The Silver Eggheads

by Fritz Leiber

  "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."

  TEN

  "Well, Zane Gort," Flaxman said genially, "Gaspard tells me you were quite a hero at the wordmill smash."

  The atmosphere in the office had relaxed noticeably since Miss Blushes had departed to compose herself in the ladies' room-with a parting shot about publishers too cheap to maintain a restroom exclusively for robixes.

  The small dark publisher's face sobered. "It must have been rough on you, though, having to watch your brother machines being lynched."

  "Frankly no, Mr. Flaxman," the robot replied without hesitation. "The truth is that I have never liked wordmills or any other thinking machines that are all brain and no body, unable to move about. They have no consciousness, just blind creativity, stringing symbols like beads and weaving words like wool. They're monstrous, they scare me. You call them my brothers, but to me they're unrobot."

  "That's odd, when you consider that both you and wordmills are equally writers."

  "Not odd at all, Mr. Flaxman. It's true, I'm a writer. But I'm a lone-wolf self-assigned writer, like the human writers of olden times-before the Era of the Editors that Mr. Cullingham mentioned. Like all free robots I am selfprogrammed and since I have never written anything but stories about robots for robots, I have never operated under human editorial direction-not that I would not welcome it under certain circumstances." He purred winningly at Cullingham, then swung his big dark single eye around thoughtfully. "Such as the circumstances that now obtain, gentlemen-now that your wordmills are all destroyed and your human writers a doubtful quantity and we robot authors the only experienced fictioneers left in the Solar System. ."

  "An yes, the wordmills destroyed!" Flaxman said with a big grin at Cullingbam, rubbing his hands.

  "I would be quite ready to accept the direction of Mr. Culllngham where human feelings are involved," the robot went on quickly, "and to have his name appear alongside mine, same type size. 'By Zane Gort and G.K. Cullingham'-it sounds right. Our pictures, too, on the back cover, side by side. Humans would be sure to take robot authors to their hearts if there were human co-authors-at least to start with. And in any case we robots are a lot closer to humans than those uncanny wordmills ever were."

  "Now wait a minute all of you!" Gaspard's command was a roar that made Flaxman wince and a faint frown ificker across Cullingham's forehead. The writer looked around like a lean and shaggy bear. He was feeling angry again- angry at the mystery of Flaxman's and Cullingham's unnatural behavior-and, as before, his fury was a fuel providing the power to blast away at mysteries. "Shut up, Zane," he growled. "Look here, Mr. F. and Mr. C., every time someone mentions wordmills getting destroyed, you act like you're sitting down to Christmas dinner. Honestly, if I didn't know that your own wordmills had been wrecked with the rest, I'd swear that you two crooks-"

  "Tut-tut, Gaspard."

  "Don't kid me! Oh I know, anything for Old Rocket House, we're all heroes and you're a pair of saints, but its true just the same. What I was going to say was that I'd swear you two publishers had engineered the whole smashup. Maybe in spite of Rocket getting it too. . Tell me, were you in on it?"

  Flaxman rocked back, grinning. "We sympathized, Gaspard. Yes, put it that way, we sympathized with you writers and your injured egos and thwarted urges toward self-expression. No active aid, of course, but. . we sympathized."

  "With a bunch of screaming long-hairs? Bah! No, you must have had something practical in mind. Let me think." He jerked his meerschaum pipe from the pocket of his smoking jacket and started to thumb tobacco into it, then hurled pipe and pouch to the floor. "The hell with atmosphere anymore!" he said, reaching his hand across the desk. "Gimme a cigarette!"

  Flaxman was taken aback, but Culllngham leaned forward and smoothly complied with the request.

  "Let's see," Gaspard said, taking a deep drag, "maybe you actually do have in mind this crazy scheme-excuse me, Zane-of having robots write books for humans. . no, that won't work, because practically every other fiction factory publishes robots' books and has one or more robots in its writing stable, all of them looking for wider fields to conquer. . "

  "There are robot authors and robot authors," Zane Gort observed in somewhat injured tones. "Not all of them are so adaptable or resourceful, have such broad sympathies with nonrobot beings-"

  "Shut up, I said. No, it has to be something that Rocket has and the other fiction factories haven't. Hidden wordmills? No, I'd have known about those, nobody can fool me there. A secret stable of writers, who can actually write with something approaching wordmill quality? I'll believe that when Homer Hemingway learns the alphabet. But what then? Extraterrestrials. .? Extrasensories. .? Automatic writers tuned to the Infinite. .? Brilliant psychopaths under some kind of direction. .?"

  Flaxman rocked forward. "Shall we tell him, Cully?"

  The tall fair man thought that through aloud. "Gaspard thinks we're two crook
s, but he's basically loyal to Rocket House." (Gaspard nodded, scowling.) "We've published on wire every single one of Zane's epics, from Naked Steel to The Creature from the Black Cyclotron. He twice tried to change publishers. ." (Zane Gort looked mildly surprised) ". . and got a definitive turn-down each time. In any case we're going to need help in preparing copy for the printing machines. The answer is yes. Go ahead, Flaxie."

  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 are some writers charging around," he said, "or out for a second swing."

  "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 not their timber or internal rhythm, the woman in a weary croon almost as monotonous.

  WOMAN: Go to sleep, go to sleep baby.

  EGG: Can
't sleep. Haven't slept for a hundred years.

  WOMAN: Go into a trance then.

  EGG: Can't go into a trance.

  WOMAN: You can if you try baby.

  EGG: I'll try if you turn me over.

  WOMAN: I turned you over yesterday.

  EGG: Turn me over, I got cancer.

  WOMAN: You can't get cancer baby.

  EGG: I can. I'm clever. Plug my eye in and turn it around so I can look at myself.

  WOMAN: You just did. Too often's no fun baby. Want to see pictures, want to read?

  EGG: No.

  WOMAN: Want to talk to someone? Want to talk to Number 4?

  EGG: Number 4's stupid.

  WOMAN: Want to talk to Number 6?

  EGG: No. Let me watch you take a bath.

  WOMAN: Not now baby. Got to hurry. Got to feed you brats and run.

  EGG: Why?

  WOMAN: Business baby.

  EGG: No. I know why you got to hurry.

  WOMAN: Why baby.

  EGG: Got to hurry 'cause you got to die.

  WOMAN: Guess I got to die baby.

  EGG: I won't die, I'm immortal.

  WOMAN: I'm immortal too in church.

  EGG: You're not immortal at home though.

  WOMAN: No baby.

  EGG: I am. Esp me something, come in my mind.

  WOMAN: Ain't no esp baby I'm afraid.

  EGG: There is. Try. Just try.

  WOMAN: Ain't no esp or you brats could do it.

  EGG: We're all pickled, we're on ice, but you're out in the wide warm world. Try once more.

  WOMAN: I can't try. I'm too tired.

  EGG: You could do it if you tried.

  WOMAN: Haven't got time baby. Got to hurry. Got to feed you brats and run.

  EGG: Why?

  WOMAN: Business baby.

  EGG: What?

  WOMAN: Got to go and see the boss. Come along, Half Pint?

  EGG: That's not business, that's a bore. No.

  WOMAN: Come along, Half Pint. Make smart talk-talk.

  EGG: How soon? Right now?