Crouchback himself had made a surprise appearance, coming out of hiding to deliver his now famous 'Plastic Lives!' speech. 'Hardnoggin says plastic is inanimate. But I say that plastic lives! Plastic infects all it touches and spreads like crab grass in the innocent souls of little children. Plastic toys make plastic girls and boys!' Crouchback drew himself up to his full six inches. 'I say: quality—quality now!' The crowd roared his words back at him. The meeting closed with all the elves joining hands and singing 'We shall Overcome.' It had been a moving experience . . .
As he expected, Bigtoes found Bandylegs at the Hotel St Nicholas bar, staring morosely down into a thimble-mug of ale. Fergus Bandylegs was a dapper, fast-talking elf with a chestnut beard which he scented with lavender. As Vice-President of Santa Enterprises, Inc., he was in charge of financing the entire Toyworks operation by arranging for Santa to appear in advertising campaigns, by collecting royalties on the use of the jolly old man's name, and by leasing Santa suits to department stores.
Bandylegs ordered a drink for the Security Chief. Their friendship went back to Rory Bigtoes' jacksmith days when Bandylegs had been a master sledwright. 'These are topsy-turvy times, Rory,' said Bandylegs. 'First there's that bomb and now Santa's turned down the Jolly Roger cigarette account. For years now they've had this ad campaign showing Santa slipping a carton of Jolly Rogers into Christmas stockings. But not anymore. "Smoking may be hazardous to your health," says Santa.'
'Santa knows best,' said Bigtoes.
'Granted,' said Bandylegs. 'But counting television residuals, that's a cool two million sugar plums thrown out the window.' (At the current rate of exchange there are 4.27 sugar plums to the U.S. dollar.) 'Hardnoggin's already on my back to make up the loss. Nothing must interfere with his grand plan for automating the Toyworks. So it's off to Madison Avenue again. Sure I'll stay at the Plaza and eat at the Chambord, but I'll still get homesick.'
The Vice-President smiled sadly. 'Do you know what I used to do? There's this guy who stands outside Grand Central Station selling those little mechanical men you wind up and they march around. I used to march around with them. It made me feel better somehow. But now they remind me of Hardnoggin. He's a machine, Rory, and he wants to make all of us into machines.'
'What about the bomb?' asked Bigtoes.
Bandylegs shrugged. 'Acme Toy, I suppose.'
Bigtoes shook his head. Acme Toy hadn't slipped an elf spy into the North Pole for months. 'What about Crouchback?'
'No,' said Bandylegs firmly. 'I'll level with you, Rory. I had a get-together with Crouchback just last week. He wanted to get my thoughts on the quality-versus-quantity question and on the future of the Toyworks. Maybe I'm wrong, but I got the impression that a top-level shake-up is in the works with Crouchback slated to become the new Director General. In any event I found him a very perceptive and understanding elf.'
Bandylegs smiled and went on, 'Darby Shortribs was there, prattling on against dolls. As I left, Crouchback shook my hand and whispered, "Every movement needs its lunatic fringe, Bandylegs. Shortribs is ours".' Bandylegs lowered his voice. 'I'm tired of the grown-up rat race, Rory. I want to get back to the sled shed and make Blue Streaks and High Flyers again. I'll never get there with Hardnoggin and his modern ideas at the helm.'
Bigtoes pulled at his beard. It was common knowledge that Crouchback had an elf spy on the Board. The reports on the meetings in The Midnight Elf were just too complete. Was it his friend Bandylegs? But would Bandylegs try to kill Santa?
That brought Bigtoes back to Hardnoggin again. But cautiously. As Security Chief, Bigtoes had to be objective. Yet he yearned to prove Hardnoggin the villain. This, as he knew, was because of the beautiful Carlotta Peachfuzz, beloved by children all around the world. As the voice of the Peachy Pippin Doll, Carlotta was the most envied female at the North Pole, next to Mrs Santa. Girl elves followed her glamorous exploits in the press. Male elves had Peachy Pippin Dolls propped beside their beds so they could fall asleep with Carlotta's sultry voice saying: 'Hello, I'm your talking Peachy Pippin Doll. I love you. I love you. I love you. . .'
