Gaspard shouted, "I've never seen Homer Hemingway's penthouse, but that's his style. And Heloise's copter is gray and violet with chromium trim, like that one."
"Ten to one it's Cullingham coming up," Zane agreed. "I'd pass him by, but we can't be dead certain it's not Half Pint."
They jounced to a landing. Zane sprang out, saying, "The signal's coming from the penthouse, all right." Gaspard hobbled after him, chilled and stiff.
As they neared it, the penthouse door opened and Homer Hemingway came trudging out with the corners of his mouth turned down. He had on trackpants and sweatshirt; draped over his shoulders was a long, heavy, bigflapped overcoat that would have gone well on a Russian general; and he was carrying two big pigskin suitcases covered with exotic travel labels ranging from Old Spain to the moons of Jupiter.
"You two again!" he said, stopping as he saw them, but not setting down the suitcases. "Gaspard the pipsqueak and his big tin brother! Gaspard, I want you should know you disgust me so I'd paste you right now and take my chances with the monster, only I'd just feel that she was making me do it and, gentlemen, I've gone the jealousy route the last time. When it gets to the point where a writer's woman who's supposed to be sweet and true throws him over for a kidnapped publisher, claiming it's a matter of business and being clever but really just wanting another skull to hang on her hunting necklace, then, gentlemen, Homer Hemingway is through!
"Go right on in and tell her from me what I said," he continued with a jerk of his big pale dome at the open door. "Go ahead! Tell her I'm taking that job with the Green Bay Packers where I'll be Right Guard on the Second Team they send in for atmosphere purposes or sometimes comic relief in the Third Quarter. It's honester work than writing, though not much. Off-season I'll probably be running a reducing salon or working as prop skipper on a sport fishing yacht. Tell her that from me too! And now, gentlemen, so long."
With quiet dignity, eyes straight ahead, the big ex-writer trudged past them toward a red, white and blue copter.
Without further pause Zane Gort glided into the penthouse, bending low so as not to bump his radio-busby. Gaspard roused himself and stumbled after him. The robot turned, touching pincher to speaker. Gaspard did his best to walk soft-footed.
They were in a living room furnished with dark leather-upholstered chairs and period ashtrays and hung with antique signs traditionally associated with writing and writers, such as GENIUS AT WORK, BRIDGE OUT, FREE MOONEY, NOBODY HERE BUT US CRAFTSMEN, STOP, UP THE REBELS, STOP ATOMIC TESTS NOW, DANGEROUS CURVES, A LIVING WORDRATE, ASSIGN ME SOMETHING, DON'T WRITE- UNIONIZE, and WE'RE PAID HACKS-NO FREE THINKING.
Opening off the living room were six doors, all shut, labeled in large gold letters: MASSAGE ROOM, MEDICAL ROOM, TROPHY ROOM, EATERY, CAN, and PAD. Zane Gort considered them thoughtfully.
Something occurred to Gaspard. "We don't have much time," he whispered to Zane. "If Cullingham has a suicide pack and is locked in with Heloise, he'll use it."
Zane glided to the door marked PAD and extended his left pincher, which extruded three metal filaments. As soon as they touched the door, voices came from Zane's chest, low but clearly audible.
CULLINGHAM: My God! You wouldn't!
HELOISE IBSEN: Yes, I would! I'm going to rough you up as you've never been roughed up before. You'll smart, you'll sizzle, you'll burn-you'll babble every last secret of Racket House. I'm going to make you sorry your mother ever played around. I'm going to-
CULLINGHAM: Not while I'm helpless this way!
HELOISE IBSEN: You call that helpless? You just wait a minute-
CULLINGHAM: I'll kill myself first!
Gaspard nudged Zane anxiously. The robot shook his head.
HELOISE IBSEN: You'll live long enough for my purposes. All your post-pubertal life you've been giving orders to wasp-waisted hygienic rubber mattresses. Now you're going to take orders of the filthiest sort from a big strong strapping girl who'll torture you if you hesitate and who knows every trick for prolonging the agony, and you're going to thank her nicely for each unmentionably nasty command and kiss her big toe.
There was a pause. Again Gaspard nudged Zane anxiously.
CULLINGHAM: Don't stop, go on! Get to the whipping part again!
Zane looked at Gaspard. Then he rapped sharply on the door and opened it four inches.
"Mr. Cullingham," he called, "we just want you to know that we've rescued you."
There was silence for three or four seconds. Then the laughter began to come from beyond the door, chuckles at first but building to a pealing duet that died away in giggles.
Then Heloise called, "Don't worry about him, boys-I'll have him back to work the day after tomorrow, believe it or not, even if I have to express him in a ventilated coffin marked 'fragile.'"
Zane called, "In your S-kit, Mr. Cullingham, you'll find a mini-sender. Kindly switch it off."
Gaspard called, "And Homer Hemingway said to tell you he's gone to join the Green Bay Packers."
Zane touched his shoulder and picked up something from a door-side table. As they started out, they heard one last bit of dialogue.
HELOISE IBSEN: Cully, why the hell should a famous writer want to work in a canning factory? You tell me.
CULLINGHAM: I don't know. I don't care. What would you do to me if you had me at your mercy in a canning factory?
HELOISE IBSEN: First I'd take your suicide kit away from you and hang it just out of your reach. Like so. Then-
THIRTY-SEVEN
"Gaspard, you copt, don't you?" Zane asked as they emerged on the roof.
"Yes, but-"
"Good! No objections to a spot of theft in a good cause?"
"Well-"
"Better! You'll follow me then in Miss Ibsen's copter. We may need the added capacity, and you'll be warmer in a closed machine. Here are her keys. Stay beamed to me."
"Okay," Gaspard said a bit dubiously.
"And see you spank the welkin for all you're worth!" the robot added heartily. "Time is of the essence. I'll broadcast a wounded-robot ambulance code-the skyway patrol will assume you're my helper. Get cracking, Old Muscle!"
The dosed cabin was cozy but it smelt of Heloise. As Gaspard lifted from the roof, swinging wide of Zane's downstream, he felt a wave of wistful woe at the thought of past encounters that had occurred right where he was sitting. But all sad thoughts were soon swept from his mind by the problem of keeping up with Zane-he found that the only way that worked for him was to aim his copter at the robot's and let the vanes whiffle their worst. The robot fell away east and started to climb.
"Next strongest signal's from the mountains," Zane's voice sounded in his earphone. "Keep her whizzing. I'll be doing my best to outpace you. Only four hours at most now until Half Pint starts to die in his own cerebral waste products for lack of a fresh fontanel. The fiend."
The pastel skyscrapers fell behind, abruptly replaced by tall pines. Zane's copter drew ahead swiftly, driving straight east. Gaspard, realizing his inexpert hand-piloting wasn't helping at all, set his own machine on automatic, top speed. The open copter with its gleaming black-shakoed pilot continued to grow smaller, but at a less rapid rate.
Otherwise, however, the change was for the worse. Gaspard's mind, unoccupied by piloting, obsessed itself with his thwarted desires, jumping back and forth between Nurse Bishop and Heloise Ibsen-with even the hot senseless wish appearing now and then that he somehow have his will of Miss Willow. Could machines be drugged? He tried to think of the brains, especially poor Half Pint, but the subject was too grisly. In desperation he hauled out of his pocket the second brain-recommended book Nurse Bishop had loaned him: an ancient whodunnit called The Mauritzius Case by one Jacob Wasserman. The going was tough and very strange, but at least his mind and feelings were engaged.