The Mad Scientist's Guide to World Domination Part 13

His host hesitated, eyed his daughter. "Suzie? Is it all right with you if our guest makes some drawings?"

More mumbling. "Don't care. He don't understand what he's seeing anyway."

Gilcrease was not offended. "Thank you, Suzie. I appreciate your courtesy."

She went silent, s.h.i.+fting back and forth from one foot to the other. After he had been writing and drawing for a couple of minutes she looked up again. "Want to see what I'm working on now?"

He didn't look up from his sketch pad. He was trying to make a decent rendition of the impossible "solar generator."

"Sure, Suzie, why not?"

"Okay." She brought her left hand around from behind her back. Intent on his work, Gilcrease almost didn't look at it. When he finally did, he dropped his pen and papers.

Hovering above her pale smooth-skinned palm was a model of the solar system. In perfect miniature it depicted the sun, the planets, the asteroid belt, and an occasional visiting comet. The proportions were not correct. They could not be. But the visual repre sen ta tion was astonis.h.i.+ng. Forgetting his dropped papers and pen he bent closer, staring in fascination. Small clouds could be seen moving above the Earth. Jupiter's bands rotated. And the sun- the sun was hot to the touch. He swallowed.

"Suzie, what . . . how did you . . . you made this?"

She nodded proudly. "It's not to scale, of course. If it was, the sun would be too big and too hot and Pluto's...o...b..t would be away out past where your car came in. It's just a toy. Our home system. All of it is our home. Not just the Earth." She smiled shyly. "Wanna see something neat?"

He was beyond dazed. "Neater than this?"

She nodded. She was eager now, more relaxed in his presence. With one finger she pointed at the floating Saturn. No, not at Saturn. At a smaller sphere orbiting around it.

"t.i.tan. Smell it."

He bent close, careful not to make contact, inhaled, and then drew back sharply, his nose wrinkling.

"It smells like rotten eggs."

"Uh-huh. Methane. Pretty cool, huh?"

"How . . . ?" He was shaking his head. His previous conviction that what he was seeing was nothing but scam and fakery fled as he contemplated the far more fantastic story that was unfolding before him. An impossible story, an unimaginable story. Stars of another kind danced before his eyes. He saw a Pulitzer in his future. "Suzie, do you have any other toys that are 'neat'?"

"Oh sure." Turning, she headed for the big workbench. "Come on, I'll show you."

So she did. She showed him the antigravity projector the size of a cell phone, just like the one in her pocket that had kept the miniature solar system hovering above her palm. She showed him the homunculus Santa and elves that she only animated at Christmas. Showed him the robot cat that kept the barn free of rats and mice, and the extractor that drew water from the seemingly desiccated air, and the candy maker that spun elaborate gourmet treats out of plain sugar and simple flavorings. She showed him the small thermonuclear device.

"But I can't get enough radium or tritium out of the old watches dad buys for me a flea markets so I'm gonna try and build my own centrifuges to concentrate enough U-235 to ninety percent from the ore in the hills around here." She eyed her father. "For my next birthday dad promised me enough lead to make some s.h.i.+elding."

Gilcrease looked at his host. Parker shrugged. "It's harmless, I'm sure. Another one of her toys."

"Yeah," Gilcrease mumbled. "Harmless." He was eyeing the girl not just out of curiosity now, but warily. "Suzie, some of these things, some of your toys- aren't you afraid they might be a little bit dangerous?"

She pushed out her lower lip. "I know what I'm doing! I'd never make anything that would hurt people." She suddenly dropped her gaze and voice again. "Well, maybe that mini-Schwarzchild discontinuity, but I got rid of it before it swallowed anything besides the Deere, and that was junk anyway!"

Her father frowned slightly. "Wondered what happened to that old tractor. Thought some kids took it." He brightened. "That explains the hole in the ground under where it had been sitting."

"Wouldn't never hurt no one," Suzie muttered again. Her eyes suddenly met the reporter's. "You gonna write about all this, Mr. Gilcrease?"

"No, Suzie, I- was going to." There was something in her eyes he didn't like and he felt it was time for discretion. "But I'm not going to if you don't want me to."

"Don't want you to." She was insistent. "People would come here. Bad people. They'd want me to make toys for them. And I don't wanna." Her voice rose, her hands balled into fists at her sides, and she looked as if she was going to start bawling. "I don't wanna!"

