The Silver Eggheads

THIRTY-THREE

When the big black hearse, streamlined like a teardrop in reverse, careened past him smelling overpoweringly of roses, with Heloise Ibsen, silver hunting necklace glinting around her neck, glaring triumphantly out of the small rear window, Gaspard suspected that something was wrong.

He had been out purchasing thirty fresh rolls of paper for the eggheads' silent voicewriters. Clamping them tightly to his side he now sprinted for Rocket House, two blocks away.

Joe the Guard was standing in front, waving his skunk pistol in an erratic fashion that caused most passersby to cross to the opposite side of the street.

"Got away with Mr. Cullingham, they did," he told Gaspard excitedly. "Smashed in, grabbed him, rushed him away. I got in three good shots, point blank, with my trusty old skunk pistol just as they took off, but it turned out to be loaded with wax perfume pastilles-my little grandniece must have been playing with it again, drat her."

Gaspard hurried inside and rode the escalator up. The normally electrolocked door was ajar. Gaspard surveyed the room without going in. There were some signs of a struggle, an overset chair and a scatter of papers, but Miss Willow was seated at her usual place beside Cullingham's desk, as cool and serene as an autumn morning.

Gaspard's first thought was so childishly wicked it surprised him just a bit: that now, with Cullingham out of the way and none of the others (except Zane Gort, presumably) aware that Miss Willow was some sort of amatory automaton, he would be able to have his will of her at his leisure. He resolutely locked away the unworthy notion.

Joe the Guard whispered to him hoarsely, "She's taking it mighty calm."

"Grief-stricken, no doubt," Gaspard told him, touching his finger to his lips and softly drawing the door shut. "Frozen tears. Shock can do that to high-strung women."

"Just cold-blooded, I'd say," Joe opined, "but then it takes all sorts to make a world. You gonna call the po-lice?"

Gaspard didn't answer that one. Instead he looked into Flaxman's new office. There were three eggheads there. Gaspard recognized Rusty, Scratch, and Dull-Dull by their markings-along with Miss Phillips, one of the less enthusiastic nurses. Rusty had an eye plugged in and was reading a book set in a device that automatically turned a page every five seconds. The other two were listening to Miss Phillips read in a droning voice a lurid-covered paperback. She broke off, but continued as soon as she saw it was only Gaspard. There was no sign of Flaxman.

"He's gone driving by himself in the hills again," Joe whispered at Gaspard's neck. "One of the eggs must have given him a big scare. I put these in here to wait for Mr. Cullingham to conference them. But now I don't know."

"Just leave them there for the present," Gaspard said. "Where's Miss Blushes? She was on the front door when I went out. She ought to have warned Cullingham about the writers. Did they get her too?"

Joe scratched his shaggy head. His eyes widened. "Now that's a funny thing, I forgot all about it up to now, but just after you went out to buy the rolls, Gaspard, five swishes in black sweaters and tight black pants come in and gathered around Miss Blushes' reception desk and started screaming at her-I don't mean really yelling, I mean talking gay-and she was screaming back at them happy-sounding as anything-they were all six screaming about knitting-and I was thinking, 'That's all right, you're half a dozen of the same thing.' Then the swishes all went out together in a black clump and that pink robix wasn't at her desk any more. If I'd had a little time to cogitate about it, I'd have realized she was gone and that the black swishes must have spirited her off, but just then the writers come charging in and put it all out of my mind. Do you get me, Gaspard? Just after you went out to buy the rolls-"

"I get you," Gaspard said earnestly and pushed the down button of the escalator. He was several yards below Joe before the other thought to follow.

On the reception desk, secured by a paperweight of lunar obsidian, was a note in voicewritten pink script on black paper.

"Here comes Mr. Flaxman now," Joe said, shading his eyes with his hand as he peered down the street through the view faзade. Gaspard shoved the note in his pocket and followed Joe out onto the sidewalk.

Flaxman's limousine was jogging along on automatic. The publisher must be taking a nap, Gaspard thought.

The car sensed its destination, nosed over to the curb and stopped beside them. There was nothing lying on the leather-upholstered seats except a note in bold black printing on gray paper.

Gaspard's first thought was simply that robots must be closer to taking over the world than even alarmists believed, if the two enemy groups should both assume that Zane was the key to the new activities at Rocket House and choose to deal with him alone. Gaspard felt a bit hurt. No one had thought to send him a threatening letter. No one had, as yet, even tried to kidnap him. You'd think that Heloise, at least, in view of their past relationship. . but no, the fickle writrix had kidnapped Cullingham.

"Whir-hey! I've done it, I've done it!"

Gaspard was grabbed and whirled around in a mad dance by Zane Gort, who had appeared like a blue streak from God knows where.

"Stop it, Zane!" Gaspard commanded. "Simmer down. Flaxman and Cullingham have been kidnapped!"

"I've no time for trifles now," the robot cried, releasing him. "I've done it, I tell you. Eureka!"

"Miss Blushes has been kidnapped too!" Gaspard bellowed at him. "Here are the ransom notes-addressed to you!"

"I'll read them later," the robot said, stuffing them into a snap window in his side. "Oh, I've done it, I've done it! Now to check with Cal Tech!" And he sprang into the limousine and sent it hurtling down the street.