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Fred Wood # 2: Designer Genes















FRED WOOD TOO:

FRED WOOD
IN
DESIGNER GENES
OR
SEND IN THE CLONES


A story by
Damian T. Lloyd

Winner of the 1984
Meg McCall Award


Warning: This story is not for impressionable
children. So if your children do impressions,
don't let them read it.












FRED WOOD IN DESIGNER GENES OR SEND IN THE CLONES is
copyright © 1984 by Damian T. Lloyd. You may print
as many copies as you like for your own use. However,
under no circumstances may copies of this material or
any portion thereof be reproduced in any medium or by
any means and made available for sale.

This story won the Meg McCall Award for Best Student
Writing at the 1984 Young Authors' Conference, held
annually in Whitehorse, Yukon.

This story was originally published in three parts in
ECLECTIC COMICS -- volume IV, number 11, April 1984;
volume IV, number 12, June 1984; and Volume IV, number
13, July 1984.

For a list of all ECLECTIC COMICS issues, and other
publications, send a self-addressed, stamped envelope
to:

Banana Enterprises International
Vic. Cen. P.O. Box 8239
Victoria, BC
V8W 3R8



PART THE FIRST: PREMISE AND BRIEFING

Fred Wood was sitting in his refurbished garbage can home on the
corner of Fourth and Main in Canada's capital. It was a
scorchingly hot 40 degrees in the shade--and there was no shade.
Fred was grateful to the government for getting him that air
conditioner; of course, Ottawa always was generous at Christmas.
Fred was entertaining in his official capacity as Canada's
best Super-Secret-Agent-Spy. His immediate superior, Claire
Voyante, was sitting in Fred's most comfortable chair,
articulating incoherently in her usual fashion when excited.
"I tell you, Fred, those Americans really think you're
something. I wouldn't bring it up again, but we've just received
word that they're making you their number-one super-secret-agent-
spy outside their own. You're a hero!" Claire gesticulated
wildly, knocking her drink across the room where it watered a
plastic split-leaf philodendron, which promptly wilted.
Fred signed inwardly. Claire was a good friend of his, but
these visits according to strict protocol were taxing for all
concerned. They would have dispensed with formality altogether
were it not for the third man in the room.
Nobody had every seen his face because of the hat, scarf,
earmuffs and funny-nose-and-glasses he always wore. He was known
only as Y (X being already taken), and was the head of the
Canadian Covert Operations Program, or C.C.O.P. (which explains
why some people think "policeman" is a four-letter word). This
committee was unknown to just about everybody, especially the
Opposition. Y answered directly to the Minister of Defence, and
insisted on strict formality. He was sort of like a minister
without portfolio, or even starboard-folio, but ranked a little
lower.
"Do you have any questions?" concluded Claire. Fred racked
his brains, thumbscrewed them for good measure, but could think
of nothing. His reply to that effect officially ended the
meeting, and none too soon.
"Good bye, sir," said Fred to Y as he escorted the pair to
the exit (straight up a ladder through a hole in the ceiling).
"I hope to see you again soon."
He didn't really mean it, and Y picked up on that. "Don't
lie, Agent Wood," he snapped.
"Sir! I will never knowingly tell a lie unless it is
absolutely convenient."
"No humour on duty!" barked Y, unmindful of the fact that
Fred wasn't. "Just remember the cardinal rule of spying and
etiquette, Wood: always be sincere, even if you don't mean it"
With that he stormed imperiously up the ladder, his grand exit
marred only by the fact that he missed the third rung and scraped
his shins painfully. Claire helped him up the ladder.
"That Wood needs taking down a peg or two," snarled Y when
they were outside.
"Calm down, sir," said Claire soothingly. "You're just
miffed 'cause he got a bigger laugh than you did and made you

- 1 -



look foolish."
"Hey, I don't need the help of any fourth-rate stand-up
comic to make ME look foolish!" Y limped off.
"Quite, sir." Claire followed.
Fred looked around his living room, picked up all the
refreshments, utensils and dead plants, and generally tidied up.
As a government employee he was entitled to free maid service,
but as a super-secret-agent-spy no-one without the proper
security clearance could learn his address.

