Part 23 (1/2)
This (Friday) morning, he called Editor Meacham to tell her that he was in a Mexican jail, had lost all use of his typing fingers, was chained to a cot with no access to food and/or water, and noted that nothing in the contract said that The Red Tape War had to be twelve chapters long.
Editor Meacham sighed wearily and noted that even Federal Express would not deliver me in time, and that he would now have to FAX me to her home.
This afternoon he phoned Editor Meacham to tell her that all those tropical diseases he had been exposed to in Africa while researching his best-selling novels had finallycaught up with him, and that he was paralyzed from the neck down. Editor Meacham asked him how he had managed to dial the phone. He explained that he had a touch-tone telephone and had managed, at enormous cost to his remaining stamina, to laboriously punch out her number with his nose.
Editor Meacham suggested that the very same approach would undoubtedly work on a computer keyboard.
This evening he called her again to say that his house had burned down and the first eleven chapters had been consumed in the blaze, and he couldn't remember any-thing about the plot.
Editor Meacham said that this was probably for the best, given the fact that no one else had paid any attention to it up to this point, and at least I would have a consistent tone.
He made one last phone call five minutes ago. His firm, resonant voice steeped with concern, he told Editor Meacham that it had just occurred to him that if there really is a Millard Fillmore Pierce out there, and he reads The Red Tape War, there is every likelihood that he will sue Tor Books for libel, slander, defamation, and dacoity-(personally, I think he just threw in dacoity to show off)-and that the next time Editor Meacham danced naked atop a piano, it would not be a matter of free choice but rather because she couldn't afford a larger wardrobe. He further suggested that Editor Meacham put Tor's legal department to work finding at least one Millard Fillmore Pierce and get him to sign a release allowing them to use his name, and that since this would doubtless take a considerable amount of time, he would finish writing Chapter Twelve after he returned from Africa, unless it conflicted with watching the Super Bowl or buying the groceries or something important like that. Editor Meacham replied that this was impossible, as Tor's legal department was much too busy preparing a case for Non-Delivery By An Author to be bothered with such trifles.
He's just finished smoking his twenty-third cigarette of the night, drinking his eighth cup of coffee, and kicking the cat, and-dare I hope? Yes! It's going to happen!-he's finally sitting down to finish me.
But first, he wants me to tell any and all readers named Millard Fillmore Pierce that Tor's offices are at 49 West 24th Street in Manhattan, and they're loaded.
The lizard Pierce, suddenly sober, raced to the radio transmitter.
”Doom!” he cried. ”Get me the h.e.l.l out of here! You need my firm leaders.h.i.+p for the battle at hand!”
”Don't bother me,” said the Voice of Doom. ”I'm currently maneuvering my s.h.i.+ps, setting up supply lines, plotting strategy, decimating the enemy, and exchanging tender and intimate messages with your navigational computer. This is the Voice of Doom, over and out.”
”Roosevelt!” yelled the lizard. ”I need to get back to my flags.h.i.+p, d.a.m.n it! I order you to rescue me!”
”I'm afraid that would be against regulations, sir,” replied Roosevelt's voice. ”You're off duty for the next eleven hours, and I therefore cannot respond to your commands.”
”But the sky has exploded into yellow flames!”
”While I am hindered from rescuing you by Order 30489, sir, I want you to know that my thoughts and best wishes go with you, nor am I without compa.s.sion for a member of my own race thrust into the midst of such trying circ.u.mstances.” There was a momentary silence as Roosevelt considered the problem. ”Hold on and let me see what I can do.”
”Thank G.o.d we teach them loyalty at the Academy!” said the lizard Pierce to his grounded s.h.i.+pmates. ”You guys can all stay here if you want, but General Millard Fillmore Pierce will live to fight another day. Or later this afternoon, as the case may be,” he added.
Roosevelt's voice came through the speaker system again, crackling with static. ”Have you access to a viewscreen or a porthole, sir?” he asked.
”Yes.”