Hastily stepping forward, her father put an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. She immediately tucked her head into his chest. "Don't wanna," she mumbled more softly. Parker looked at his guest.

"I think you should go now, Mr. Gilcrease. You saw the chickens, and you can write about them if you insist. But that's all," he finished firmly.

The reporter nodded. "I know. I promised." A promise he had no intention whatsoever of keeping, Gilcrease knew. Not after this. Not after what he had seen. This was no scam. The girl was addled, all right. Borderline crazy. Or maybe not borderline. But she was also a genius of unparalleled acquaintance. This was a story that had to get out, needed to be told, and he was going to tell it. As Parker comforted his manic offspring, the father was watching him closely. Too closely for Gilcrease to get out his camera. But he could snap some long-range shots as he drove away, he knew. What was the old man going to do- chase after him? Just something visual to frame the story. And what a story it was going to be! And if not photos, he had his drawings, his sketches. They would suffice, for now. He'd be back. With a photographer and if necessary, a sheriff's deputy or two. This was big.

Bending, he fumbled for the notes and sketches he had dropped, quickly gathering them up. They made an awkward sheaf in his hands. He looked around. "Mr. Parker, would you have- oh, never mind. I see one." Stepping to his right, he reached for something on top of a nearby tool chest.

Looking up, Suzie said sharply, "Better not."

Gilcrease smiled winningly at her and helped himself to the object. "It's okay, Suzie. I'll give you another one. A whole box, if you wa-"

There was a blinding flash of light.

When Parker could see again, nothing remained of his visitor. There was, however, a blackened flare on the concrete of the workroom floor. Walking over to it, he took care to step around the splash of carbonization. Even without touching he could feel the heat radiating from the cone of air above the spot.

"What happened to him?" Putting his hands on his hips he glared disapprovingly over at his daughter. "Suzie, did you . . . ?"

She shook her head and began chewing on her finger again. "I told him not to. Told him."

Pus.h.i.+ng back his cap, Parker scratched at his hairline. "It was just a paper clip, Suzie."

She shook her head and pushed out her lower lip again.

"Quantum paper clip."

Alan Dean Foster is the best-selling author of several dozen novels, and is perhaps most famous for his Commonwealth series, which began in 1975 with the novel Midworld. His most recent novels include Quofum, Flinx Transcendent, The Human Blend, and Body, Inc. Foster's short fiction has appeared in numerous anthologies and in magazines such as The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, a.n.a.log, Jim Baen's Universe, and in John Joseph Adams's anthology Federations. A new collection, Exceptions to Reality, came out in 2008.

How do evil geniuses get it all done? They have theories to spin, hypotheses to test, devices to create, and evil to plot, and each of these tasks requires time, effort, and often a large number of unusual materials. There's so much work behind every nefarious deed, it's remarkable anything evil ever gets done.

In our next story, one mad scientist's secret is revealed: a remarkable a.s.sistant. Someone has to be in charge of the office, and in this tale, it's Brenda. She knows just who to call to order the ignition for a doomsday device and she's got the skills it takes to edit a truly evil ransom note. She's a truly capable woman, ready for what ever her job demands- and as a mad scientist's a.s.sistant, her job will take some unusual skills.

The question is: will she survive long enough to get that well-earned raise?

CAPTAIN JUSTICE SAVES THE DAY.

GENEVIEVE VALENTINE.

Brenda had been working for Dr. Methuselah Mason for two years the day he mentioned strapping her to the doomsday device.

"It's a brilliant idea," he said. "Captain Justice can never resist the prospect of some helpless civilian. He'll stop to save you, and by the time he realizes the mechanism is unstoppable . . ." He sighed. "I'll be rid of him forever."

Brenda hit Mute on the speakerphone. "Beg pardon?"

"Don't worry," he said. "He always gets there before the timer runs out. I'll leave some clues for him like usual. You shouldn't be there long, and you don't have to really do anything."

"He said he wanted birch," came the lumberyard service rep through the speaker. "Birch isn't mothproof. He never told me the place was at risk from moths."

"Of course it's at risk from moths," snapped Dr. Mason. "It's an abandoned farm house lair."

Brenda said, "You told me not to tell him that. Also, he can't hear you."

"Look, I'd pay you overtime for the doomsday stuff," Dr. Mason said with a trace of disdain for time-clocking. "I don't see why we have to have a big I'm-having-feelings meeting about everything I suggest."

"I'm not giving your boss a pa.s.s on something he bought free and clear," the lumber rep said.