* * *

Scene two: Fred's favourite restaurant, Beauty's Bistro. This
establishment has quite a colourful history, standing as it does
on the site of an historic manor. The east wing had been
completed in 1843; two years later they built the west wing--and
it flew away. Disillusioned, the landowner opened a fast-food
joint which eventually grew into the current paragon of culinary
virtues. (Actually, the current owner is a midget who wanted to
open a topless bar, but was put off by the enormous overhead.)
Fred entered the dining lounge. It was a busy night: the
milling throng were thronging the mill. Over in the corner a
group of impoverished hunters were shooting the breeze.
Seating himself, Fred was soon joined by Y and the Minister
of Defence himself. They exchanged greetings. "Have you ordered
yet?" the Minister enquired.
"No, I was waiting for you," Fred replied. "Though why
we're doing a business lunch is beyond me; couldn't you just tell
me whatever it is at the undercover operations headquarters?"
The Minister lowered his voice. "Well, I could, but that
place is crawling with spies!"
"I know, sir."
"You do? Oh--er--ahem. Waiter!"

* * *

After they had eaten, and over drinks, the Minister began.
"I know Y and Claire told you the news about the Americans
this morning," he said, "and I have more good news: there are
three jobs that have come up, and you can take your pick.
"One: you can attempt to bust open a marauding gang of
female motorcyclists, the Hell's Belles.
"Two: you can attempt to stop a woman who's been shoplifting
across the street from this very building: she's been smuggling
bars of soap down the front of her dress. Still, she's expected
to make a clean breast of things.
"Or three: you can journey to Washington, D.C., where the
president of the United States has a special top-secret
assignment for you."
"Well, gosh, golly gee, that's a tough one, Boss," said
Fred, savouring the way Y writhed at the informality and tried
not to show it.

- 2 -



"I thought it might be," returned the Minister, gazing
amusedly at Y. "But first, I have some bad news: the first two
jobs are taken. I'm terribly sorry, but it looks like you're
working for Uncle Sam again."
"Oh, that's too bad," agreed Fred. Nevertheless, he felt
the same mixture of feelings he always did before every mission:
anticipation at the excitement and apprehension at the possible
dangers. Fred took his work seriously, but there was a deep
satisfaction in a job well done.
The corny dialogue and purple prose proved to be too much
for Y, who burst out, "Will you please stop your sarcasm?!"
"It's not sarcasm, it's vitriolic sardonicism," the Minister
informed him. To Fred: "You leave tomorrow; make your
reservations and good luck."
"Thanks, buddy." Fred left to Y's silent scream of anguish
at the anarchy.

* * *

Fred immediately called the airline and within the hour, someone
answered the phone. The next morning saw him on board an Air
Canada DC-9 with a new lavatory motor and a pilot who thought he
was Billy Bishop and was about the same age.
Despite heroic efforts by the entire flight crew, the plane
landed safely at its destination. Fred was escorted to the White
House by six F.B.I. men, six C.I.A. men, six I.R.S. men, and one
unemployed Iranian terrorist.
Ushered into the Oval Office, Fred was surprised to find
that the President was not there. After only a few minutes'
wait, however, he made his appearance. "Ah, Canadian Super-
Secret-Agent-Spy Fred Wood," the President smiled, sitting behind
his desk. "Sorry for my delay, but you're a bit early."
"Yes, my flight was only two hours late," agreed Fred.
"Ah, the airplane; a triumph of man's inventive genius as
much as the atom bomb or the MX missile. My government promotes
air travel, you know."
"Didn't I read something about a pilot sighting a U.F.O. and
being hushed up?" asked Fred.
"Well," the President replied, a trifle uneasily, "we are
conducting an intensive investigation into the affair, but in the
meantime we didn't want the public to lose confidence in air
travel, so we told the media that the pilot saw the spaceships
because he was stoned."
"Eminently sensible," Fred commented dryly.
"Harrrumphphphhhh!" the President harrumphphphhhh-ed. "Yes.
To business. We were all very impressed with your handling of
that affair with the Soviet super-weapon, the Anti-Army-Ration-
Sandwich-Destroying-Semi-Automatic-Disintegrating-Ray-Bazooka-
and-Three-Way-Bottle-Opener."
"Thank you, sir."
"You did a good job there, Fred," the President continued.
"Do you mind if I call you Fred?"

