Presenting Slate Star Showdex, Act 2, Episode 1.

Two days after the events of Act 1:

In the California city of San Jose, all is dreary fog. The fog is not inviting. It offers no handbills, no pinwheels, no electric lights, no scantily-clad ladies. All it offers is a challenge.

"Come and try me," it says. "I'll soak you good."

Only one man could brave this fog without flinching. Only one man, with the patience of stone itself, could venture out into this Satanic soup. Only one man, lit by an unquenchable inner fire, could look this fog in the face, hear its challenge, grit his teeth, and say:

"Go soak an egg."

Dr. Scott "Slate" Alexander, the indefatigable doctor-investigator, stares coolly at the cluster of buildings before him. The fog, robbed of its fun, curls listlessly around each one in turn.

General Intelligence. The largest and most prestigious research corporation in America. Home to the world's brightest intellects, its biggest brains, its boldest visionaries. One of these visionaries, Eliezer Yudkowsky, is known far and wide for his work on electromechanical calculation. Nearly a fortnight has passed since this great man went missing under mysterious circumstances.

Nearly three days have passed since Slate Alexander brought him back.

The Man of Slate pulls his gray fedora low on his head, and cinches the belt of his gray trenchcoat. A bulge at his waist, no larger than a harvest mouse, is the only sign of his trusty revolver.

Scott "Slate" Alexander approaches Building B. The fog sees him, and it fears him, and it soaks itself.

"Scott! My good man!"

Eliezer Yudkowsky, radiating pure delight, shakes Scott's hand and claps him on the back. "It's so lovely to see you without any lizardmen around."

"Likewise," Scott says, "but with any luck I'll be getting my hands on a certain lizardman any day now. Spliggo Hiss is still out there."

Eliezer grimaces at the name. "I imagine that's why you're here?"

Scott nods. "I know all about your kidnapping, and your imprisonment, but I'm still in the dark about that crate," he says. On the nearest workbench sits the small crate recovered from Hiss's room at the Hotel El Dorado.

"Of course," says Eliezer. "Let me give you a closer look." He walks to the workbench, lifts the lid off the crate, and motions Scott over.

Behind Scott, the door to the lab bangs open. Half a dozen researchers fight to be the first one inside.

"Dr. Alexander!" one of them shouts.

Scott ignores the shout. He peers inside the crate.

Empty!

"I notice I am confused," Scott says.

Something jabs Scott in the small of the back. "Howzabout I clear things up for ya?"

The imperturbable doctor-investigator whirls on the spot. The researchers stand in a loose gaggle. All assembled -- save one -- wear natty suits, ID badges, and big smiles.

The odd man out is three feet tall if he's an inch. He wears a black suit with white pinstripes, and a pinky ring with a sapphire the size of an eyeball. His eyes are beady, his nose is squashed, and his frown is the frown of a liquorless clown. In his right hand, the pinky-ring hand, he carries a black-lacquered cane.

Scott blinks. Still confused. "I'm Dr. Scott Alexander, here in my capacity as a private investigator. I was the one who stormed Hiss's hotel room and--"

"Can it, bub!" The little man waves his cane. "I know all about your bozo stunt! I was there!"

"Do you mean ... you were in that box?"

The man cackles. "Got it in one, bub!" He twirls the cane through the air and into his left hand. With his right hand newly empty, he spits into his palm, and offers Scott a handshake.

Slowly, like a sloth ascending Everest, Scott shakes the spitty hand.

"Tremendous Value, at your service!"

Scott comes dangerously close to being flapped. Tremendous Value's frown inverts into a genuine smile.

"Forget 'bozo,' pal. That stunt of yours was ballsy," says Tremendous Value. "All I can say is it's a crying shame you didn't shoot Hiss dead! I should never have trusted that overgrown gecko!"

Slate Alexander dips his hand into the inner pocket of his trenchcoat, but the pocket is curiously empty.

Eliezer senses an opening. "Scott, let me introduce you to everyone." He goes around, naming names, but though Scott's hand performs further handshakes, his mind is elsewhere.

Between Tremendous Value and Navy Suit, Hiss's trail might not be so cold after all.

" ... and finally, this is Dr. Falkovich, who came all the way from British Palestine to establish our Center for Numeric Lovemaking!"

Dr. Falkovich smirks harder than any human being in recorded history.

Lunchtime. Food o'clock. The eating hour.