But once it had just been Rory and Carlotta, Carlotta and Rory—until the day Bigtoes had introduced her to Hardnoggin. 'You have a beautiful voice, Miss Peachfuzz,' the Director General had said. 'Have you ever considered being in the talkies?' So Carlotta had dropped Bigtoes for Hardnoggin and risen to stardom in the talking-doll industry. But her liaison with Director General Hardnoggin had become so notorious that a dutiful Santa—with Mrs Santa present—had had to read the riot act about executive hanky-panky. Hardnoggin had broken off the relationship. Disgruntled, Carlotta had become active with SHAFT, only to leave after a violent argument with Shortribs over his anti-doll position.
Today Bigtoes couldn't care less about Carlotta. But he still had that old score to settle with the Director General.
Leaving the fashionable section behind, Bigtoes turned down Apple Alley, a residential corridor of modest, old-fashioned houses with thatched roofs and carved beams. Here the mushrooms were in full bloom—the stropharia, inocybe, and chanterelle—dotting the corridor with indigo, vermilion, and many yellows. Elf householders were out troweling in their gardens. Elf wives gossiped over hedges of gypsy pholiota. Somewhere an old elf was singing one of the ancient work songs, accompanying himself on a concertina. Until Director General Hardnoggin discovered that it slowed down production, the elves had always sung while they worked, beating out the time with their hammers; now the foremen passed out song sheets and led them in song twice a day. But it wasn't the same thing.
Elf gardeners looked up, took their pipes from their mouths, and watched Bigtoes pass. They regarded all front-office people with suspicion—even this big elf with the candy-stripe rosette of the Order of Santa, First Class, in his buttonhole.
Bigtoes had won the decoration many years ago when he was a young Security elf, still wet behind his pointed ears. Somehow on that fateful day, Billy Roy Scoggins, President of Acme Toy, had found the secret entrance to the North Pole and appeared suddenly in parka and snowshoes, demanding to see Santa Claus. Santa arrived, jolly and smiling, surrounded by Bigtoes and the other Security elves. Scoggins announced he had a proposition 'from one hard-headed businessman to another.'
Pointing out the foolishness of competition, the intruder had offered Santa a king's ransom to come in with Acme Toy. 'Ho, ho, ho,' boomed Santa with jovial firmness, 'that isn't Santa's way.' Scoggins—perhaps it was the 'ho, ho, ho' that did it—turned purple and threw a punch that floored the jolly old man. Security sprang into action.
Four elves had died as Scoggins flayed at them, a snowshoe in one hand and a rolled up copy of The Wall Street Journal in the other. But Bigtoes had crawled up the outside of Scoggins' pant leg. It had taken him twelve karate chops to break the intruder's kneecap and send him crashing to the ground like a stricken tree. To this day the President of Acme Toy walks with a cane and curses Rory Bigtoes whenever it rains.
As Bigtoes passed a tavern—The Bowling Green, with a huge horse mushroom shading the door—someone inside banged down a thimble-mug and shouted the famous elf toast: 'My Santa, right or wrong! May he always be right, but right or wrong, my Santa!' Bigtoes sighed. Life should be so simple for elves. They all loved Santa—what did it matter that he used blueing when he washed his beard, or liked to sleep late, or hit the martinis a bit too hard—and they all wanted to do what was best for good little girls and boys. But here the agreement ended. Here the split between Hardnoggin and Crouchback—between the Establishment and the revolutionary—took over.
Beyond the tavern was a crossroads, the left corridor leading to the immense storage areas for completed toys, the right corridor to The Underwood. Bigtoes continued straight and was soon entering that intersection of corridors called Pumpkin Corners, the North Pole's bohemian quarter. Here, until his disappearance, the SHAFT leader Crouchback had lived with relative impunity, protected by the inhabitants. For this was SHAFT country. A special editi
on of The Midnight Elf was already on the streets denying that SHAFT was involved in the assassination attempt on Santa. A love-bead vendor, his beard tied in a sheepshank, had Hardnoggin Is a Dwarf written across the side of his pushcart. Make love, not plastic declared the wall of The Electric Carrot, a popular discotheque and hippie hangout.
The Electric Carrot was crowded with elves dancing the latest craze, the Scalywag. Until recently, dancing hadn't been popular with elves. They kept stepping on their beards. The hippie knots effectively eliminated that stumbling block.
Buck Withers, leader of the Hippie Elves for Peace, was sitting in a corner wearing a Santa Is Love button. Bigtoes had once dropped a first-offense drug charge against Withers and three other elves caught nibbling on morning-glory seeds. 'Where's Crouchback, Buck?' said Bigtoes.
'Like who's asking?' said Withers. 'The head of Hardnoggin's Gestapo?'