- 3 -



"Certainly not, Mister President."
"My friends call me Ronnie."
"Sure thing ... Mister President." A smile crossed Fred's
face, saw what was on the other side, and hastily crossed back
again. "A little joke there, sir."
"Oh ... of course." The President composed himself.
"Enough of that--let's lay out the premise for this story. Brace
yourself."
Fred braced himself, but the elastic gave out and he fell
over. As he picked himself up, the President began.
"We have a problem," the President outlined. "There exists
an organization of Eliminations, Vengeance, Intelligence and
Larceny, known by its acronym of E.V.I.L. The top men are known
to us, but always have a loophole in the law to wiggle through.
They also bribe and blackmail shamelessly; we can't touch them.
Up until now, their E.V.I.L. aims have been mainly financial, and
bank robberies do tend to stimulate the economy: they put all
that money back into circulation."
"Lately, however, E.V.I.L.'s aims have shifted to world
domination, beginning with this once-great country of ours.
"Suddenly no secret was safe. Documents and plans are
duplicated, and on our own photocopiers. Information imparted
even to those I thought the most trustworthy winds up in E.V.I.L.
hands. The men, of course, deny everything. E.V.I.L. seems to
know everything I do. I can trust no-one. The walls themselves
have ears!" The President cast an apprehensive glance at the
wall behind him before climbing off his desk and resuming his
seat.
"It's spooky, knowing my most top-secret plans are known
outside my staff. Like my economic recovery plan,"--he indicated
a sheaf of papers on his left--"or my defence plan,"--he
indicated a sheaf of papers on his right--"or my peace plan,"--he
indicated a sheaf of papers in the garbage can.
"That's why we can't use one of our own super-secret-agent-
spies: we can't trust them; they might be E.V.I.L. Besides, what
kind of Fred Wood story would that be? Fortunately, we were able
to license you direct from your government, thus achieving direct
use of you without going through Ottawa."
"I feel like a copyright character," Fred quipped.
"You are."
"Yes. Well." Fred cleared his throat. "I'm glad of those
arrangements; I don't like instructions coming down through half
a dozen politicians and yes-men."
"Now, now," chided the President. "Don't be too hard on our
modern politicians. After all, most of them are doing the work
of two men."
"Yeah: Abbot and Costello," Fred remarked. "Sorry; I'm
against political jokes--too often they get elected. What do you
want me to do?"
The President paused a moment for dramatic effect before
replying. "I want you to infiltrate E.V.I.L. and get me enough
evidence to bust he organization wide open!"

- 4 -



"Getting the evidence should pose no problems, but how do I
handle the infiltration itself?"
"Simple," the President informed him. "I'll have an A.P.B.
put out on you, accusing you of espionage, sabotage, cabbage and
a few other -ages. E.V.I.L. will pick you up in a few hours; all
you have to do is walk around deserted streets. The more heinous
your crimes, the higher your position in E.V.I.L. From now on
you're Zigmund Norton. Good luck!"
"Thank you, sir; I won't let you down." Fred left the White
House in the jeans and T-shirt of Ziggy Norton, and went to work.
Behind him, in the President's office, a pair of eyes that
was not human blinked twice and focused on the chief executive
...



























- 5 -



PART THE SECOND: EXPOSITION AND DEVELOPMENT

Zigmund Norton, ne Fred Wood, walked down the abandoned street at
11:30 P.M. The street was littered with vehicles of all
descriptions and states of repair. A burnt-out tenement building
stood shakily on decaying foundations.
"So here I am," Fred thought to himself, "walking down a
dark street, so heavily disguised my own mother wouldn't
recognize me ... "
"Hello, Fred," a passing woman said.
"Oh ... hello, Mom," returned Fred absently, and walked on.
Out of the corner of his eyeball he glimpsed a battered hearse
and cart approaching. On the cart were standing a number of
exceptionally well-built thugs of the type that villains
specialize in.
"Hey--you there with the head on your shoulders!" a voice
rang out. Fred thrust his hands deep into his pockets and walked
a little faster.
"Stop, man! We know who you are! We're no the cops!" Fred
began to run as he noticed the hearse pulling abreast of him.
Unfortunately, he failed to notice that someone had begun a
manhole-cover collection just in front of him.
The last thing he remembered was a curious sensation of
falling and an equally curious, though infinitely more
nauseating, smell of sewer. Then darkness.

