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
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
'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!'
ELEVEN
Windowless, the room was in darkness except for the glow from a half dozen TV screens placed, one would first think, at random angles. The shifting pictures on the screens were unusually fine, of stars and space ships, paramecia and people, and just plain printed pages. Much of the central floor space and one wall of the room were occupied by tables on which were the television screens and other objects and cabled instruments. The three other walls were irregularly crowded with small stands of varying height-firm little pillars-on each of which reposed, in a smooth thick black collar, an egg, rather larger than a human head, of cloudy silver.
It was a strange silver, that. It made one think of mist and moonlight, fine white hair, sterling by candlelight, powder rooms, perfume flasks, a princess' mirror, a Pierrot's mask, a poet-prince's armor.
The room emanated swiftly varying impressions, one moment a weird hatchery, a fairytale robots' incubator, a witchdoctor's den of fearful leprous trophies, a metal sculptor's portrait room; next it would seem that the silvery ovoids were the actual heads of some metallic species, leaning together in silent communion.
This last illusion was intensified because near the base of each egg, always the small end, were three dark smudges, two above and one below, suggesting a rudimentary eyesmouth triangle under a huge smooth forehead. Going nearer, you would see that these were three simple sockets. Many of the sockets were empty, others had electric cords plugged into them leading to instruments. The instruments were a varied lot, but if you studied the arrangement for a time, you would discover that the upper right socket, figuring from the egg's point of view, was never connected to anything but a specimen of compact TV camera; the upper left socket to some sort of microphone or other sound-source; while the mouth socket always led to a small loudspeaker.
There was one exception to this rule: occasionally the mouth socket of one egg would be directly connected to the ear socket (upper left) of another egg. In such cases the complementary connection was always made: mouth's ear to ear's mouth.
Still closer inspection would have shown some very fine lines and smooth dents in the tops of the eggs. The fine lines comprised a large circle with a small circle in the centar of it-you might just possibly find yourself thinking of a double fontanel. The placing of the dents suggested that each circular section could be twirled out by finger and thumb.
If you touched one of the silver eggs (but you would have hesitated first) you would for a moment have thought it hot, then realized it was merely not as cool as you expected, that its temperature approached that of human blood. And if you have fingertips sensitive to vibration and had let them rest against the smooth metal for a time, you would have sensed a faint steady beating in the same tempo as the human heart.
A woman in a white smock was resting her left haunch along the edge of one of the tables, her upper body drooping and her head bowed, as if taking a quick rest. It was difficult to tell her age because of the semi-darkness and the white mask covering her face below the eyes. At her side, supported by her haunch and a halter-strap, was a large tray, which she also steadied with her left hand. On the tray were a score or so of deep glass dishes filled with some dear aromatic liquid. In about half of these were submerged thick metal disks threaded around the circumference. They were the same diameter as the smaller fontanels in the silver eggs.
Standing on the table near the woman's bowed head was a microphone. It was plugged into an egg somewhat smaller than the rest. A speaker was plugged into the egg's mouth socket.
They began to talk together, the egg in fixed droning tones as if it could control its words and their timing but
