Early Morning

Some ways north of Santa Cruz, deep within the California redwoods, sits a building which only five humans have ever seen.

The building is round, and twenty feet in diameter. It thrusts up from the earth like a mighty bald head. It is egg-shaped. It is egg-colored. It is not otherwise like an egg.

Inside this preposterous edifice, an inhuman creature dwells. At this moment, he is using a scaly, green, clawed hand to pick up the phone.

"It is I, Basssk."

"Mr. Bask, this is Scott Alexander," says the Man of Slate. "I request permission to visit your village. I want to speak with the lizardmen who Spliggo Hiss assaulted after they rebuked his warmongering."

"Of courssse you may visit, Doctor Alexssander," Bask says. "You are our only hope for hunting down that traitor. A rationalissst who ssserves as my agent in Ssscottsss Valley will meet you at the train ssstation. You will like thisss man. He's ... no-nonsssenssse."

"On this case, I'll be relieved to have a little more no-nonsense."

"If you did have a little more no-nonsssenssse, how would you tell?" Bask laughs. The sound is like a silk-gloved hand sliding in and out of a thousand-dollar handbag.

Afternoon

The Southern Pacific train line runs from Santa Jose on south, all the way to Santa Cruz. If you rode Southern Pacific all the way to Santa Cruz ("Holy Cross"), you wouldn't think twice about the utterly forgettable blotches that dot the landscape and pass for towns — but you are not Scott Alexander.

Dr. Alexander is anxiously counting the stations so that he can alight in the unassuming tanning and milling town of Scotts Valley. It is from this humble settlement that the relentless doctor-investigator will set out for the San Jose lizardman colony.

The boots of millstone grinders, farmhands, and leatherworkers clomp against the bricks of the southbound platform. As Scott Alexander threads his way through the crowd, he draws his belted trenchcoat tighter around his middle. Even the late afternoons are chilly in Northern California, and that goes double for a man suffering from an acute lack of —

"MealSquares!"

Against the single freestanding platform wall stands a MealSquare vending machine. Its sides are painted the same creamy orange as the foil packaging of the genuine article.

Scott breaks into a run, trips, caroms off a bench, and rolls like a cube. He bruises his arms and knees, but he doesn't notice. As he staggers to his feet, and proceeds toward the machine at a more measured pace, he can only think of one thing.

What flavors of MealSquare might the machine contain? Fair and Square, with its robust mouthfeel? Founder's Fourmula, which earned the MealSquare Corporation its fame? Perhaps even a pack of his personal favorite, Square and Mild? Oh, that Square and Mild — a classic smooth flavor from start to finish — a foil-wrapped cocktail of piquant spices in heady blends —

Scott stops just short of the orange machine, and flattens his face against the machine's glass front.

"All aboard!" the conductor calls, as the porters close the doors. Two tall and muscular men wearing green neckerchiefs and white shirts force their way out the door of the hindmost passenger car.

Two hundred feet away, a Chevrolet sedan comes skidding into the dirt parking lot. The passenger door begins to open as the driver slaloms to a stop, and before the engine has turned off, the passenger — a tremendously mustachioed man in gray shirt and overalls — is hustling toward the train platform.

The driver chomps his bubble gum.

As Scott Alexander squashes himself against the vending machine, it's a good thing nobody can see his face, for it wears the confused and anguished expression of a cat which has just become roadkill.

Nothing. There's nothing in the machine but empty coils. Not a MealSquare in sight. In desperation, Scott crouches down and shoves his left hand through the machine's flap. What happens next, happens all at once.

One: Scott's fingers brush against something smooth, square, and foil-wrapped.

Two: A window on the train opens, and redheaded Eric sticks his head out. "Scott! Watch out!" he yells.

Three: The train whistles its departure, totally drowning out Eric's warning.

Four: The neckerchiefed ne'er-do-wells reach a distance of just a few yards from Scott's back.

Five: The mustached man rounds the corner of the wall against which the vending machine stands.

"Doc! On your six!"