* * *

Quickly shifting scenes in order to disguise the absence of a
coherent plot, we find Fred alone in an empty room. He tried to
stand up and immediately thought better of it.
As the room halted its unusual elliptical orbit, he took
stock ($11.54 a share) of his surroundings. The room was
completely devoid of furnishings, except for a thin straw pallet
on which he had been sprawled. The only light came from a small
barred window set high in the wall; the angle of the sun told
Fred it was about 9:30 in the morning.
He knew what had happened: he had fallen down a manhole and
been knocked out. Yet it was the future that consumed him now,
not the imperfect past; he found the present tense.
After precisely the right dramatic interval, two
stereotypical mobster types entered the room. They sported evil-
looking suits, evil-looking hats at evil-looking angles, evil-
looking shoes, evil-looking guns and evil-looking faces. Fred
concluded that he had found E.V.I.L.
One of the mobster types began to speak, and his voice was
not at all evil-sounding; in fact, it was quite pleasant. "Ahh,
awake at last. Come on, the boss wants to see you."
Guiding him verbally, the two mobsters manoeuvred Fred
through a veritable maze of corridors. A dishevelled man
stumbled past them. Fred gagged at the odour of liquor, but
forced himself to be pleasant. "Hi!"

- 6 -



"Not yet," the man grinned, lurching into the bar. Fred
sneaked a peek after him and received quite a shock. "Was that a
... CAT on a barstool?"
"Uh, sure; that's a rumpus," one of the guards said off-
handedly. "We just redecorated the bar: we put new drunks around
it."
Shaking his head in disbelief, Fred marched on. In due
course (or undue course; the maze was very confusing) the trio
came to a door. "In there," one of the heavies said, as the
other turned the handle. Fred found himself in a room imposing
in its un-imposingness. And seated not on a throne but on a
humble bridge chair was the brains of the globe-spanning E.V.I.L.
organization himself.
Fred had kept quiet during the journey, but now he was there
his questions burst forth: "Who? How? Why? Where? When? What
for?"
"Greetings, Zigmund Norton," said the man, gesturing to a
chair facing him. Fred seated himself, and the man continued: "I
am the criminal genius, aspiring dictator and humanitarian,
Justin Thyme." Fred looked blank. "Perhaps you know me better
under my NOM DE PLUME." Justin passed over a book: THE
BABYSITTING HANDBOOK by Justin Casey Howells. "Welcome to my
office, my home-away-from-home as it were, or is, or will be, or
whatever."
A statement worthy of Pierre Trudeau himself. Fred eyed the
man. He was not tall, but not short; not fat, but not skinny;
not handsome, but not ugly. In short, he was as conspicuous in
his averageness as the room itself.
As Fred completed his analysis, Justin asked, "Have you
eaten yet? Can I offer you a little something?" Fred
enthusiastically accepted; Justin summoned an assistant and
ordered them each a bowl of Quadraphonic Rice Krispies.
When they were done, Justin began answering Fred's
unanswered questions. He leafed through a sheaf of papers,
selected a couple. "From some of my ... SOURCES in the
government, I see," he paused briefly," that your hame is Ziggy
Norton, and you are a wanted criminal--although why anyone would
want a criminal is beyond me. You are known to have committed
the following crimes,"--Justin inhaled deeply--"murder, robbery,
rape, blackmail, looting, vandalism, kidnapping, seduction,
sedition, bribery, sabotage, arson, assault, voyeurism,
swindling, prostitution, forgery, smuggling, loitering, numbers
running, enticement, soliciting, weapons dealing, influence
peddling, entrapment, tax evasion, bodily harm, manslaughter,
burglary, battery, politics and jaywalking. Whew! Good work,
man!"
"And those are my good points," Fred quipped, his Ziggy
Norton persona coming to the fore (or maybe even to the five,
inflation being what it is (a bourgeoisie tool for manipulating
the masses)).
"Quite," smirked Justin. He shook his head and cracked his
knuckles. "I'll come straight to the point: I have brought you