”Walk over to it, sir, and look above you.”
The lizard Pierce activated Screen 4.
”I can't see you, Roosevelt,” he said, scanning the heavens.
”Certainly not,” answered Roosevelt. ”The fleet is on the far side of Uncharted.”
”Then what the h.e.l.l am I supposed to be looking at?” demanded the lizard Pierce.
”The sky, sir,” explained Roosevelt patiently. ”We can't rescue you, of course, but you'll be pleased to note that we have at least replaced the yellow flames with purple ones. I trust you will find them much more restful and pleasing to the eye, sir.”
”Gimme that radio!” said Marshmallow, pus.h.i.+ng the lizard aside and positioning herself before the speaker. ”Daddy!” she cried. ”This is me! You got to call this off before we git incinerated down here!”
”I'm sorry, daughter,” replied Daddy's cold, hard voice. ”But it's too late now. You'll have to wait.”
”Why?” demanded Marshmallow. ”Just pick me up, turn around, and go home!”
”Do you know how much it cost me to bring my fleet here?” Daddy demanded. Have you priced doomsday weapons of annihilation lately? Not to mention the fact that all my pilots and gunnery officers are on triple-time. It would be pure financial folly to call off the war before I amortize my costs. We have to wipe out the other three armadas, confiscate all their possessions, post my corporate flag on their home planets, and build a toll bridge or something. Then we'll get around to the paramount business of rescuing you.”
”But if you do all that other stuff first, we ain't gonna live long enough to git rescued!”
”Daughter, I love you with a tender, sensitive, devoted father's heart, and I will do everything I can to rescue you-but billions are at stake here.” He paused. ”When you're young, you simply don't understand these thing's.”
Marshmallow turned to Pierce. ”You got anyone you want to call?”
Pierce shook his head grimly, and the little group fell silent. The only sound punctuating the stillness of the place was an occasional sigh of longing from the XB-223 as the Voice of Doom would transmit an especially provocative quatrain.
”You know,” said the gasbag-Pierce to Arro, ”I've been mulling on it, and I've come to the conclusion that Daddy really is G.o.d.”
”What leads you to that conclusion, sir?” asked Arro curiously.
”He came all this distance to save his daughter, and now he's too busy depreciating his weapons and watching his balance sheet to help her out of this predicament. I just don't understand it at all.”
”And based on that you conclude that he's G.o.d?” said Arro.
”Absolutely,” answered the gasbag-Pierce firmly. ”Look at me: I'm a bright fellow, Arro. I graduated in the top third of my cla.s.s, I speak three languages, I can convert Celsius into Farenheit, my penmans.h.i.+p is superb. Of course, I can't explain why the San Francisco Giants always fold in August-but then, neither can anyone else. No, when all is said and done, I'm the exemplar of all that is best in a microscopic gasbag. By all rights, I should be able to comprehend Daddy's actions, but they make absolutely no sense to me.” He paused. ”Now, what are the prime properties of G.o.d? Unknowable, mysterious, unfathomable. Don't you see how neatly it all fits?”
”No,” said Arro.
”Well, take my word for it.”
”I don't think I can, sir.”
”You forget yourself, Arro,” said the gasbag-Pierce heatedly. ”I outrank you. I order you to wors.h.i.+p Daddy.”
”You know,” said Arro thoughtfully, ”now that I've been exposed to the strange creature with the extra pair of lungs, I think I'd much rather wors.h.i.+p her.”
”Out of the question,” said the gasbag-Pierce. ”If ever a creature was totally of this temporal plane, it's her. And besides, I saw her first.”
”You know, sir,” said Arro, ”I don't think you've fully reasoned this out.”
”What has reason got to do with the female creature?”
”I'm not referring to her, sir,” answered Arro. ”I meant that you hadn't considered all the permutations of your conclusion.”
”Do get to the point, Arro.”
”Well, sir, if you're absolutely convinced that Daddy is G.o.d, aren't we committing blasphemy or deicide or something by opposing him with our fleet?”