having to watch your brother machines being lynched."

"Frankly no, Mr. Flaxman," the robot replied without hesitation. "The truth is that I have never liked wordmills or any other thinking machines that are all brain and no body, unable to move about. They have no consciousness, just blind creativity, stringing symbols like beads and weaving words like wool. They're monstrous, they scare me. You call them my brothers, but to me they're unrobot."

"That's odd, when you consider that both you and wordmills are equally writers."

"Not odd at all, Mr. Flaxman. It's true, I'm a writer. But I'm a lone-wolf self-assigned writer, like the human writers of olden times-before the Era of the Editors that Mr. Cullingham mentioned. Like all free robots I am selfprogrammed and since I have never written anything but stories about robots for robots, I have never operated under human editorial direction-not that I would not welcome it under certain circumstances." He purred winningly at Cullingham, then swung his big dark single eye around thoughtfully. "Such as the circumstances that now obtain, gentlemen-now that your wordmills are all destroyed and your human writers a doubtful quantity and we robot authors the only experienced fictioneers left in the Solar System. ."

"An yes, the wordmills destroyed!" Flaxman said with a big grin at Cullingbam, rubbing his hands.

"I would be quite ready to accept the direction of Mr. Culllngham where human feelings are involved," the robot went on quickly, "and to have his name appear alongside mine, same type size. 'By Zane Gort and G.K. Cullingham'-it sounds right. Our pictures, too, on the back cover, side by side. Humans would be sure to take robot authors to their hearts if there were human co-authors-at least to start with. And in any case we robots are a lot closer to humans than those uncanny wordmills ever were."

"Now wait a minute all of you!" Gaspard's command was a roar that made Flaxman wince and a faint frown ificker across Cullingham's forehead. The writer looked around like a lean and shaggy bear. He was feeling angry again- angry at the mystery of Flaxman's and Cullingham's unnatural behavior-and, as before, his fury was a fuel providing the power to blast away at mysteries. "Shut up, Zane," he growled. "Look here, Mr. F. and Mr. C., every time someone mentions wordmills getting destroyed, you act like you're sitting down to Christmas dinner. Honestly, if I didn't know that your own wordmills had been wrecked with the rest, I'd swear that you two crooks-"

"Tut-tut, Gaspard."

"Don't kid me! Oh I know, anything for Old Rocket House, we're all heroes and you're a pair of saints, but its true just the same. What I was going to say was that I'd swear you two publishers had engineered the whole smashup. Maybe in spite of Rocket getting it too. . Tell me, were you in on it?"

Flaxman rocked back, grinning. "We sympathized, Gaspard. Yes, put it that way, we sympathized with you writers and your injured egos and thwarted urges toward self-expression. No active aid, of course, but. . we sympathized."

"With a bunch of screaming long-hairs? Bah! No, you must have had something practical in mind. Let me think." He jerked his meerschaum pipe from the pocket of his smoking jacket and started to thumb tobacco into it, then hurled pipe and pouch to the floor. "The hell with atmosphere anymore!" he said, reaching his hand across the desk. "Gimme a cigarette!"

Flaxman was taken aback, but Culllngham leaned forward and smoothly complied with the request.

"Let's see," Gaspard said, taking a deep drag, "maybe you actually do have in mind this crazy scheme-excuse me, Zane-of having robots write books for humans. . no, that won't work, because practically every other fiction factory publishes robots' books and has one or more robots in its writing stable, all of them looking for wider fields to conquer. . "

"There are robot authors and robot authors," Zane Gort observed in somewhat injured tones. "Not all of them are so adaptable or resourceful, have such broad sympathies with nonrobot beings-"

"Shut up, I said. No, it has to be something that Rocket has and the other fiction factories haven't. Hidden wordmills? No, I'd have known about those, nobody can fool me there. A secret stable of writers, who can actually write with something approaching wordmill quality? I'll believe that when Homer Hemingway learns the alphabet. But what then? Extraterrestrials. .? Extrasensories. .? Automatic writers tuned to the Infinite. .? Brilliant psychopaths under some kind of direction. .?"