- 7 -



here because I wish to enlist you in my organization."
"And suppose I refuse?" Fred asked belligerently, already
knowing the answer.
"You will be horribly killed, of course," replied Justin
pleasantly.
"We are alone in this room," Fred said deliberately. "I
could easily take you hostage, or kill you."
"Perhaps. But where would you flee? Take a gander out the
window." Fred took a gander out the window. The building they
were in was of modern ten-story construction in an old ghost
town. There was nothing but desert as far as the eye could see
(and a good deal further). "You see," said Justin, "deserters
get their just desserts in the desert."
"Ouch! 'I don't think we're in Washington any more,'" Fred
misquoted.
Justin spoke. "This town is the remains of once-proud
Deepinnaharta, Texas. The only way in or out is by E.V.I.L.
helicopter. Any other questions?"
"Yeah," was Fred's reply. "Where do I sign?"

* * *

Next A.M. Fred was sitting in his room getting ready for the big
day ahead. "So," he thought as he slipped on his shoes, "today I
go on my first E.V.I.L. mission. Should be a real blast."
There was the sound of a huge explosion. Several window
panes shattered, and Fred was thrown momentarily off-balance.
"That came from Justin's room," though Fred as he hurriedly
exited his own quarters. A few people could already be seen,
hurrying to assist their leader in any way possible.
Fred rushed into Justin's room. The bathroom door was off
its hinges, and he glimpsed the ruined room beyond the smoking
frame. "What happened?" he cried.
"Someone tried to kill me with a bomb in my electric razor,"
explained Justin. "Fortunately it went off a little prematurely,
but it was still a close shave."
"I'll say." Fred's brow furrowed in thought enough to give
a farmer a heart attack. He had a rival to destroy E.V.I.L.
Unfortunately, if the assassination attempt had succeeded, his
chance to gather intelligence would have gone too.
A security man made his report: "Sir! Preliminary
examination of the damage indicates that the persons who did this
are the enemy."
"Good Lord!" a deputy exclaimed. "Are they aware we have
this information?"
"No, sir," the security man said proudly. "We've got them
fooled: they think we're the enemy.
"Good work, man!" the deputy praised. Then angrily: "Why is
everyone smirking? Stop it!" He stalked out, followed by the
security man.
"Demote them both," Justin intoned, keeping his face under
tight reign, "and have someone clean up in here."

- 8 -



* * *

Fred reported at noon to Justin, who was personally overseeing
the reconstruction of his bathroom. As a deputy had slyly
remarked to Fred, "It's not the first time as assassination plot
has gone in the toilet." Fred admired the gleaming new chrome
and tiles, then turned to Justin.
"You said you'd be sending me on my first E.V.I.L. mission
today. I thought be a real--uh, be very interesting."
The room remained comfortably intact as Justin replied.
"Ah, yes; assassination attempts always unsettle my timetable.
Time waits for no man, though man waits for much time--won't be
long before the government introduced a waiting tax. I had in
mind sending you on a retrieval mission: you'll go to the
government building in Houston and pick up an envelope one of my,
um, employees has waiting. Bring it back here, without getting
caught."
Ziggy Norton went to work.
























- 9 -



PART THE THIRD: MONTAGE!

The weeks passed uncounted (few cheap thugs can count anyway).
Ziggy Norton's enthusiasm, dedication and wit enabled him to rise
swiftly through the complex infrastructure of E.V.I.L. power
(even as a pretentious vocabulary allows narration to replace
action).
Fred Wood was able to accomplish his assignment with greater
ease once he had achieved the coveted position of a deputy.
Throughout his search for evidence he gradually acquired an
intimate knowledge of E.V.I.L., and gained a grudging respect for
Justin Thyme.
Yet even as he collected the evidence necessary to destroy
E.V.I.L., Fred was unable to shake the feeling that a major piece
of the puzzle was still missing, that there was more to E.V.I.L.
than he had yet discovered ...

























