Presenting Slate Star Showdex, Act 1, Episode 4.

Dr. Scott "Slate" Alexander is on a plane to Las Vegas.

Thanks to Gwern, I know Hiss's last known location, plus all the other spots where he might hole up, Scott thinks. I'll have to be careful: there's no telling what a cornered lizardman might do, especially one as violent as Hiss. As for Eliezer, the best-case scenario is that he's being held hostage...

Scott surreptitiously pats his trenchcoat. Only a trained eye would realize that the slight lump near his waist was a concealed revolver.

Las Vegas. In recent years, gambling dens and brothels have sprung up to serve the men working on the Boulder Dam.

Las Vegas. Spanish for "The Meadows," but already known nationwide as the City of Sin.

"Las Vegas. The City of Sweat," Scott mutters.

The desert air is sweltering. The Man of Slate removes his hat and coat as soon as he disembarks from the plane.

"There we go," he says. "From awful to merely miserable." He forces a smile, but even a lizardman could see through it.

As he nears the exit, Scott detours toward a kiosk which sells a bit of everything.

"Good morning, sir," says the kiosk vendor.

"Good morning," Scott says. "Square and Mild. Two packs."

Hotel El Dorado. Spanish for "Hotel The Golden." Scott peers at the 20-story stucco-and-red-tile edifice through the tinted window of his cab.

I thought I was going to be careful. But on the way over, I realized that this is no time for caution. Every minute I delay is another minute that Eliezer is in mortal danger.

Dr. Alexander steps out of his taxi, stands up straight, strides boldly into the lobby -- and staggers back like a gutshot giraffe. The lobby is small, even cramped, but the decorators compensated for size by slathering every possible surface with gold leaf.

Steady, Scotty. Keep it together.

Scott grits his teeth. He uses his gritted teeth to rip a MealSquare straight out of the pack. The concierge -- clad in gold hat, gold jacket, gold boots, and gallons of sweat -- sits behind a gold-leafed wooden desk. Our indefatigable doctor-investigator marches right up.

"Can I help you, sir?" asks the sweat-sodden golden god.

Scott recalls Gwern's dossier. Hiss is here under a false name. "I understand my friend Mr. Rodney is staying here, in Room 1215. Could you telephone and see if he's available?"

"Certainly, sir. And your name?"

Gwern said that one of Hiss's closest underworld associates has been pressing him to close a deal.

"My name is Tremendous Value."

One wet hand lifts the handset of a gold-leafed telephone. The other wet hand dials.

"Mr. Rodney? Ah, but you can take a message? Very good. Please tell him there's a Mr. Value here in the lobby." The concierge listens for a moment, thanks his interlocutor, and hangs up. "Mr. Value, a friend of Mr. Rodney's will be down shortly to show you up. The man in question is wearing a tan suit with a navy tie." He smiles his first smile of the day.

Scott Alexander smiles back at the concierge. With his coat on to better conceal his gun, he's beginning to sweat, too.

Step one: take care of the friend.

Scott casually turns around and saunters to the elevator on the opposite side of the lobby. A gold-leafed ironwork grille stands between him and the elevator shaft. Above the grille, a dial shows that the elevator has just descended to Floor Eleven.

The concierge is attending to a flock of tourists. Nobody is attending to Scott.

Ten. Nine. Eight.

Scott steps to one side, turns around to put the elevator on his left, and flattens himself against the wall. He takes off his trenchcoat, and drapes it over his left arm.

Seven. Six. Five.

Under the cover of the draped coat, Scott works the revolver out of his waistband and into his left hand.

Four. Three. Two.

Scott spits out the last of his MealSquare, takes a deep breath, and cocks the hammer.

One.

The elevator arrives. The grille slides sideways. Tan Suit steps out.

The Man of Slate slides to the left and jams the gun up against Tan Suit's back.

"It's a pleasure to meet you," Scott growls. "Turn around, shake my other hand, and take me to Floor Twelve."

The ride up begins unpleasantly. After being relieved of his weapon, Tan Suit tries to persuade Scott Alexander to leave quietly, but the ersatz criminal has reached his breaking point.

"Listen, you miscreant. I am a licensed doctor. I went to medical school. I have taken apart dead bodies. I know where every single part of a living human belongs. If you try to start anything with me, I will take out all 206 of your bones without letting you die."

The rest of the ride is uneventful.

Spliggo Hiss stands by the floor-to-ceiling window of his hotel room. He puts the finishing touches on a blueprint which lies on a portable drafting table. A thick sheaf of additional blueprints pokes out of the leather case which the lizardman is wearing on a shoulder strap.

"Thisss is mossst exsstraordinary," says Hiss. He slides the completed blueprint into the case, then produces a fresh sheet. "Let's proceed. Tell me how to design the fissssion chamber to withssstand X-rays."

He kicks the smaller of two wooden crates which sit by the sofa. "Ssspeak!"