The canteen at General Intelligence boasts a marvel of modern mechanics. The room itself is filled with iron tables, powder-coated blue, with cushioned benches -- but there's nothing special about those. What's special is the chef.

Scott, following the others' lead, takes a punch card from a box by the door. The card has a grid of nine squares printed on it. Scott contemplates the menu board.

\\\///
PLEASING EGG. #100.
YOUR FRIEND THE MEATLOAF. #200.
A NICE SALAD. #300.

COFFEE. #010.
TEA. #020.

MEALSQUARE. #003.
\\\///

Scott plucks a gleaming hole punch from its hook below the menu. He punches the first and third squares in the card's first column, and all three squares in the third. On the wall, a few steps past the menu board, is a slot marked "INSERT." Scott does as it says.

There is a pneumatic flormp. A panel in the wall instantly slides upward, revealing a terrier-sized square tunnel to parts unknown. In the mouth of the tunnel rests a blue tray, which bears three white ceramic plates. On the first plate is an unshelled hardboiled egg completely devoid of unsightly dimples, surrounded by elegant rosettes of horseradish sauce. On the second plate is a generous pile of mixed greens, tomato slices, curls of bell pepper, radish rounds, and slivers of carrot, all shining with pungent vinegary dressing. On the third plate are three tiny, tented placards, perfectly identical.

The placards have writing on them, in ink still wet. Each one reads, in a flawless serifed hand: "APOLOGIES. OUT OF #003."

Scott sighs as he picks up his PLEASING EGG and NICE SALAD. Having turned around and located Tremendous Value, Scott seats himself opposite the crime lord, stares vacantly at his tray, and is not at all pleased.

"Look, Mr. Value," the Man of Slate says. "I've got to be on my way. Anything you know about Hiss would be of, uh, stupendous worth."

Tremendous Value cackles. "Just a moment, Mr. Private Eye." He uses both hands to scoop YOUR FRIEND THE MEATLOAF into and onto his face.

Unf. Smleck. Gronch. "Aaah." The beady-eyed dwarf looks up at Scott, meat dripping from his nose. "These eggheads don't know how good they have it." He wipes his hand across his face.

"Listen, bub. That slimy scumbag Spliggo Hiss approached my gang to arrange a deal for a smorgasbord of high-tech gadgetry. When my men reported the price Hiss offered, I got suspicious -- too suspicious for my own good. I went incognito to oversee the swap myself, posing as my most trusted capo, Confaldo. Before I could even slug anybody, Spliggo had sliced up my men with his claws, and his bozo suits were stuffing me into a box. They knew 'Confaldo' was a high-up henchman with a direct line to Tremendous Value himself, see?"

"I see."

"After he took us by surprise, Hiss used me to put pressure on 'Tremendous Value' -- which was actually Confaldo, pretending to be me. I'm just glad my right-hand man was brainy enough to figure out the score and play along. The two of us convinced Hiss that 'Tremendous Value' was crazy enough to meet Hiss in person at the El Dorado."

The Man of Slate decides it would be rational not to say that Value actually had been crazy enough to meet Hiss in person.

The crime lord belches. "By the end, Hiss was pressing me for help designing his machinery. I tried to throw him off track with false information, and I think he bought it, but who knows whether he's found the errors by now. If you hadn't wrapped things up yourself, my gang would have busted me out of there the following day -- but I would have lost a lot of good men doing it. I owe you!"

Slate Alexander rubs his temples. "Think nothing of it, Mr. Value. You've been extraordinarily helpful just now." The weary doctor-investigator stands up. "Thanks to you, the loose ends of this mystery are tightening into a hangman's noose."

"You said it, Doc. Hey, don't take off without leaving me your address. I'll send an enforcer to thank you properly for getting me out of that lizard's clutches!"

"You don't have to do that, but I'll leave it up to you." Scott writes his home address on a business card, and hands the card to Tremendous Value. "By the way, I'm not hungry. Help yourself to my tray."

"All the food in the world won't satisfy my hunger for revenge," says Value. "I wanna wring that lizard's stupid neck! Making me beg and degrade myself just to keep my cover!" Meat and spittle fly from the criminal kingpin's maw. "That two-bit turtle! That cold-blooded creep!"

"Don't worry, Mr. Value. I'll make sure Spliggo Hiss gets exactly what he deserves."

As he leaves the canteen, Dr. Scott "Slate" Alexander's mood is foul enough to negate a thousand PLEASING EGGS.

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