- 10 -



PART THE FOURTH: DISCOVERIES

The next chapter: the time was midnight as the man called Ziggy
Norton by his friends within E.V.I.L. (of whom he had none)
exited his quarters. He was sneaking around, trying to find the
final piece of evidence that would finally rid the world of
E.V.I.L.
Stalking the halls and hauling the stalks, Fred came
eventually to--
"A sub-basement! No wonder I've never been here before; the
elevators don't go down this far."
Fred came to a small door set off from the main
thoroughfare. Stencilled on the door was the warning PRIVATE--
KEEP OUT. Ignoring this, Fred pushed the door open and suddenly--
Nothing happened. But it happened suddenly. Fred resolved
to stop listening to his collection of GOON SHOW records just
before bed.
Slowly Fred entered the room. It was pitch black, the only
light coming from a ventilation shaft that led directly up to
ground level. The moon was out and full; Fred thought as he
looked up the shaft at it that it was ideal werewolf weather.
The room lit up all over as hundreds of inhuman eyes snapped
open with an almost audible click. Fred gasped as required by
the script; as his eyes adjusted to the twilight zone he saw the
... CREATURES the eyes belonged to.
Every living being in the room was an animal.
"Get down, buddy; he'll be here soon." Fred looked down--
way down--and blinked in astonishment. He was being addressed by
a metre-tall anthropomorphic beaver.
The figure stood comfortably erect on two legs, and had
recognizable arms, and hands with opposable thumbs, but it was
unmistakably a beaver. The teeth and tail were a dead giveaway;
the apparition looked like nothing so much as a funny-animal
beaver from a Saturday morning cartoon.
"Y-you're a--" Fred began.
The beaver held up a paw. "Don't say it; that's copyrighted
by someone else," he said. "Glad to meet you, I'm Nevil Beaver,
and you've got to hide. He'll be here soon."
"Who'll be here?" Fred was finding it all rather hard to
absorb. Here he was surrounded by cartoon funny-animals, and
conversing with a beaver.
"Justin Thyme to you."
The name galvanized (also vulcanised and vandalised) Fred
into action. He followed the beaver to the back of the crowd of
anthropomorphic onlookers ... just in time, as Justin Thyme
entered the room. Thyme mounted the few steps to a pseudo-podium
situated beneath the ventilation shaft. A flip of the switch
subtly enhanced the moon's spotlighting effect with 1000-Watt
klieg lights. Justin was bathed in blinding light, looking very
radiant and majestic, and his eyes glowing brightest of all ...
Fred abandoned that line of thought before the prose got too
purple.

- 11 -



"Hello, my pets, my children," crooned Justin softly, yet
loudly enough to be heard throughout the chamber. "Your master
Bright Eyes is here. I must cut short my visit tonight, my poor
failures, for I am at last about to achieve success. Tonight I
shall have what you all are not: the perfect melding of human and
animal characteristics--the ultimate organic being! Under my
control we can conquer the world, and remake it without so many
evil stains upon it."
"Wow," whispered Fred. "That's heavy."
"Yeah, almost collapsed under its own weight," Nevil
whispered back.
Justin was still talking. " ... I even discovered the cure
for insomnia: sleep!" he crowed. "You don't get it? Of course
not; you possess not the capacity. So much potential ... so much
wasted potential ... Farewell, my failures; when next we meet I
will have a glorious success." Justin hurriedly killed the
lights and left the room.
Fred tapped Nevil on the, uh, shoulder. "Um, I think we can
use some expository dialogue here."
"That's a good idea; how did you come up with it?" the
beaver smiled.
"Ouch! Skewered by the rapier wit of the Wild Kingdom!"
cried Fred, clutching his heart. "What about an explanation?"
Nevil gestured at the group of creatures. "These are all
animals. The use of advanced cloning and genetic engineering
techniques produces, in the second generation, anthropomorphic
animals with increased intelligence. Thyme wants to remould the
world, using an army of animals, but all the results so far have
been only partial successes. The intelligence is there, but the
mind, the will to use it, is not. They're like computers: vast
capabilities if they're properly programmed, but they can only
respond to directives; they cannot think for themselves."
"Enough of this super-serious, pseudo-scientific stuff,"
Fred said. "What about you?"
"I'm a freak, a mutant," Nevil grinned. "I was his first
success, sort of. His Bright Eyes bit lost its hold on me once I
acquired learning--I used to sneak into his library. I taught
myself to read from the basics we all have here. I've hidden my
differences, though. Thyme uses us as spies in the outside
world. Who would report they saw an otter exiting a boardroom?
Especially a humanoid one? For instance, I know that you are
Fred Wood, Canadian super-secret-agent-spy, and--"
Fred was brought up sharply and dumped back into Ziggy
Norton. "I dunno wutchoo tokkin 'bout, mon," he said. "I'm a
crook, Ziggy Norton, and I dunno no Fred Would."
"Ah, come off it, Fred," Nevil said. "I was there in the
Oval Office when you were rapping with the President; if I'd
wanted to I could've turned you in long ago. Fact is, I'm trying
to tear E.V.I.L. apart myself; it was me who put that booby-
trapped razor in Thyme's bathroom."
"Okay, I have to accept that; there's no other explanation