'A friend,' said Bigtoes.
'Friend, like when the news broke about Shortribs, he says "I'm next, Buck." Better fled than dead, and he split for parts unknown.'
'It looks bad, Buck.'
'Listen, friend,' said Withers, 'SHAFT's the wave of the future. Like Santa's already come over to our side on the disarmament thing. What do we need with bombs?
That's a bad scene, friend. Violence isn't SHAFT'S bag.'
As Bigtoes left The Electric Carrot a voice said, 'I wonder, my dear sir, if you could help an unfortunate elf.' Bigtoes turned to find a tattered derelict in a filthy button-down shirt and greasy gray-flannel suit. His beard was matted with twigs and straw.
'Hello, Baldwin,' said Bigtoes. Baldwin Redpate had once been the head of Santa's Shipping Department. Then came the Slugger Nolan Official Baseball Mitt Scandal. The mitt had been a big item one year, much requested in letters to Santa. Through some gigantic snafu in Shipping, thousands of inflatable rubber ducks had been sent out instead. For months afterward, Santa received letters from indignant little boys, and though each one cut him like a knife he never reproached Redpate. But Redpate knew he had failed Santa. He brooded, had attacks of silent crying and finally took to drink, falling so much under the spell of bee wine that Hardnoggin had to insist he resign.
'Rory, you're just the elf I'm looking for,' said Redpate. 'Have you ever seen an elf skulking? Well, I have.'
Bigtoes was interested. Elves were straightforward creatures. They didn't skulk.
'Last night I woke up in a cold sweat and saw strange things, Rory,' said Redpate. 'Comings and goings, lights, skulking.' Large tears rolled down Redpate's cheeks. 'You see, I get these nightmares, Rory. Thousands of inflatable rubber ducks come marching across my body and their eyes are Santa's eyes when someone's let him down.' He leaned toward Bigtoes confidentially. 'I may be a washout. Occasionally I may even drink too much. But I don't skulk!' Redpate began to cry again.
His tears looked endless. Bigtoes was due at the Sticks-and-Stones session. He slipped Redpate ten sugar plums. 'Got to go, Baldwin.'
Redpate dabbed at the tears with the dusty end of his beard. 'When you see Santa, ask him to think kindly of old Baldy Redpate,' he sniffed and headed straight for The Good Gray Goose, the tavern across the street—making a beeline for the bee wine, as the elves would say. But then he turned. 'Strange goings-on,' he called. 'Storeroom Number 14, Unit 24, Row 58. Skulking.'
'Hardnoggin's phone call was from Carlotta Peachfuzz,' said Charity, looking lovelier than ever. 'The switchboard operator is a big Carlotta fan. She fainted when she recognized her voice. The thrill was just too much.'
Interesting. In spite of Santa's orders, were Carlotta and Hardnoggin back together on the sly? If so, had they conspired on the bomb attempt? Or had it really been Carlotta's voice? Carlotta Peachfuzz impersonations were a dime a dozen.
'Get me the switchboard operator,' said Bigtoes and returned to stuffing Sticks-and-Stones reports into his briefcase.
'No luck,' said Charity, putting down the phone. 'She just took another call and fainted again.'
Vice-President Bandylegs looked quite pleased with himself and threw Bigtoes a wink. 'Don't be surprised when I cut out of Sticks-and-Stones early, Rory,' he smiled. 'An affair of the heart. All of a sudden the old Bandylegs charm has come through again.' He nodded down the hall at Hardnoggin, waiting impatiently at the Projection Room door. 'When the cat's away, the mice will play.'
The Projection Room was built like a movie theatre. 'Come over here beside Santa, Rory, my boy,' boomed the jolly old man. So Bigtoes scrambled up into a tiny seat hooked over the back of the seat on Santa's left. On Bigtoes' left sat Traffic Manager Brassbottom, Vice-President Bandylegs, and Director General Hardnoggin. In this way Mrs Santa, at the portable bar against the wall, could send Santa's martinis to him down an assembly line of elves.
Confident that no one would dare to try anything with Santa's Security Chief present, Bigtoes listened to the Traffic Manager, a red-lipped elf with a straw-collared beard, talk enthusiastically about the television coverage planned for Santa's trip. This year, live and in color via satellite, the North Pole would see Santa's arrival at each stop on his journey. Santa's first martini was passed from Hardnoggin to Bandylegs to Brassbottom to Bigtoes. The Security Chief grasped the stem of the glass in both hands and, avoiding the heady gin fumes as best he could, passed it to Santa.
