Presenting Slate Star Showdex, Act 1, Episode 3.

On the San Jose airport runway, a commercial plane takes off. Final destination: Lynchburg, Virginia.

Dr. Scott "Slate" Alexander puts on his earmuffs, and settles down to cogitate on his cases.

First, the lizardman.

Two days ago:

"Why are you here?" Scott says.

At 5 feet 2 inches tall, Ldlldl Bask is above-average for a lizardman. His black eyes are expressionless, and only a human would mistake the curve of his green-brown snout for a smile.

"You're the bessst private eye around, and we only dare reveal ourssselves to rationalisssts," says Bask. "I'm here on official businessss as Ssspeaker for Sssan Jose."

"I'm listening."

"Lizardmen are being attacked," says Bask. "Three prominent members of our community were beaten and injured. Ressspectable lizardmen, honessst lizardmen, who jussst want to live life apart from humans, are now in one of your hossspitals! I want the perpetrators identified and arresssted for usss to deal with."

"Why would the Speaker of a lizardman regional council take a request to me, instead of the state council?" Slate Alexander says. "Can't the State Speaker in Los Angeles solve your problem?"

Ldlldl Bask flicks his tongue. "Ssslate Alexssander, you know how we organize ourssselves, but you do not underssstand our cussstoms. There are ssso few lizardmen left. The Ssstate Ssspeaker would react mossst viciousssly if he perceived a threat to lizardmankind. Even the egg of a threat would be enough."

Either I solve this or the lizardmen do ... and they aren't picky about collateral damage, Slate thinks.

"Alright, you've got me over a barrel. I'll do it."

"Excellent, Dr. Alexssander." Bask's eyes narrow to slits. "I trussst that the lizardmen of Sssan Jose will have no more sssuch problemsss."

"You've got it, Mr. Bask." Scott, struck by a sudden fatigue, reaches for his pocket. "MealSquare?"

Now:

As if being blackmailed by Bask wasn't enough, Miss Yudkowsky had come calling yesterday.

Eliezer is missing. He had a luxurious social life, a prestigious job at General Intelligence, and the respect and admiration of all rationalists. What would make a man like that leave everything behind?

Dr. Alexander starts as an air stewardess touches his shoulder. He cracks the 'muffs.

"Sir, we'll be touching down in just a few minutes."

At Lynchburg Airport, Scott hails a cab.

When Scott names his destination, the driver scowls. "That's way out in the country!"

"You're right, but you needn't worry about driving back without a fare," Scott says. "I have business at this address. I want you to wait while I conduct my meeting, then take me back into the city."

"All that waiting around on the meter? I hope you got deep pockets." The cabbie steps on the gas and noses the car out on the boulevard which feeds the highway.

Two hours later, the car exits the highway onto a country road with just one lane per side. The one-lane road winds around pastures and wells; cattle and goats; woodstands and rivers.

They reach a point where their lane branches off to a dirt track. "That's the one," says the intrepid Slate Alexander. The cabbie grunts and turns onto the track.

For ten minutes, all is bumps and jumps. Then:

"Holy cow!" says the cabbie.

From their vantage point on the dirt path, Scott and the driver can see a stately manor on the hilltop. The path leads nowhere else.

Upon cresting the hill, the path terminates in a loop driveway outside the grounds gate. Scott asks the cabbie to wait here.

"It's none of my business, but ... jeez!" says the cabbie. "Whoever lives here must have stepped out of a funnybook!"

It is past 6 PM. Scott Alexander treads the cobblestone path which leads to the front entrance. On his left is a clean-cropped lawn, suitable for croquet or picnicking; on the right is a modest sculpture garden.

The house itself is a superb Colonial specimen, with sturdy pillars, countless windows, a symmetrical facade, a spectacular entryway.

Scott Alexander, doctor-investigator, marches up to the enormous double doors. A cord hangs down, like a bell pull, from the gloomy underbelly of the balcony which surmounts the entrance.

He gives the cord a tug. No bell sounds, but the heavy door slowly swings open. Once he steps inside, some hidden mechanism slams it shut.

Scott finds himself in a parlor. Lamps in the corners of the room are supplemented by an green-enameled candelabra on a dainty table. Joining the candelabra is a tea service set for two: two plates, two napkins, two sets of silverware, two tea cups, two saucers, and the tea pot. There is also a dish of butter and a loaf of dark bread.

Scott Alexander approaches the tea table and takes a seat. Each item in the tea service has been embellished with a painted "G".

The Man of Slate tears off some bread. Rye. Freshly-baked. Still warm. He chews, deep in thought. The air is warm and stuffy, prompting him to remove his coat and fedora and lay them on the ground.

"I know you're listening," he says to the empty seat across from him. "Eliezer has gone missing, and at the same time there's been anti-lizardman crime on the streets. Nothing is a coincidence, but I can't piece any clues together. I've come to you for advice."

Scott pours himself some tea. A delicate aroma: Chinese green. He sips, savors, and sips again.

A few minutes later, as Scott drains the tea cup, something brushes against his calf. Scott looks down to find himself being rubbed by a calico cat. The cat is wearing a collar, attached to which is a wooden tube.

Scott grasps the tube, unscrews its top, and pulls out a tight scroll of typewriter paper. The writing on it begins like so:

Thank you for visiting. I can tell you that Eliezer was last seen entering a Las Vegas hotel room, two days ago. At that time he was in the company of a lizardman, the known radical Spliggo Hiss.

The scroll goes on to explain Hiss in unbelievable detail: his known associates in the underworld; his track record of agitation and terrorism; his hobbies and vices; even the names of his family members.

Scott shakes his head in amazement. "You've always been thorough, old friend. The Yudkowskys paid me well, so here's something for your time." He places a crisp $100 bill on the plate opposite him.

Scott shoos the cat, dons his hat, and puts his coat on while crossing the parlor. Before he exits, he turns back to face the tea table.

"I'll come back later this year to visit," he says. "Just the two of us. Just like this." It's a promise Scott means to keep.

The cab driver pulls away from the gate.

Scott Alexander turns for one last look. The magnificent manor stands forlornly against the setting sun.

If he had a telescope, and knew just where to peep, he might see the manor's sole occupant, gazing benevolently from the highest, smallest window.

Evening fades into night. The face departs from the window.

Far out in the Virginia countryside, all is quiet for Gwern.

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