- 12 -



for it in the story," Fred sighed. "You heard what he said: the
ultimate experiment tonight. We've got to stop him now."
"Sure. And I've got a plan. Go back to your room, and I'll
come get you in half an hour."
Fred agreed, and left the dingy and humourless chamber.
Plot exposition always made him weary. He closed the door and
stared into the muzzle of the pistol pointed at his left eyeball.
He turned slowly and faced an army of hit-men, mobsters and
thugs.
"Uh, ah, hiya, Justin, old sock," he said weakly to a figure
he recognized. "Nice layout you've got down here ..."
"Hello yourself, Ziggy. Or should I say Fred Wood?" replied
Justin Thyme coldly. "You didn't think you could trespass here,
in my sanctum sanctorum, and remain unnoticed, did you?"
"Well, I thought I'd give it a shot ... " began Fred.
"I suspected you from the beginning; you were too bad to be
true. And your bomb plot almost succeeded. Were it not for the
President's poor memory and his penchant for keeping records, I
might never have discovered you. But now your story comes to an
end."
And so, in a totally unexpected and flimsily-contrived plot
twist, Fred Wood found himself incarcerated--a cliff-hanger
ending to the chapter.





















- 13 -



PART THE FIFTH: RESOLUTION

Fred Wood was confined, unable to carry out his assigned
assignment. It appeared that all was lost--or at least
temporarily mislaid.
Fred stood in the centre of his dungeon and cast his eyes
about. That having accomplished nothing, he looked at his
surroundings. The cell was fairly large, with stone walls.
Synthetic straw littered the floor, covering the rough-hewn
planks of solid formica. The whole thing was very medieval.
Fred reflected on his situation: "Here I am, deep down in a
damp, dank dungeon with nothing but alliteration to keep me
company ... There's only one thing left for me now: excessive
self-pity." His thoughts were cut short by the cry that issued
from beyond his cell door.
The door cracked open; Fred braced himself for anything.
Nevil's head appeared in the doorway. "Pssssst!" he pssssst-ed.
"Fred! Come on, man! We've got save the world, remember?"
"My doctor says I have a natural deficiency in moral fibre
and therefore should be excused from saving the world ... "
mumbled Fred as he walked toward the door.
"Enough nosediving attempts at levity and Marlon Brando
impressions," said Nevil. "March!" Fred marched out of the
cell, only breaking step over the guard's unconscious body.
Sprinting aimlessly to provide dramatic tension, Fred turned
his head to Nevil. "I just had an idea: we get all your
anthropomorphic acquaintances to help us here."
"Good idea," affirmed Nevil. "Glad I thought of it."

* * *

Fred held open the door to the animal room and followed Nevil
inside. To facilitate an eerie atmosphere the lights were not
working, the room being illuminated only by the pillar of light
from the ventilation shaft. Nevil strode into the shaft, its
glow like a spotlight picking him out in stark relief from the
undescribed background, giving him the illusion of three
dimensions.
Uncertainly at first, Nevil began to speak. "Friends,
Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears--and no smart-ass remarks!"
"They can't understand your levity," Fred whispered, "and
I'm a little confused myself."
"It helps. It helps me!" Nevil whispered back. Then
loudly, "Our master, Bright Eyes, he's--he's not a good man, not
a good man at all. He's evil and must be stopped. He wants to
rule the world, and he plans to destroy all governments to do it.
We were created to preserve life, not destroy it; we must stop
him." Nevil suddenly appeared very small and alone in the light.
He lowered his head. "Help us."
Fred sat beside Nevil and patted him on the back. "You did
it, Nevil! They'll stand with us!" Then, as Nevil did not look
up, "Nevil? Come on, we've got a world to save, remember?"

