Free The Metallic Muse by Jr. Lloyd Biggle Page B

was magnificent yesterday at the Battle of Waterloo. Today he seemed confused, as though his being the Duke of Wellington was our idea instead of his. I don’t think the speech was wholly responsible.”
    “We can’t do anything at all until we see what he is when he wakes up. Going to leave the tents standing?”
    “We might as well. We may get another call for them.”
    “I have to change and file my report. Have the others left?”
    “Oh, yes. They left the minute you were—abducted.’”’
    He helped her roll an air car out of a tent. She took off, and five minutes later she brought it in for a landing in the spacious Central Administration parking lot.
    Most of the harem girls had already changed when she reached the dressing room. They were trimly attired in crisp white coats and white skirts, and except for several who were having aching legs massaged, their mien was strictly professional.
    “Stell,” a husky blonde called, “what happened there? I thought Thirteen-nineteen was the Duke of Wellington today.”
    “Sudden regress,” Dr. Rogers said, peeling off her dancing costume. “Right in the middle of preparing a speech for Parliament, he started shouting for his harem. I’m afraid he nearly cracked.”
    “He would pick a time when I’m on call. How’d you make out? Was he impetuous?”
    “Very. I hypoed him.”
    “Good girl. I was glad when he carried you out. Another five minutes of dancing—hello!”
    A sedate middle-aged woman—1319 would have recognized her as the Duke of Wellington’s housekeeper dashed in and peered about nervously. “Emergency! Harem requested for Seven thirty-eight.”
    “Oh, my God!” the blonde groaned.
    The patter of conversation in the room cut off abruptly.
    “Who is it for?”
    “Twice in one day? What next!”
    “Are they giving Seven thirty-eight hormones? It was only day before yesterday—”
    “You should complain!” the blonde snapped. “You’re not his favorite. I’m still black and blue from the last time. If that lecherous old buzzard tries to paw me today-“
    “Don’t forget your hypo!”
    “I won’t. I know darn well I’ll need it.”
    The wardrobe attendant was moving among them and passing out the dancing-girl costumes. The girls struggled into them.
    “What was Seven thirty-eight doing?”
    “He was a college professor today. Teaching Einstein’s Theory of Relativity to undergraduates. They say it was really weird.”
    “One of his students probably showed him too much leg, and bang, he wanted a harem. That’s all it would take.”
    The middle-aged woman was counting confusedly. “Dr. Rogers, are you available?”
    “Afraid not,” Dr. Rogers said, buttoning her white coat. “I have to file my report on Thirteen-nineteen.”
    “Hurry it up, girls. The air cars are waiting. We’ve already sent the camel for him.”
    “Dr. Zerbon left the tents up,” Dr. Rogers said. “But Thirteen-nineteen is still asleep there.”
    “He’s been moved back to his permanent quarters. Better put that in your report. Dr. Cameron, will you take charge?”
    “You just bet I will,” the blonde said. “I’ll make a fuss over him right from the start, and maybe we can cut the dancing short. My legs won’t take much more.”
    Chattering irritably, they trooped out to the air cars.
    Dr. Rogers left the dressing room, stepped into the hallway, and rode the conveyer to her office in Wing M—the male division. She shared the office with a taciturn young male doctor who seemed half afraid of her. He was seated glumly behind his desk staring at a report form, and he did not look up when she entered.
    “Good afternoon, Dr. Karl,” she said primly.
    “Oh. Good afternoon, Dr. Rogers.”
    She sat down, dialed 1319, and a record card dropped onto her desk. She studied it and then snapped her fingers. “I knew I’d seen him somewhere. He was Julius Caesar. That was my first week. I was Cleopatra, and I was scared stiff.”
    “How long ago was