�This was the great watchtower of Amon Opdycke,� said Zullo. He pulled out four smallish pistols from his pack and distributed them. �Here. These are for you. Keep them close; I�m going to have a look around.� He turned and walked off. Dan called after him.
�But what if these aren�t registered? We could be thrown in jail for up to five years!�
�Or you could be dead without them,� answered Zullo.
�You mean you DIDN�T go through all of the paperwork,� accused Dan. �Well, let me tell you something, Mr. Chris isn�t going to walk around with an unregistered sidearm. In fact, he . . .�
�Speak for yourself,� said Chris, tucking the pistol in his pocket.
�Yeah,� agreed Brad and Becky, doing likewise. Dan, seeing that his opinion was much in the minority, grumbled under his breath and followed suit.
Chris was tired, and resolved to take a quick nap. He sat in one of the hard seats, tried to get comfortable, and fell asleep.
He was awakened by the mutterings of his friends.
�Want a tomato, Dan?� asked Brad.
Chris came fully awake. Brad, Becky, and Dan were encamped on the stage around a cozy fire they had made from the curtains and some backstage cabinets.
�What are you doing?!?� he shouted.
�Tomatoes, sausages, nice crispy bacon,� said Becky, pointing at each.
�We saved some for you, Mr. Chris,� added Dan, offering Chris a plate.
�Put it out, you fools!� cried Chris, scattering the blaze with his foot. But it was too late. The company heard the hoarse growls of VW engines, drawn by the smoke.
Dark figures entered the room from every access point; Chris counted five of them, but even one would have been too many. Nevertheless, the group huddled together and drew their pistols as the black-clad shadows approached.
�Back! Get back!� shouted Dan, jumping forward and firing his pistol at the lead figure. There was a flash of light, and Dan�s gun fell to the floor in pieces next to a small puddle of still-seething lead. The leader stepped forward and threw Dan to the ground, Brad and Becky close on his heels. Chris turned to flee but tripped over Dan and fell to the ground.
The leader reached for him, and in desperation Chris pulled out the disk and waved it at the forms, hoping it would have a cross-on-Dracula effect. Unfortunately, this seemed to have the opposite of the desired effect; every Science Teacher�s head snapped toward him, and they abandoned their erstwhile prey to come after Chris. Realizing his mistake, Chris tried to re-hide the disk. The leader approached him.
�What is the solution of Fermat�s Last Theorem?� he grated. Chris jerked as if stung, then crumpled up, screaming. The Witch-King reached for him . . .
And in the nick of time, Zullo ran in, waving some brochures.
�My cars are better than yours!� he shouted desperately. �The Lincoln Towncar would eat your Bugs for breakfast. Got all the details right here!� He brandished the brochures, and the black figures retreated in disarray.
�What�s wrong with him?� Dan asked worriedly, pointing at the now-delusional Chris.
�If there were a solution, it would be a pentamorphic solid,� moaned Chris.
�He has been stabbed with an unanswerable question,� said Zullo grimly. �This is beyond my skill to heal. He needs mathematical medicine.� He hefted Chris over his shoulder and headed out into the West Lobby.
�Dan, do you know any number theory?� Zullo asked.
�Number theory?� Dan repeated blankly.
�Yes, number theory,� said Zullo. �One, two, three, four, and so forth.�
�Oh. Yeah,� said Dan. �P, e, square root of two,� he threw in helpfully. �It�s worthless.�
�That may be true,� conceded Zullo. �But it may help Chris�s wound, at least a little.�
Dan took the torch and headed to the cafeteria while Zullo went the opposite direction. He had just found a book on number theory and bent to pick it up when he felt a knife at his throat.
�What�s this?� said a teasing, feminine voice. �A SITES teacher, caught off his guard?�
�Oh, hello Arwatkins,� responded Zullo. �I�m kind of in a hurry here. A kid got hurt on my watch, and if he doesn�t get better than I�ll probably be RIFfed.�
�Bring him this way,� said Arwatkins, all serious now. Zullo brought Chris over, and she grimaced. �He�s not going to last. We must get him to a Calc teacher.�
They manhandled Chris into a loosely made stretcher, then ran out to the parking lot.
�Stay here,� said Zullo. �I will send back help.�
�I will not submit to your outmoded ideas about female weakness. Besides, I�m the better driver; I�ll go.�
�But. . .� said Zullo.
�And on top of all that, it�s my car,� pointed out Arwatkins. Zullo had to concede defeat, so he put Chris in the back seat and watched her drive off.
Arwatkins had barely put ten feet behind her when she heard the roar of the black Beetles coming up behind her. She floored the accelerator and crossed the parking lot to the library. The Bugs stopped by the West Lobby drop-off zone, unsure. They looked to their leader.
�Give up the student, math teacher, so that we may corrupt him to the ways of science!�
�Never,� Arwatkins cried. �Come and get him, if you think you can in a Bug!�
Screaming their defiance, the Bugs revved their motors and began to cross the parking lot. Arwatkins murmured something under her breath, and there was an ominous rumbling from the southern end of the parking lot. The Bugs halted, nervous. Before any of them could react, a bright yellow school bus came barreling down the asphalt, heading straight for the clustered mass of Bugs, who perhaps altogether weighed a third of the bus. The bus barely slowed down as it rode over the Beetles, crushing them like eggshells. Arwatkins was laughing softly at the wreckage when Chris abruptly opened the door and stumbled out.
�But according to Yoshizira-Konawa, all of the points on a pentamorphic solid are ovoidal, and therefore the pentamorphic integrand would be the negative square of i,� he mumbled.
�No, Chris!� shouted Arwatkins, grabbing him and cradling his head as he collapsed. �Don�t give in! Not now, not when we�re so close!� As Chris fell into dark dreams and unconsciousness, Arwatkins held his limp body and wept softly.