The mustached man drops to a kneeling position. From his belly pocket, he tugs out a black box the size of a paperback; a shake of one baggy sleeve is sufficient to produce a pistol. The goons sneer. The first draws a knife; the second draws two. The other people on the platform busy themselves with escaping. Scott hears nothing, sees nothing, feels nothing. All he knows is that he's holding a MealSquare for the first time in days. He tears away half of the foil wrapper, and raises one corner of the MealSquare to his mouth —

Roses?

The doctor-investigator turns around with a loopy smile and unfocused eyes.

"Doc!" The man's doodad hums, emitting a red beam which strikes the one-knife thug in the chest. He drops to his hands and knees, bellowing in pain. His compatriot flings one of his knives. It grazes the man's gun arm, causing him to drop it to the stone floor of the platform.

Do I know any mustaches? Scott asks himself.

"Bask sent me—" says the man in overalls, before the one who threw the knife rushes him and tackles him to the ground.

Bask? Bask. Bask! Why, of course. All I have to do is leap sideways roll on the ground twist into kneeling position draw Colt steady arms don't lock elbows aim sight picture wait for it yes yes squeeeeeze BLAM BLAM

As the mustached man heaves the limp, bloodied body of his attacker off of him, the other neckerchiefed baddie lunges for Scott, who nonchalantly pops him on the chin with his new Gas Knuckles. Needles on the knuckles inject the thug with caustic gas from a hidden reservoir, and his face begins to bubble and peel — but Scott is far too Squared away to pay attention to anything like that. He sits down dreamily. This is one strong MealSquare.

While the thug dashes away, shrieking in mortal pain, Dr. Alexander studies the MealSquare. "A pink wrapper?" he says, flipping it over. On the bottom surface of the wrapper are these words: Quadrilateral Queen.

"I've never seen one of these," Scott says, bringing the Quadrilateral Queen to his lips for another dose of exquisite four-cornered flavor.

"Doctor Alexander." The mustached man takes a deep breath. "Thank you for saving my life. It was supposed to be the other way around, but I can't complain."

"Me neither," Scott says to his MealSquare.

"Please listen carefully — oh, who am I kidding," the man says. "Blah, blah, blah, map. Blah, blah, territory. I'm John Schilling, arms manufacturer. Ldlldl Bask sends his regards. Follow me to the car."

But nothing in life is simple, and Schilling has to pull Scott to the car as if he were a dog dreading a vet visit. The famous inventor of guns, explosives, bombs, and rockets bundles the twitterpated doctor-investigator into the back, then reclaims his rightful place in the shotgun seat.

The car's driver swivels his head on his skinny neck, smacking gum like it owed him money. "Hot fudge! You made it, Doctor A!"

"Not without getting me knifed," Schilling grumbles, "but I'll live. Doctor Alexander, this overeager undereater is Bartholomew Beauregard — but he closely resembles a string, so everyone calls him 'Beanpole' or 'Bean.'"

"Bean, meet Queen. Queen, meet Bean," Scott says, shaking the nonplussed driver's hand without letting go of his MealSquare.

"Ignore the prattling. He must not have much MealSquare tolerance, or it would have worn off by now." John fastidiously buckles his seatbelt, then retrieves a headset from the glove compartment. Bean plucks two headsets off his lap, puts one on, and hands the other back to the doctor.

"Why?" Scott says, fingering the ear cups on the headset.

"This car's a little noisier than you might expect," Bean says with a sly smile. "The earpieces and microphones will let us keep talking. Ready, John?"

"Ready. Give it a couple hundred yards, then hit it."

The Chevy trundles sedately out of the parking lot, picks up speed, avoids the main road entirely and plows through the grass, straight for a hilltop.

"Hang on," says the Man of Slate. "Cars don't go there."

"There's a first time for everything," Bean says. With ritual slowness, he hovers his finger over a button on the gearshift, then stabs straight down.

With a roar, the car rockets straight up.

The curious Chevy zips through the air. Scott "Slate" Alexander has recovered his faculties, but is low on energy: he lies sprawled across the back seat. Bean and Schilling talk business.

