The Silver Eggheads

NINE

In the Rub-Down Room of his penthouse pad, which was finished in a rubberoid that simulated knotty pine, Heloise Ibsen was anointing the seared rump of Homer Hemingway.

"Go easy, baby, that hurts," the big writer commanded. "Don't be such a baby yourself," the moody writrix commanded back at him.

"Aaah, that feels better. Now the silk sheet, baby."

"In a minute. Christ, you've got a beautiful body, Homer. Just looking at it does things to me."

"That so, baby? Look, I figure I could drink some warm milk in about five minutes."

"Nuts to milk. Yes indeed, it does things to me. Homer, let's. ." She murmured her suggestion into his ear.

The big writer twisted away from her. "Not on your life, baby! I got to get back in training first. That stuff saps a guy."

"You think push-ups and squats will be easier on you?"

"They don't tap the life-essence. And never blow in my ear like that again-it's deafening." He pillowed his cheek on the backs of his hands. "Besides, I'm not in the mood."

Heloise sprang up and paced the rubberoid. "Christ, you're worse than Gaspard. He was always in the mood, even if he didn't know how to ride it."

"Now don't go thinking about that little pipsqueak," Homer abjured her somewhat sleepily. "You seen how I pasted him, didn't you?"

Heloise went on pacing. "Gaspard was a pipsqueak," she said analytically, "but he had brains of a slow secretive sort, or he wouldn't have been able to keep me from catching on that he was a publisher's fink. And he'd never have become a publisher's fink unless he'd seen more profit in it than staying with the union. Gaspard was lazy, but he wasn't insane."

"Look, the last babe I had always used to get me my warm milk on time," Homer put in from the massage table.

Heloise quickened her pace. "I'll bet Gaspard has inside dope from Flaxman and Cullingham about some trick Racket House has up its sleeve for beating us writers-and beating the other publishers at the same time! That's why Racket House never tried to protect its wordmills. I'll bet that little fink is sitting in Flaxman's and Cullingham's office right now, laughing at us all."

"And this babe that got me my milk didn't go clomping up and down all the time talking to herself," Homer continued.

Heloise stopped and looked at him. "Well, she certainly didn't spend much of her time in bed tapping your lifeessence I gather. Face it, Homer, I'm not going to hang myself in a closet or sit by the stove heating your bottle, even if that last midget-pelvised apprentice playmate of yours did. When you got me, Homer, you got a woman that's all woman."

"Yeah, I know, babe," Homer replied, catching fire faintly. "And you got yourself a real man."

"I wonder," Heloise said. "You let that robot friend of Gaspard larrup you as if you were a little boy."

"That's not fair, babe," Homer protested. "Them tin niggers'll kill the strongest man in the world. They'll tear Hercules apart-or any of them old movie heroes."

"I suppose so," Heloise said. She came over to the table. "But wouldn't you like to beat up Gaspard again to be even for what the robot did to you? Come on, Homer, I'll buzz the stooges and we'll go up against Racket House right now. I want to see Gaspard's face when you clomp in."

Homer considered the proposition for all of two seconds. Then, "Naw, babe," he decided, "I got to heal myself. I'll beat up on Gaspard again in three-four days, if you want I should."

Heloise leaned over him. "I want you to do it right now," she urged. "We'll take some ropes along and truss up Flaxman and Cullinghain and terrify 'em."

"You begin to interest me, babe. I like games where you tie guys up."

Heloise chuckled deep in her throat. "So do I," she said. "Someday, Homer, I'm going to tie you down to this table."

The big writer froze. "Now don't get vulgar, babe."

"Well, how about Racket House? Do we or don't we?" Homer's tone was lofty. "The answer is in the negative, babe."

Heloise shrugged. "Well, if you won't, you won't." She resumed her pacing. "I never really did trust Gaspard," she said to a spot on the wall. "He kept himself doped with wordwooze and he had this thing about mills. How can you trust a writer who reads so much and won't even pretend he wants to write a book of his own?"

"How about you, babe?" Homer put in. "You going to write that book of yours? Then I could take me a nap."