Flaxman rocked forward. "Shall we tell him, Cully?"

The tall fair man thought that through aloud. "Gaspard thinks we're two crooks, but he's basically loyal to Rocket House." (Gaspard nodded, scowling.) "We've published on wire every single one of Zane's epics, from Naked Steel to The Creature from the Black Cyclotron. He twice tried to change publishers. ." (Zane Gort looked mildly surprised) ". . and got a definitive turn-down each time. In any case we're going to need help in preparing copy for the printing machines. The answer is yes. Go ahead, Flaxie."

His partner rocked back and let out a deep breath. Then he lifted the phone.

"Get me the Nursery."

He eyed Gaspard smilingly.

"Flaxman speaking!" he barked suddenly into the phone. "Bishop? I want- Oh, isn't this Nurse Bishop? Well, get her!"

"Incidentally, Gaspard," he added moodily, "there's one other possibility you missed-a stockpile of scripts milled in advance."

Gaspard shook his head. "I'd have known if you were running the mills overtime."

Flaxman's eyes lit up.

"Nurse Bishop? Flaxman. Bring me a brain."

Phone still to his cheek, he again smiled at Gaspard teasingly.

"No, any brain," he said lightly into the phone and started to hang up.

"What's that again? No, it's perfectly safe, the streets are clear. Well, have Zangwell bring it. All right, you bring it and Zangwell can be your bodyguard. Well, if Zangwell's really that drunk. ."

As he listened, his gaze went from Gaspard to Zane Gort. When he talked into the phone again it was with his customary decision.

"Okay, here's the way it'll be. I'm sending two guys, flesh and metal, they'll guard you here. No, they're completely safe, but don't tell 'em anything. Why, they're brave as lions, they practically died defending our wordmills, they're leaking blood and oil all over the office. No, not that bad, in fact they're rarin' for another scramble. Now look here, Nurse Bishop, I want you ready to start as soon as they get there. No last-minute dithering, you hear me? I want that brain fast."

He hung up. "She was antsy about the rioters," he explained. "Thought there still might be some writers charging around the Row. There's a woman checks under each crib and both sides of a diaper." He looked at Gaspard. "You know Wisdom of the Ages?"

"Sure, I pass it every day. Couple of blocks away. Real dinky place. No activity."

"What do you figure it for?"

"I don't know. Some occult publishing house, I guess. Never saw their name in the book lists, though. Never saw their name anywhere else. . hey, wait a minute! The big brass seal downstairs set in the middle of the floor in the foyer. It reads 'Rocket House' and then, in smaller Gothic letters with lots of curlycues, 'in assodation with Wisdom of the Ages.' Say, I never connected those two before."

"Well blow me down," said Flaxman. "A writer with powers of observation. I never thought I'd live to see one. You and Zane get over to Wisdom pronto and hustle up Nurse Bishop. You may have to build a fire under her, but don't burn the fringe on her skirt."

Gaspard said, "You said 'the Nursery' over the phone."

"I did. Same thing. Now get."

Gaspard hesitated. "There probably still are some writers charging around," he said, "or out for a second swing."

"That should bother you two heroes? Get, I said."

As Gaspard reached for the door it flew open. Flaxman jumped. Standing in it was a worn and tear-stained little woman in black.

"Excuse me, gentlemen," she said in a hushed voice, "but they told me to inquire here. Pray, have you seen anything of a big upstanding man and a fine little boy? Early this morning they went to see a wordmill. They were both dressed in beautiful turquoise slack suits with lovely opal buttons."

Gaspard was edging dubiously past the little woman while she was saying that. There came an ear-torturing shriek from the end of the corridor. Miss Blushes was standing just outside the ladies' room, pinchers clapped to her anodized pink temples. Then she started to run rapidly, with pinchers outstretched toward the little woman and crying to her in a sad sweet voice, "My dear, my dear, brace yourself for unhappy news!"

As Gaspard plunged with relief down the stalled escalator, he was followed not only by Zane Gort but also by Flaxman's admonitory shout: "Remember, Nurse Bishop will be nervous. She'll be carrying a brain!"