'All right,' said Santa, taking his first sip, 'let's roll 'em, starting with the worst.'
The lights dimmed. A film appeared on the screen. 'Waldo Rogers, age five,' said Bigtoes. 'Mistreatment of pets, eight demerits.' (The film showed a smirking little boy pulling a cat's tail.) 'Not coming when he's called, ten demerits.' (The film showed Waldo's mother at the screen door, shouting.) 'Also, as an indication of his general bad behaviour, he gets his mother to buy Sugar Gizmos but he won't eat them.
He just wants the box-tops.' (The camera panned a pantry shelf crowded with opened Sugar Gizmo boxes.) The elves clucked disapprovingly.
'Waldo Rogers certainly isn't Santa's idea of a nice little boy,' said Santa. 'What do you think, Mother?' Mrs Santa agreed.
'Sticks-and-Stones then?' asked Hardnoggin hopefully.
But the jolly old man hesitated. 'Santa always likes to check the list twice before deciding,' he said.
Hardnoggin groaned. Santa was always bollixing up his production schedules by going easy on bad little girls and boys.
A new film began. 'Next on the list,' said Bigtoes, 'is Nancy Ruth Ashley, age four and a half. . .'
Two hours and seven martinis later, Santa's jolly laughter and Mrs Santa's giggles filled the room. 'She's a little dickens, that one,' chuckled Santa as they watched a six-year-old fill her father's custom-made shoes with molasses, 'but Santa will find a little something for her.' Hardnoggin groaned. That was the end of the list and so far no one had been given Sticks-and-Stones. They rolled the film on Waldo Rogers again. 'Santa understands some cats like having their tails pulled,' chuckled Santa as he drained his glass. 'And what the heck are Sugar Gizmos?'
Bandylegs, who had just excused himself from the meeting, paused on his way up the aisle. 'They're a delicious blend of toasted oats and corn,' he shouted, 'with an energy-packed coating of sparkling sugar. As a matter of fact, Santa, the Gizmo people are thinking of featuring you in their new advertising campaign. It would be a great selling point if I could say that Santa had given a little boy Sticks-and-Stones because he wouldn't eat his Sugar Gizmos.'
'Here now, Fergy,' said the jolly old man, 'you know that isn't Santa's way.'
Bandylegs left, muttering to himself.
'Santa,' protested Hardnoggin as the jolly old man passed his glass down the line for a refill, 'let's be realistic. If we can't draw the line at Waldo Rogers, where can we?'
Santa reflected for a moment. 'Suppose Santa let you make the decision, Garth, my boy. What would little Waldo Rogers find in his stocking on Christmas morning?'
Hardnoggin hesitated. Then he said, 'Sticks-and-Stones.'
Santa looked disappointed. 'So be
it,' he said.
The lights dimmed again as they continued their review of the list. Santa's eighth martini came down the line from elf to elf. As Bigtoes passed it to Santa, the fumes caught him—the smell of gin and something else. Bitter almonds. He struck the glass from Santa's hand.
Silent and dimly lit, Storeroom Number 14 seemed an immense, dull suburb of split-level, ranch-type Dick and Jane Doll doll-houses. Bigtoes stepped into the papier-mâché shrubbery fronting Unit 24, Row 58 as an elf watchman on a bicycle pedalled by singing 'Colossal Carlotta,' a current hit song. Bigtoes hoped he hadn't made a mistake by refraining from picking Hardnoggin up.
Bandylegs had left before the cyanide was put in the glass. Mrs Santa, of course, was above suspicion. So that left Director General Hardnoggin and Traffic Manager Brassbottom. But why would Brassbottom first save Santa from the bomb only to poison him later? So that left Hardnoggin.
Bigtoes had been eager to act on this logic, perhaps too eager. He wanted no one to say that Santa's Security Chief had let personal feelings color his judgment. Bigtoes would be fair.
Hardnoggin had insisted that Crouchback was the villain. All right, he would bring Crouchback in for questioning. After all, Santa was now safe, napping under a heavy guard in preparation for his all-night trip. Hardnoggin—if he was the villain—could do him no harm for the present.
As Bigtoes crept up the fabric lawn on all fours, the front door of the dollhouse opened and a shadowy figure came down the walk. It paused at the street, looked this way and that, then disappeared into the darkness. Redpate had been right about the skulking. But it wasn't Crouchback—Bigtoes was sure of that.
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