Man and offered his hand. “Glad you’re with us,” he said. “Heard from R2D2 lately?”
Modular Man looked at him. “No,” he said. “I don’t believe so.”
“Or C3PO?”
“Afraid not.”
“I saw Star Wars half a dozen times.”
Modular Man wasn’t quite certain how to respond to this. “Good,” seemed appropriate enough.
The plump, pink-faced civilian arrived.
“Mr. von Herzenhagen,” Vidkunssen said. “Special Executive Task Unit.”
Modular Man shook hands. Von Herzenhagen addressed Quayle. “I’ve just been on the SCARE hotline. Senator Hartmann’s coming out with a new recruit.”
WHERE’S GEORGE??? said the scoreboard. Zappa turned to Vidkunssen. “Gunnar,” he said, “would you go up to whoever’s running the scoreboard and tell him I’m going to rip his arms off if he doesn’t knock it off?”
“No problem,” said Vidkunssen. He trotted away.
Zappa looked at von Herzenhagen, then at the Rox model. “I was just going to ask Modular Man to take a flight over the Ro — over Ellis Island, and drop some leaflets.”
Von Herzenhagen gave the android a fatherly look. “Good,” he said. “Anything we can do to convince those people to give themselves up.”
A small military helicopter arrived over the stadium and drowned out any further conversation. It circled the stadium twice and then flared and came to a landing near second base.
Modular Man noticed that when the aircraft came near, some men appeared from the dugouts with shoulder-fired rockets. Just in case, he assumed, the craft turned hostile.
You never knew with jumpers.
The rotors began to slow. Gregg Hartmann got out, followed by a lean man in civilian clothes. Afterward, moving slowly on account of arm and leg shackles, was a strikingly handsome dark-haired man in plain civilian dress.
Snotman.
Cold dismay rolled through the android’s circuitry.
Snotman, weighed down by the shackles, shuffled toward the pitcher’s mound under the guidance of the civilian. Gregg Hartmann came ahead and shook hands with the group.
“General Zappa?” The thin man held up an ID case with a badge. “I’m Gregory, U.S. Marshal. I’m to release this man into your parole. Sign here.” Snotman looked up at Modular Man. The look was not friendly.
Zappa signed the forms that Gregory held out, then undid the arm and leg shackles. Zappa offered to shake his hand, but Snotman chose instead to rub his chafed wrists.
“I’m General Zappa. This is Mr. von Herzenhagen, Vice President Quayle, and Modular Man.”
Snotman’s cold blue eyes stared at the android. “We’ve met,” he said.
Gregory got into the helicopter, and it lifted off into the sky.
“I’m glad you’re on our team,” said Quayle. Snotman didn’t answer. Von Herzenhagen whispered into Quayle’s ear. Quayle seemed surprised.
“You’re ah —” he said.
“The Reflector. Call me Reflector.”
Quayle grinned in relief. “I suspected something — frankly — far more disgusting. I thought you were a joker that dripped, uh, mucus and —”
Quayle’s speech faded beneath Snotman’s frigid glare. Quayle swallowed, then said, “We’re glad you’ve chosen this means to redeem your debt to society.”
Snotman’s answer was simple. “I’ll kill any freak you like if it gets me out of Leavenworth. Not that Leavenworth is that bad, mind you, for someone like me.” He gave a thin smile. “I sort of run the place, actually. And the food’s better than what I’m used to.”
Quayle paused. “Well,” he said, “I think it’s particularly good of you, considering you’re a joker.”
“I’m not a joker.” The voice was sharp. “I used to be a joker. Croyd changed me, and now I’m the Reflector.”
Von Herzenhagen stepped closer. His look seemed quite sincere. “We’re glad you’re with us, Reflector.”
“I hate jokers,” Snotman continued. “I’ve got a lot of scores to settle with jokers. They gave me a lot more shit than the
Modular Man looked at him. “No,” he said. “I don’t believe so.”
“Or C3PO?”
“Afraid not.”
“I saw Star Wars half a dozen times.”
Modular Man wasn’t quite certain how to respond to this. “Good,” seemed appropriate enough.
The plump, pink-faced civilian arrived.
“Mr. von Herzenhagen,” Vidkunssen said. “Special Executive Task Unit.”
Modular Man shook hands. Von Herzenhagen addressed Quayle. “I’ve just been on the SCARE hotline. Senator Hartmann’s coming out with a new recruit.”
WHERE’S GEORGE??? said the scoreboard. Zappa turned to Vidkunssen. “Gunnar,” he said, “would you go up to whoever’s running the scoreboard and tell him I’m going to rip his arms off if he doesn’t knock it off?”
“No problem,” said Vidkunssen. He trotted away.
Zappa looked at von Herzenhagen, then at the Rox model. “I was just going to ask Modular Man to take a flight over the Ro — over Ellis Island, and drop some leaflets.”
Von Herzenhagen gave the android a fatherly look. “Good,” he said. “Anything we can do to convince those people to give themselves up.”
A small military helicopter arrived over the stadium and drowned out any further conversation. It circled the stadium twice and then flared and came to a landing near second base.
Modular Man noticed that when the aircraft came near, some men appeared from the dugouts with shoulder-fired rockets. Just in case, he assumed, the craft turned hostile.
You never knew with jumpers.
The rotors began to slow. Gregg Hartmann got out, followed by a lean man in civilian clothes. Afterward, moving slowly on account of arm and leg shackles, was a strikingly handsome dark-haired man in plain civilian dress.
Snotman.
Cold dismay rolled through the android’s circuitry.
Snotman, weighed down by the shackles, shuffled toward the pitcher’s mound under the guidance of the civilian. Gregg Hartmann came ahead and shook hands with the group.
“General Zappa?” The thin man held up an ID case with a badge. “I’m Gregory, U.S. Marshal. I’m to release this man into your parole. Sign here.” Snotman looked up at Modular Man. The look was not friendly.
Zappa signed the forms that Gregory held out, then undid the arm and leg shackles. Zappa offered to shake his hand, but Snotman chose instead to rub his chafed wrists.
“I’m General Zappa. This is Mr. von Herzenhagen, Vice President Quayle, and Modular Man.”
Snotman’s cold blue eyes stared at the android. “We’ve met,” he said.
Gregory got into the helicopter, and it lifted off into the sky.
“I’m glad you’re on our team,” said Quayle. Snotman didn’t answer. Von Herzenhagen whispered into Quayle’s ear. Quayle seemed surprised.
“You’re ah —” he said.
“The Reflector. Call me Reflector.”
Quayle grinned in relief. “I suspected something — frankly — far more disgusting. I thought you were a joker that dripped, uh, mucus and —”
Quayle’s speech faded beneath Snotman’s frigid glare. Quayle swallowed, then said, “We’re glad you’ve chosen this means to redeem your debt to society.”
Snotman’s answer was simple. “I’ll kill any freak you like if it gets me out of Leavenworth. Not that Leavenworth is that bad, mind you, for someone like me.” He gave a thin smile. “I sort of run the place, actually. And the food’s better than what I’m used to.”
Quayle paused. “Well,” he said, “I think it’s particularly good of you, considering you’re a joker.”
“I’m not a joker.” The voice was sharp. “I used to be a joker. Croyd changed me, and now I’m the Reflector.”
Von Herzenhagen stepped closer. His look seemed quite sincere. “We’re glad you’re with us, Reflector.”
“I hate jokers,” Snotman continued. “I’ve got a lot of scores to settle with jokers. They gave me a lot more shit than the
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