From inside the crate comes a wavering, exhausted voice. "Please let me out. I've told you so much already."

"Sssave it! You are ssstaying in that box until my design is complete!"

Hiss's other stooge, uniformed in a navy suit and tan tie, stands in the corner opposite the door. The window and Hiss are to his right, the bed is to his left, and his pistol is trained on the door.

The toilet flushes.

Dr. Scott "Slate" Alexander has reached the door to Room 1215.

Step two: kick this lizardman's tail.

"Act normally, or I'll derive Tremendous Value from blowing you away," Scott whispers to Tan Suit.

Tan Suit gulps. "Excellent catchphrase, sir." He knocks on the door. "Boss? I'm here with Mr. Value."

"My favorite human! Bring him in," says an inhuman voice.

Scott jabs the gun into Tan Suit's back. "Open the door and fling yourself flat."

Tan Suit. On floor.

Room 1215. Door open.

Scott's revolver. Tan Suit.

BANG

Spliggo Hiss. Eyes bulging.

Small crate. Dead silent.

Navy Suit. Scott's trenchcoat.

BANG

Leaping doctor. Blueprint case.

Suit's pistol. Scott's shadow.

Hot revolver. Cold claw.

BANG

BANG

BANG

Tan Suit is finished. Navy Suit is slumped in the corner, alive but wounded. Spliggo Hiss is clutching his bloody arm.

"Three of my kind couldn't ssstop me, Alexssander! What chance do you have?" says Hiss.

"Shut up, scaly! Lay down on the couch with your claws in the air!"

The room is muggy. The tension is gelatinous. The sweat flows like a pudding on the run.

All of a sudden, the bathroom door cracks open. Through the gap between door and frame, several inches of metal tube poke out.

Nobody moves.

Ratatatatat, opines the tommy gun.

Navy Suit throws himself under the bed. Scott throws himself behind the crates. Spliggo Hiss throws himself out the window.

"Ssso long, Ssscott!" screeches the plummeting lizardman.

Ratatatatat. Enormous .45 rounds blast everything in sight.

The firing stops abruptly. Scott takes a deep breath.

Step three: no idea.

"Bathroom gunman, I'm not here for you," Scott says. "I came to find Eliezer and capture Hiss, and the latter just threw himself out the window. Let's lay down our arms and discuss this like men."

The barrel of the tommy gun recedes through the bathroom doorway. Whoever is on the other side pulls the door shut--

--and swings it open. Scott ducks.

"Dr. Scott Alexander? Is that ... is that you?"

The Man of Slate raises his head -- and stares in bewilderment.

"Eliezer?!"

The George Washington of rationalism nods his head.

"But you -- I -- Hiss!" Scott says.

"I'm just as confused as you are," Eliezer says. "I spent most of the last week in a crate." Scott notices that the lid of the bigger crate has been pushed aside. Eliezer gestures to his soiled clothes. "I convinced Hiss to let me out so I could take a proper leak for the first time in days. He must have been feeling magnanimous with his blueprints almost finished, because he let me go without a guard."

"How irrational," Scott says. "And the gun?"

"Every employee at General Intelligence is trained to take certain precautions," Eliezer says modestly. "I swallow a handful of cartridges with breakfast every day, and under normal circumstances I excrete them every night. The gun is half-size and fragile; I assembled it in the bathroom from components sewn into my clothes."

"I've heard enough," Scott says. "What about the small crate?"

"I don't know," says Eliezer.

"Help," suggests the crate.

Eliezer looks at Scott. Scott looks at Eliezer. Navy Suit crawls out from under the bed, dripping blood.

"Hey, wise guy," Scott says hoarsely. "I'm a doctor. Give me what I want, and I'll patch your wounds."

Navy Suit supports himself on an elbow, and uses the other hand to give a thumbs-up.

Scott levels Tan Suit's gun at Navy Suit. "Who's in the crate?"

"I don't know," says Navy Suit. "But he must be a shrimp if he fits in there."

"What was on those blueprints?"

"Please, doc. I'm bleeding." Navy Suit whimpers.

Scott cocks the gun. "What was on those blueprints?"

"Boss kept talking about some kind of weapon. X-rays, chemical elements, radioactivity -- it's all funnybook stuff to me," says Navy Suit. He coughs blood onto the floor.

"I beg you," says the small crate. "Let me out."

That crate might contain nothing more than a running phonograph and a prototype weapon rigged to blow, Scott thinks. He mouths a "no" at Eliezer, who nods with gusto.

The unflappable doctor-investigator sighs deeply. "Eliezer, call your sister and let her know you're all right, then see if she can get us out of here. C'mere, bozo." He gets to work on Navy Suit.

As Eliezer picks up the phone, he looks out the window. There's no trace of Spliggo Hiss.

He spits. "Lizardmen."

END OF ACT ONE

This episode of Slate Star Showdex brought to you by--