Dr. Mason slammed his hand on the Mute b.u.t.ton. "You listen here, you'll give me that refund or I'll send some radioactive geese to your house at night, you lying-"

"Dave, let me call you right back," Brenda said, and hung up.

Dr. Mason shook his head. "Unbelievable! It's just impossible to get good customer service these days. The only reason Captain Justice has ever gotten anything over on me is because he has a better support team. You really need to find out who he's buying from."

"I'll make a note," Brenda said. "Now, the doomsday thing?"

"Well, I'm blacklisted at all the temp agencies," he said, "so there's nothing doing on that front. You're going to have to be a team player here. We don't have any other options."

After the first three months, she had given up mentioning the option "Don't build a doomsday device." He was disorganized enough that she'd figured it was a safe bet he'd never finish, anyway. (If she had any co-workers, she'd have just lost out big in the office pool.) "You'll have to file preemptive worker's-comp papers with the insurance company," she said finally.

He huffed and leaned back against the wall of the farm house lair. "I'm so tired of that bureaucracy nonsense. That's your job. My last a.s.sistant wouldn't shut up about all that stuff, either. I hated it."

Brenda blinked. "What happened to her?"

He traced a figure in the air with one hand. "Went to grad school," he said vaguely, and disappeared into the lab.

Brenda dug around for information about her predecessor, but didn't find a thing. Either Enid Evans had ditched the Master's degree and gone off the grid, or this was not the first time Dr. Mason had had a brilliant idea regarding his a.s.sistant.

4:53am To: Brenda Bryce From: Dr. Methuselah Mason, Ph.D. Subject: EMERGENCY NETWORK BREACH Miss Bryce- I need the number of the Overlook Park office so I can bribe the officials to plant my doomsday device for me, and the address of The Ledger so I can send the ransom note, but something is wrong with my address book. What did you do???

5:46am To: Dr. Methuselah Mason, Ph.D. From: Brenda Bryce Subject: EMERGENCY NETWORK BREACH Dr. Mason, It seems something is wrong with your address book because you erased it trying to pa.s.sword- protect it. I am on my way in to repopulate your address book from my computer. Please do not try to fix it until I get there.

-Brenda ****

6:09am Well, I already overrode your computer's security so I could get the numbers because you weren't getting back to me and I need to get this done, but your address book is blank, too. I don't see how that helps us.

6:11am Dr. Mason, Please do not touch my computer again until I get there. I will get you the information as soon as I can call The Night Cipher for tech support and have him restore our address books.

-Brenda ****

6:20am But that's going to take forever! Don't you have a faster method to access this?

6:27am Brenda, do you have a faster method? I really need to start bribing ASAP.

6:35am Brenda, I think my e-mail's broken, too- none of my messages are getting through to you. When you get in, please address this.

"I think this ransom note is missing something," said Dr. Mason, a few days later. He dropped it casually on her desk and folded his arms. "What do you think?"

Trick question, is what Brenda thought.

It was no secret that Dr. Mason was a big fan of flattery. The Night Cipher kept showing up for tech support even when they didn't need any, just so he could hang around the lab and kiss a.s.s. ("You're really at the top of your field," Brenda heard from him a lot, and sometimes when he was really gunning for a favor, "Man, I would never have thought of this!") The praise went over swimmingly with Dr. Mason; most praise did.

On the other hand, the Night Cipher was trying to get upgraded to full member of the Dark Consortium and needed another signature on his application. Brenda was in no such predicament.

"First, it's too long," she said. "The Ledger's not going to publish a ten-page ransom note."

"But I have grievances!"

Brenda flipped to the last page. "Also, it's awful. 'Unless my demands are met, we'll see where your precious Captain Justice's loyalties are at'?"

She reached for a red pen. "The conclusion needs to keep the focus on your goals and off Captain Justice," she said, making notes in the margin. "Also, you can't end sentences with prepositions."

Dr. Mason's face drained of color. Then he went beet-red from collar to hairline, and he shouted loudly enough that her pencil cup rattled, "You presume to tell me my words are inadequate?"

She blinked. "I'm sorry. I thought you wanted this published."

He narrowed his eyes at her. "Have you filed that insurance paperwork about the doomsday device yet?"

"You don't get to blow me up because I correct your grammar," she said. "This is what you hired me to do."

"I didn't hire you to nitpick every little thing," he muttered, and s.n.a.t.c.hed it back. "We'll see what the Ledger has to say."