Cynthia Manson (ed) (47 page)

“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 Bandylegs, 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 custommade 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?”

“No,” said Bigtoes. “But
what’s your alternative?”

“Close down the Toyworks
for a few years,” said Crouchback earnestly. “Relearn our ancient heritage of
handcrafted toys. We owe it to millions of little boys and girls as yet unborn!”

“All very idealistic,” said
Bigtoes, “but—”

“Practical, Bigtoes. And
down to earth,” said the SHAFT leader, tapping his head. “The plan’s all here.”

“But what about Acme Toy?”
protested Bigtoes. “The rich kids would still get presents and the poor kids
wouldn’t.”

Crouchback smiled. “I can’t
go into the details now. But my plan includes the elimination of Acme Toy.”

“Suppose you could,” said
Bigtoes. “We still couldn’t handcraft enough toys to keep pace with the
population explosion.”

“Not at first,” said
Crouchback. “But suppose population growth was not allowed to exceed our rate
of toy production?” He tapped his head again.

“But good grief,” said
Bigtoes, “closing down the Toy-works means millions of children with empty
stockings on Christmas. Who could be that cruel?”

“Cruel?” exclaimed
Crouchback. “Bigtoes, do you know how a grownup cooks a live lobster? Some drop
it into boiling water. But others say, ‘How cruel!’ They drop it in cold water
and then bring the water to a boil slowly. No, Bigtoes, we have to bite the
bullet. Granted there’ll be no Christmas toys for a few years. But we’d fill
children’s stockings with literature explaining what’s going on and with
discussion-group outlines so they can get together and talk up the importance
of sacrificing their Christmas toys today so the children of the future can
have quality handcrafted toys. They’ll understand.”

Before Bigtoes could
protest again, Crouchback got to his feet. “Now that I’ve given you some food
for thought I have to go,” he said. “That closet should hold you until I make
my escape.”

Bigtoes was in the closet
for more than an hour. The door proved stronger than he had expected. Then he
remembered Hardnoggin’s cardboard interior walls and karate-chopped his way
through the back of the closet and out into the kitchen.

Security headquarters was
a flurry of excitement as Bigtoes strode in the door. “They just caught
Hardnoggin trying to put a bomb on Santa’s sleigh,” said Charity, her voice
shaking.

Bigtoes passed through to
the Interrogation Room where Hardnoggin, gray and haggard, sat with his wrists
between his knees. The Security elves hadn’t handled him gently. One eye was
swollen, his beard was in disarray, and there was a dent in his megaphone. “It
was a Christmas present for that little beast, Waldo Rogers,” shouted
Hardnoggin.

“A bomb?” said Bigtoes.

“It was supposed to be a
little fire engine,” shouted the Director General, “with a bell that goes
clang-clang!” Hardnoggin struggled to control himself. “I just couldn’t be
responsible for that little monster finding nothing in his stocking but
sticks-and-stones. But a busy man hasn’t time for last-minute shopping. I got
a—a friend to pick something out for me.”

“Who?” said Bigtoes.

Hardnoggin hung his head.
“I demand to be taken to Santa Claus,” he said. But Santa, under guard, had already
left his apartment for the formal departure ceremony.

Bigtoes ordered
Hardnoggin detained and hurried to meet Santa at the elevator. He would have
enjoyed shouting up at the jolly old man that Hardnoggin was the culprit. But
of course that just didn’t hold water. Hardnoggin was too smart to believe he
could just walk up and put a bomb on Santa’s sleigh. Or—now that Bigtoes
thought about it—to finger himself so obviously by waiting until Bandylegs had
left the Sticks-and-Stones session before poisoning Santa’s glass.

The villain now seemed to
be the beautiful and glamorous Carlotta Peachfuzz. Here’s the way it figured:
Carlotta phones Hardnoggin just before the bomb goes off in the Board Room,
thus making him a prime suspect; Carlotta makes a rendezvous with Bandylegs
that causes him to leave Sticks-and-Stones, thus again making Hardnoggin
Suspect Number One; then when Bigtoes fails to pick up the Director General,
Carlotta talks him into giving little Waldo Rogers a present that turns out to
be a bomb. Her object? To frame Hardnoggin for the murder or attempted murder
of Santa. Her elf spy? Traffic Manager Brassbottom. It all worked out—or seemed
to...

Bigtoes met Santa at the
elevator surrounded by a dozen Security elves. The jolly old eyes were bloodshot,
his smile slightly strained. “Easy does it, Billy,” said Santa to Billy
Brisket, the Security elf at the elevator controls. “Santa’s a bit hungover.”

Bigtoes moved to the rear
of the elevator. So it was Brassbottom who had planted the bomb and then deliberately
taken Santa out of the room. So it was Brassbottom who had poisoned the martini
with cyanide, knowing that Bigtoes would detect the smell. And it was Carlotta
who had gift-wrapped the bomb. All to frame Hardnoggin. And yet... Bigtoes
sighed at his own confusion. And yet a dying Shortribs had said that someone
was going to kill Santa.