The Silver Eggheads

FORTY

Leaving the stray congressman to explain to wondering controlmen how he had piloted the executive flier from the Mohave to an oceanic gambling hell and back completely blacked out-or at most with the help of a few friendly hallucinations-the Rocket House party taxied home to find the place a renewed shambles inhabited only by a dazedly wandering Joe the Guard and twenty blue-uniformed Little League moonball players sitting rigidly at attention in the foyer.

The chunkiest of these sprang up and barked at Flaxman, "Dear sir, we are fans and faithful followers of your Outer Sports and Space Rookie series. Our moonball team has been chosen by the Fannish Presidium to-"

"That's fine, that's wonderful," Flaxman bellowed, touseling the boy's hair and peering about anxiously as though he expected to find large holes in the fabric of the building. "Gaspard, buy these young heroes some ice cream. I'll talk to you later, boys. Joe, snap out of it and tell me what's happened. Miss Bishop, phone the Nursery. Zane, scout the storerooms. Miss Blushes, get me a cigar."

"There's been chaos raging through here and no mistake, Mr. Flaxman," Joe began dolefully. "Government raid. They come busting in through every door and the roof. Fat guy the others called Mr. Mears roughs me up and asks, 'Where are they? Where are those things that are going to write books?' So I show him the three eggheads up in Cullingham's office. He laughs sarcastic-like and says, 'I don't mean these. I know all about these-they're hopeless idiots. Besides, how could they do the work of wordmills, being so much smaller?' I say, 'They're not idiots, they're so smart they're nasty. Speak up, Rusty,' I say and would you believe it, that crazy egg won't say anything but, 'Goo-goo-goo!' Well, after that they just tore the place apart, hunting hidden wordmills. Even tested our big typewriters to see if they'd write anything by themselves. And they went into Accounting and chopped up the old computer. Top of everything else, they impounded my skunk pistol-said it was an internationally illegal horror-weapon, banned in perpetuity along with copper bullets, dum-dums, saw-tooth bayonets, and spring-poisoning chemicals."

"I talked to Miss Jackson," Nurse Bishop reported. "All twenty-nine brats present and accounted for-Miss Phillips got back safely with her three. They're still yelling for rolls. Pop had post-alcoholic convulsions but is resting quietly. Excuse me now."

She hurried to the ladies' room, followed by Miss Blushes, who had delivered Flaxman his cigar held by its tip at arm's length.

"Pardon me, nurse," the pink robix said when they were in the sacred precinct, "but there's a very personal question I've been dying to ask you. I hope you won't mind."

"Shoot."

"Well, up through this morning, nurse, I've always noticed that you were quite a sweater girl, if you understand what I mean. But now. ." She indicated with her gaze Nurse Bishop's modestly mounded chest.

"Oh, those!" Nurse Bishop frowned thoughtfully. "Tell you what, I just decided to get rid of them-they were too sexy."

"How brave of you!" Miss Blushes quavered. "I know about the Amazons, of course, but what a drastic step. You have more courage than I do-I even shrank from painting myself black when Saint Willi died. I've always been a coward in my inmost circuits. Nurse, you're so brave, tell me, does a feminine being feel utterly evil when she sacrifices honor and decency. . and her innocence. . for the mere pleasure of the one she loves and her own?"

"Hey, that's a leading question," Nurse Bishop objected, "but yep, she feels plastered thick every square inch with bright black evil. Is that what you wanted to know?"

Back in the foyer the chunky Little Leaguer, having bolted his ice cream, was approaching Flaxman resolutely when Joe, who'd been scratching his head, said suddenly, "I forgot to ask you, Mr. Flaxman, but when did Clancy Goldfarb start working for the government?"

"That old pirate, that book buccaneer? You're crazy, Joe."

"No I'm not, Mr. Flaxman. Clancy and his boys were all mixed in with the government men, following them around and joining in the hunting and chopping. After a while they sort of faded, though."

Zane Gort came whirring down the escalator, which was once more stalled. The robot was still carrying Half Pint.

"I am sorry to report," he said, "that fully forty percent of Rocket's undistributed book-stock has been lifted. A clean sweep was made of the sex epics."

Flaxman flinched and rocked back on his heels.

The chunky Little Leaguer signed to two boys carrying a large black box to move in behind him.

"Dear sir-" he began determinedly.

"Well, what are you standing there for?" Flaxman roared at Zane. "Get that egg back to the Nursery and plugged into his voicewriter! Gaspard! Get those thirty new rolls over to the brains! I'm advancing the finalize date on the novels to day after tomorrow! No more vacations! The first person lets himself be kidnapped again, I fire! That goes for me too. Nurse Bishop! Don't skulk on the balcony, get down here! I want you over at the Nursery sweet-talking those brains into producing at top speed. And get ready some adrenaline and stuff to revive Cullingham when we get him back. Miss Blushes-!"

He broke off, groping for something else to order.

Half Pint spoke into the silence. "Who do you think you are, Mr. Flaxman, that you can command the creation of great works of art and set a due-date?"

"Shut up, you tin pipsqueak!" Flaxman said furiously. "Watch your language," the egghead replied, "or I'll haunt you. I'll swoop through your dreams."

Flaxman started to roar a reply, then hesitated, looking at the egg very strangely.

Judging the moment propitious, the chunky Little Leaguer launched into his speech.

"Dear sir, we are fans and faithful followers of your Outer Sports and Space Rookie series. Our moonball team has been chosen by the Fannish Presidium to present to Rocket House, in recognition of its outstanding contribution to extraterrestrial sporting and space gamesmanship, the highest award it is within the power of the Presidium to grant."

He lifted his hand. The two boys behind him uncovered the black box. "You win-" he turned around, dipped into the box, and abruptly launched at Flaxman a large gleaming ovoid which, although it shone a trifle more brightly, was identical with Half Pint.

Flaxman screamed on an indrawn breath. The ovoid struck him on the chest with a little tump and rebounded crookedly.

"— the Silver Moonball!" the Little Leaguer finished as Flaxman fell flat on his back.