"Not now. I'm too excited. Remind me to have the stooges rent me a voicewriter, though. I'll write it tomorrow afternoon."

Homer shook his head. "I just don't dig guys who think they can write books. With gals it's different-you expect all sorts of crazy stuff. But with guys I can put myself in their place and I just don't dig it. So I wonder: do they think they're built like wordmills all full of silver hair-wires and relays and mole-memory banks instead of good old muscle? May be all right for a robot, but for a man it's morbid."

"Homer," Heloise said gently, though continuing to pace, "a human being has a very complicated nervous system and a brain with billions and billions of nerve cells."

"That so, babe? I'll have to brush up on all that some day." His face grew grave. "Lots of things in the world. Mysterious things. Like that job offer I keep getting from the Green Bay Packers-times like this it tempts me."

"Now Homer," Heloise said sharply, "remember you're a writer."

Homer nodded with a happy smile. "That's right, babe. And I got the finest physique of them all. It says so on my jackets."

Heloise began talking to her spot again as she paced. "Speaking of robots, Gaspard was a robot-lover among his other vices. Book-lover, robot-lover, wordmill-lover, publisher-lover, girl-lover when he had time for it. A gottaunderstand lover too. He doped himself with understanding things. But he — never understood action for action's sake."

"Babe, how come you got so much energy?" Homer complained wonderingly. "After this morning you should be bushed. I am even without my injuries."

"Homer, a woman has resources a man hasn't," Heloise said wisely. "Especially a frustrated woman."

"Yeah, I know, babe. She's got a layer of fat that keeps her warm on long-distance swims. And her uterus is stronger, square inch for square inch, than any muscle of a man."

"You bet it is, you coward," Heloise said, but Homer was lost in a dream. "I often wonder. ." he began and trailed off.

". . if there isn't some way for a woman to put the shot or high-jump with her uterus?" Heloise finished for him.

"Now you're kidding me, babe," Homer said gravely. "Look, you got so much energy, why don't you go down to headquarters or over to The Word and keep in touch? The Action Committee'll have something for you to do. Or anyway tell 'em your troubles. I'd like to rest."

"That Action Committee isn't active enough for me," Heloise said. "And I certainly don't intend to share my ideas about Racket House with those union grifters. However," she continued, looking Homer straight in the eye, "you do give me an inspiration." She began to strip off her shirt and levis.

Homer turned away ostentatiously, bracing himself for a kiss on the back of the neck. But it never came. Presently, intrigued by a faint jingling noise, he turned around to find Heloise wearing loafers, gray slacks, and a low-cut longsleeved black sweater. She was fastening around her neck a cumbersome necklace that gleamed pale gray.

"Hey, I never seen that before," Homer observed. "What are them silver walnuts?"

"Those are not walnuts," Heloise said darkly. "Those are little silver human skulls. It's my hunting necklace."

"That's morbid, babe," Homer complained. "Hunting what?"

"Babies," Heloise responded evilly. "Two-hundred-pound male babies, give or take seventy-five pounds. I've given up on men. Now, don't be offended, Homer," she added quickly, "I don't mean you." She came over and stood beside the table. "Homer," she said solemnly, "There's something I've got to tell you. I wanted to let you rest and heal yourself and get back into training, but I'm afraid it's not going to be possible. Homer, I have secret but sure information that Racket House has a trick up its sleeve for turning out books without wordmills. I know to a certainty that right this minute Flaxman and Cullingham are hiring all the top writers away from the other publishers to author those books. Only Racket House writers will have jackets at all. Do you really want to be left out?"

Homer Hemingway jumped off the table like a rocket lifting from its pad. "Get me my Mediterranean sailing suit, the wind-weathered one with violet shadows, babe," the big writer commanded rapidly, his brow furrowed with thought. "And my dirty canvas sailing shoes. And my battered captain's cap. And hurry!"

"But Homer," Heloise protested, thrown off balance by the extent of her strдtegem's success, "what about your burnt behind?"

"In my Medical Room, babe," the resourceful master writer informed her, "I have a transparent, ventilated, adhesive-based, form-fitted, plastic buttock-shield designed for just such emergencies."