"Can't be done," says Schilling.

"Well," says Bean, "our improved heat shielding—"

"—would make that model too heavy to carry the Canadian payload." Schilling laughs, once.

Scott raises his head to peer out the window. The towering redwoods are a hundred feet below.

"OK, I give in," Bean says. "You're the boss."

"First of all, I'm not the boss, I'm the general partner. Second, you should concede if I'm right, and only then."

"I concede because you're right — like you usually are, which is why you're captain and I'm first mate."

Schilling nods. "Better."

As Bean tilts the wheel and diddles the throttle, Scott sits up. With his brow furrowed, he twists around in his seat: first to his left, then to his right.

"How does a herpetology lab find the funding for a rocket, anyway? I could see them hiring General Intelligence to design a state-of-the-art breeding facility, but who would foot the bill for high-altitude rattlesnake mating?"

"Bart, you've forgotten the first rule of government contracting: embellish your needs. Our Canadian friends are playing the same game we are. They're studying egg-laying in free fall. They bamboozled the National Research Council into funding rocket-propelled snakes."

Scott can't hold it any longer. "Where are all the birds?"

Bean looks at Schilling. "Uhh. The Chevy's noise scares them off. Right, John?"

"It's not that noisy. During test flights, the car only disturbed birds at a relatively short distance." Schilling twists around as Scott did, swiveling to check all the windows. "Doctor Alexander's right. I don't see any birds — anywhere." He unfolds a map.

It is at this moment that the trio notices a billowing tentacle of smoke rising from the forest, a mile out.

"Hot potato," says Bean. "A forest fire!"

But as the Chevy approaches the pillar of smoke, it sweeps over a clearing, and the truth is revealed. The dozens of egg-like structures that make up the lizardman village are ablaze.

Schilling says, "Bean, circle around and take her down off to the side. Doc, we were just going to drop you off on Bask's doorstep, but now this is a rescue operation. Weapons out, men."

As Scott draws his Colt and his revolver, Schilling catches his eye. "Not bad, doctor. Got anything else?"

For the first time since leaving Las Vegas, Scott laughs. He whips open his trenchcoat to reveal Eric's gear vest. Four eyebrows are simultaneously raised as Bean and Schilling take stock. When Scott fishes out the B&S Armaments business card, the eyebrows crank up another inch. A smile attempts to fight its way out of Schilling's upper lip, but its feeble punches are no match for his heavyweight mustachios.

"What do you know," Bean croaks. "The doctor's a customer."

Schilling grunts. "Much obliged, Doc. I hope our equipment is serving you well. Now, here's the plan. Once we land, we'll all move together, defending ourselves while searching for Ldlldl Bask and any other surviving lizardmen. You'll treat their wounds. After thirty minutes, we'll help any survivors back to the car, and make our escape. Doctor Alexander?"

"I understand and agree. What if the forest rangers arrive?"

"We're further out into the wilderness than you realize. By the time any authorities take an interest, we'll be long gone."

As Scott fingers the pair of B&S Glass Knuckles with his left hand, a strange urge overtakes him. He holsters his gun, and gives Bean and Schilling a salute.

Schilling's lip redoubles its efforts to smile, and successfully exposes a sliver of toothy white. "When you're not Squared off, you're all right, Doc." He straightens up in his seat. "Bean, take her down. Here we go."

The automobile dives below the tree line toward the blazing village.

This episode of Slate Star Showdex brought to you by:

B&S Armaments.

Our names are B and S, but we won't sell
B.S. to any customer we serve.
The two of us are rocket-men with nerve.
Our mission? Send your rivals straight to Hell.

You'll find in stock all manner of supplies
For wreaking havoc on your enemies.
If you would shoot to kill, we aim to please
And hasten hostile forces to demise.

Our showroom brings delight to every man
Who, in the field of battle, wields our tools—
Unless, of course, he joins the ranks of fools
In striving to outgun us. No one can.

I'm Schilling — and I'm Bean! — and we're the best.
We're on your side: let's lay your foes to rest!