“No luck,” said Charity, putting down the phone. “She just took another call and fainted again.”
Vice-President Bandylegs looked quite pleased with himself and threw Bigtoes a wink. “Don’t be surprised when I cut out of Sticks-and-Stones early, Rory,” he smiled. “An affair of the heart. All of a sudden the old Bandylegs charm has come through again. He nodded down the hall at Hardnoggin, waiting impatiently at the Projection Room door. “When the cat’s away, the mice will play.”
The Projection Room was built like a movie theater. “Come over here beside Santa, Rory, my boy,” boomed the jolly old man. So Bigtoes scrambled up into a tiny seat hooked over the back of the seat on Santa’s left. On Bigtoes’ left sat Traffic Manager Brassbottom, Vice-President Bandy-legs, and Director General Hardnoggin. In this way Mrs. Santa, at the portable bar against the wall, could send Santa’s martinis to him down an assembly line of elves.
Confident that no one would dare to try anything with Santa’s Security Chief present, Bigtoes listened to the Traffic Manager, a red-lipped elf with a straw-colored beard, talk enthusiastically about the television coverage planned for Santa’s trip. This year, live and in color via satellite, the North Pole would see Santa’s arrival at each stop on his journey. Santa’s first martini was passed from Hardnoggin to Bandylegs to Brassbottom to Bigtoes. The Security Chief grasped the stem of the glass in both hands and, avoiding the heady gin fumes as best he could, passed it to Santa.
“All right,” said Santa, taking his first sip, “let’s roll ’em, starting with the worst.”
The lights dimmed. A film appeared on the screen. “Waldo Rogers, age five,” said Bigtoes. “Mistreatment of pets, eight demerits.” (The film showed a smirking little boy pulling a cat’s tail.) “Not coming when he’s called, ten demerits.” (The film showed Waldo’s mother at the screen door, shouting.) “Also, as an indication of his general bad behavior, he gets his mother to buy Sugar Gizmos but he won’t eat them. He just wants the boxtops.” (The camera panned a pantry shelf crowded with opened Sugar Gizmo boxes.) The elves clucked disapprovingly.
“Waldo Rogers certainly isn’t Santa’s idea of a nice little boy,” said Santa. “What do you think, Mother?” Mrs. Santa agreed.
“Sticks-and-stones then?” asked Hardnoggin hopefully.
But the jolly old man hesitated. “Santa always likes to check the list twice before deciding,” he said.
Hardnoggin groaned. Santa was always bollixing up his production schedules by going easy on bad little girls and boys.
A new film began. “Next on the list,” said Bigtoes, “is Nancy Ruth Ashley, age four and a half...”
Two hours and seven martinis later, Santa’s jolly laughter and Mrs. Santa’s jolly laughter and Mrs. Santa’s giggles filled the room. “She’s a little dickens, that one,” chuckled Santa as they watched a six-year-old fill her father’s custom-made shoes with molasses, “but Santa will find a little something for her.” Hardnoggin groaned. That was the end of the list and so far no one had been given sticks-and-stones. They rolled the film on Waldo Rogers again. “Santa understands some cats like having their tails pulled,” chuckled Santa as he drained his glass. “And what the heck are Sugar Gizmos?”
Bandylegs, who had just excused himself from the meeting, paused on his way up the aisle. “They’re a delicious blend of toasted oats and corn,” he shouted, “with an energy-packed coating of sparkling sugar. As a matter of fact, Santa, the Gizmo people are thinking of featuring you in their new advertising campaign. It would be a great selling point if I could say that Santa had given a little boy sticks-and-stones because he wouldn’t eat his Sugar Gizmos.”
“Here now, Fergy,” said the jolly old man, “you know that isn’t Santa’s way.”
Bandylegs left, muttering to himself.
“Santa,” protested Hardnoggin as the jolly old man passed his glass down the line for a refill, “let’s be realistic. If we can’t draw the line at Waldo Rogers, where can we?”
Santa reflected for a moment. “Suppose Santa let you make the decision, Garth, my Boy. What would little Waldo Rogers find in his stocking on Christmas morning?”
Hardnoggin hesitated. Then he said, “Sticks-and-stones.”
Santa looked disappointed. “So be it,” he said.
The lights dimmed again as they continued their review of the list. Santa’s eighth martini came down the line from elf to elf. As Bigtoes passed it to Santa, the fumes caught him — the smell of gin and something else. Bitter almonds. He struck the glass from Santa’s hand.
Silent and dimly lit, Storeroom Number 14 seemed an immense, dull suburb of split-level, ranchtype Dick and Jane Doll dollhouses. Bigtoes stepped into the papier-mâché shrubbery fronting Unit 24, Row 58 as an elf watchman on a bicycle pedaled by singing “Colossal Carlotta,” a current hit song. Bigtoes hoped he hadn’t made a mistake by refraining from picking Hardnoggin up.
Bandylegs had left before the cyanide was put in the glass. Mrs. Santa, of course, was above suspicion. So that left Director General Hardnoggin and Traffic Manager Brassbottom. But why would Brassbottom first save Santa from the bomb only to poison him later? So that left Hardnoggin. Bigtoes had been eager to act on this logic, perhaps too eager. He wanted no one to say that Santa’s Security Chief had let personal feelings color his judgment. Bigtoes would be fair.
Hardnoggin had insisted that Crouchback was the villain. All right, he would bring Crouchback in for questioning. After all, Santa was now safe, napping under a heavy guard in preparation for his all-night trip. Hardnoggin — if he was the villain — could do him no harm for the present.
As Bigtoes crept up the fabric lawn on all fours, the front door of the dollhouse opened and a shadowy figure came down the walk. It paused at the street, looked this way and that, then disappeared into the darkness. Redpate had been right about the skulking. But it wasn’t Crouchback — Bigtoes was sure of that.
The Security Chief climbed in through a dining-room window. In the living room were three elves, one on the couch, one in an easy chair, and, behind the bar, Dirk Crouchback, a distinguished-looking elf with a salt-and-pepper beard and graying temples. The leader of SHAFT poured himself a drink and turned. “Welcome to my little ménage-à-trois, Rory Bigtoes,” he said with a surprised smile. The two other elves turned out to be Dick and Jane dolls.
“I’m taking you in, Crouchback,” said the Security Chief.
The revolutionary came out from behind the bar pushing a .55mm howitzer (1/32 scale) with his foot. “I’m sorry about this,” he said. “As you know we are opposed to the use of violence. But I’d rather not fall into Hardnoggin’s hands just now. Sit over there by Jane.” Bigtoes obeyed. At that short range the howitzer’s plastic shell could be fatal to an elf.
Crouchback sat down on the arm of Dick’s easy chair. “Yes,” he said, “Hardnoggin’s days are numbered. But as the incidents of last night and today illustrate, the Old Order dies hard. I’d rather not be one of its victims.”
Crouchback paused and took a drink. “Look at this room, Bigtoes. This is Hardnoggin’s world. Wall-to-wall carpeting. Breakfast nooks. Cheap materials. Shoddy workmanship.” He picked up an end table and dropped it on the floor. Two of the legs broke. “Plastic,” said Crouchback contemptuously, flinging the table through the plastic television set. “It’s the whole middle-class, bourgeois, suburban scene.” Crouchback put the heel of his hand on Dick’s jaw and pushed the doll over. “Is this vapid plastic nonentity the kind of grownup we want little boys and girls to become?”