The Silver Eggheads

THIRTY-SIX

New Angeles was a forest of pastel pillars between the green mountains and the purple algae fields of the Pacific cut by blue ship lanes. Among the palely colorful skyscrapers the new popular semicircular and pentagonal cross-sections predominated. A large circular clearing marked the municipal launching field. A jagged light green jet trail mounted vertically above it. The noon ship had just lifted for High Angeles orbiting some three earth diameters overhead.

Zane was cruising in a traffic lane at seven hundred feet. Wind and the downstream soused Gaspard, who drew his flapping hood tight around his cheeks. He studied his robot friend covertly.

Zane was wearing on top of his head a dull black smoothly cylindrical object about two feet high. It made Zane look so exactly like a robot hussar that Gaspard hesitated to ask him about it, thinking the headgear might be of purely private emotional significance to the vengeful robot. And possibly psychotic too, Gaspard added to himself uneasily. But Zane noted the direction of his gaze.

"This busby is my radio-locater," he volunteered quite sanely, shouting over the drone of the vanes. "Several days ago, anticipating a kidnapping or two, I planted powerful radio mini-senders on all Rocket House and Nursery personnel-yours is in your wristwatch (don't trouble, I've turned it off), Mr. Flaxman's in his truss, Cullingham's in his suicide kit, and so on. I didn't seriously expect any attempts on the eggheads themselves-somehow that facet of human viciousness eluded my imagination-but because I was taking him on brief trips outside his orbit I did attach a sender to Half Pint in a false bottom-Isaac, Hank and Karel be thanked!

"The trouble is that, not anticipating multiple kidnappings, I used identical senders. So we'll just have to rescue them one by one, each time picking the strongest signal, and hope that Half Pint comes up first-or at least among the first. Ha! Here's Stop Number One coming up."

Gaspard grabbed hold of his seat as the copter dropped out of the lane with a stomach-wrenching lurch and slanted down at about twice the legal speed limit toward a dirty squat old skyscraper. Several copters were parked on the rectangular roof and there was a white penthouse with blue trim and round windows like portholes and pennons flying from a sundeck in the form of a ship's bridge.

Gaspard shouted, "I've never seen Homer Hemingway's penthouse, but that's his style. And Heloise's copter is gray and violet with chromium trim, like that one."

"Ten to one it's Cullingham coming up," Zane agreed. "I'd pass him by, but we can't be dead certain it's not Half Pint."

They jounced to a landing. Zane sprang out, saying, "The signal's coming from the penthouse, all right." Gaspard hobbled after him, chilled and stiff.

As they neared it, the penthouse door opened and Homer Hemingway came trudging out with the corners of his mouth turned down. He had on trackpants and sweatshirt; draped over his shoulders was a long, heavy, bigflapped overcoat that would have gone well on a Russian general; and he was carrying two big pigskin suitcases covered with exotic travel labels ranging from Old Spain to the moons of Jupiter.

"You two again!" he said, stopping as he saw them, but not setting down the suitcases. "Gaspard the pipsqueak and his big tin brother! Gaspard, I want you should know you disgust me so I'd paste you right now and take my chances with the monster, only I'd just feel that she was making me do it and, gentlemen, I've gone the jealousy route the last time. When it gets to the point where a writer's woman who's supposed to be sweet and true throws him over for a kidnapped publisher, claiming it's a matter of business and being clever but really just wanting another skull to hang on her hunting necklace, then, gentlemen, Homer Hemingway is through!

"Go right on in and tell her from me what I said," he continued with a jerk of his big pale dome at the open door. "Go ahead! Tell her I'm taking that job with the Green Bay Packers where I'll be Right Guard on the Second Team they send in for atmosphere purposes or sometimes comic relief in the Third Quarter. It's honester work than writing, though not much. Off-season I'll probably be running a reducing salon or working as prop skipper on a sport fishing yacht. Tell her that from me too! And now, gentlemen, so long."

With quiet dignity, eyes straight ahead, the big ex-writer trudged past them toward a red, white and blue copter.

Without further pause Zane Gort glided into the penthouse, bending low so as not to bump his radio-busby. Gaspard roused himself and stumbled after him. The robot turned, touching pincher to speaker. Gaspard did his best to walk soft-footed.

They were in a living room furnished with dark leather-upholstered chairs and period ashtrays and hung with antique signs traditionally associated with writing and writers, such as GENIUS AT WORK, BRIDGE OUT, FREE MOONEY, NOBODY HERE BUT US CRAFTSMEN, STOP, UP THE REBELS, STOP ATOMIC TESTS NOW, DANGEROUS CURVES, A LIVING WORDRATE, ASSIGN ME SOMETHING, DON'T WRITE- UNIONIZE, and WE'RE PAID HACKS-NO FREE THINKING.

Opening off the living room were six doors, all shut, labeled in large gold letters: MASSAGE ROOM, MEDICAL ROOM, TROPHY ROOM, EATERY, CAN, and PAD. Zane Gort considered them thoughtfully.

Something occurred to Gaspard. "We don't have much time," he whispered to Zane. "If Cullingham has a suicide pack and is locked in with Heloise, he'll use it."

Zane glided to the door marked PAD and extended his left pincher, which extruded three metal filaments. As soon as they touched the door, voices came from Zane's chest, low but clearly audible.

CULLINGHAM: My God! You wouldn't!

HELOISE IBSEN: Yes, I would! I'm going to rough you up as you've never been roughed up before. You'll smart, you'll sizzle, you'll burn-you'll babble every last secret of Racket House. I'm going to make you sorry your mother ever played around. I'm going to-

CULLINGHAM: Not while I'm helpless this way!

HELOISE IBSEN: You call that helpless? You just wait a minute-

CULLINGHAM: I'll kill myself first!

Gaspard nudged Zane anxiously. The robot shook his head.

HELOISE IBSEN: You'll live long enough for my purposes. All your post-pubertal life you've been giving orders to wasp-waisted hygienic rubber mattresses. Now you're going to take orders of the filthiest sort from a big strong strapping girl who'll torture you if you hesitate and who knows every trick for prolonging the agony, and you're going to thank her nicely for each unmentionably nasty command and kiss her big toe.

There was a pause. Again Gaspard nudged Zane anxiously.

CULLINGHAM: Don't stop, go on! Get to the whipping part again!

Zane looked at Gaspard. Then he rapped sharply on the door and opened it four inches.

"Mr. Cullingham," he called, "we just want you to know that we've rescued you."

There was silence for three or four seconds. Then the laughter began to come from beyond the door, chuckles at first but building to a pealing duet that died away in giggles.

Then Heloise called, "Don't worry about him, boys-I'll have him back to work the day after tomorrow, believe it or not, even if I have to express him in a ventilated coffin marked 'fragile.'"

Zane called, "In your S-kit, Mr. Cullingham, you'll find a mini-sender. Kindly switch it off."

Gaspard called, "And Homer Hemingway said to tell you he's gone to join the Green Bay Packers."

Zane touched his shoulder and picked up something from a door-side table. As they started out, they heard one last bit of dialogue.

HELOISE IBSEN: Cully, why the hell should a famous writer want to work in a canning factory? You tell me.

CULLINGHAM: I don't know. I don't care. What would you do to me if you had me at your mercy in a canning factory?

HELOISE IBSEN: First I'd take your suicide kit away from you and hang it just out of your reach. Like so. Then-