- 14 -



Nevil's head came up fast. "Look, Fred--you can do this for
your high motives of saving the world and preserving democracy,
and I can see it, okay? But I'm doing it ... for them." Nevil
jerked a thumb at the assembled animals. "Come on. Let's get
the hell going."

* * *

Soon after, on the top floor of the E.V.I.L. building, Fred
halted the group. "Now, where's this laboratory we're looking
for?" Nevil indicated a sign on a nearby door: TOP SECRET SUPER
PRIVATE E.V.I.L. LABORATORY--DO NOT ENTER--THIS MEANS YOU. "I
wonder if we're getting warm?"
Nevi put his rodent ear against the door; he could make out
a few words: "... and, at 1:45 A.M. all will be in readiness.
Then you simply pull this switch."
"Fred!" he whispered hoarsely (a difficult thing for a
beaver to do). "I've got a plan! You go in there and try to
stop Thyme, but be out of there by quarter to two or I can't
answer for your health and welfare."
"Huh? Why?"
"Just be out of there by quarter to two. And don't let him
pull any switches." Ignoring the question marks floating in the
air, Nevil set off.
Cogitating momentarily, Fred came up with a plan. After a
hurried instruction of the animals, he checked his stock of
dramatic poses and entered the room.
Justin was instructing a technician. "This switch activates
the final stage. Once it is pulled, there is no going back. All
you have to do is--"
"Give it up, Thyme."
"Who--?!" Justin jerked around and saw the figure standing
in front of the closed doors. How had he gotten in without being
observed? "Ziggy Norton! Fred Wood!!"
"Stop it, Thyme. I'm closing you down."
"Oh yeah?" sneered Justin. "You and what army?"
"This one!" Fred cried. The doors behind him slid open,
exposing his anthropomorphic army to the ravages of Thyme.
"Very impressive," conceded Justin. "But you forget: I am
their creator, their commander, their ultimate poobah. I went
from things like crossing nettles with forget-me-nots to produce
painful reminders, and ended up with what you see here." He made
a sweeping gesture with one arm which served not only to
punctuate his speech but to command the animals. Surgically-
constructed hands closed on Fred's wrists as Justin began to
speak again. "You see, I have you helpless."
"And now, I suppose, you're going to order your creatures to
attack me, and we'll duke it out for the next few paragraphs."
"No," denied Justin, "I am going to inform you of my master
plan."
"I think I'd rather duke it out for the next few
paragraphs."

- 15 -



"Too bad." Justin expounded: "I took E.V.I.L.'s petty goal
for riches and turned it into a petty goal for power. Using
appropriated funds I attempted to engineer an intelligent,
rational being from a common animal. These creatures are my sad
failures; I turned them over to E.V.I.L. as spies. However, this
time I will succeed, and the union of human and animal
characteristics will create the perfect organic being. Using
those creatures as soldiers, I will conquer the world!"
Fred spoke up. "Well, that clears up all the loose ends,
continuity-wise, but why are you telling me this?"
Justin shrugged. "It's plot exposition; it has to go
somewhere. Enough of that; NOW it's time for the obligatory
fight scene. Attack EN MASSE!"
Not even bothering to ask what EN MASSE means, the animal
brigade surged forward. Fred knocked aside the animals holding
his arms and tried to get to Justin, but the army intercepted
him. Sighing resignedly, as the readers licked their lips at the
prospect of gratuitous violence, Fred prepared to engage in
fisticuffs.
Even as he beat off his assailants, Fred found time to look
around the laboratory for the first time since finding Thyme.
The place was built in an excitingly chunky, Kirby-esque way with
lots of whirring computers and flashing lights. Several
connections connected to a large tube in which could be seen a
... shape. The ultimate genetics experiment.
Justin was as affected by the sea of inhuman flesh as Fred;
he was trying to reach the traditional large knife switch that
would set in motion the final, irrevocable phase of the
experiment.
"Justin! Stop! You don't know what forces you're playing
with!" hollered Fred.
"On the contrary," Justin Thyme shouted back, "I know
precisely: the forces of life!"
Fred tore himself from alien clutches. "You're playing
God!"
"SOMEBODY HAS TO!!" Justin heaved at the switch as Fred
launched himself through the air in a vain attempt at prevention.
His tackle caught Justin high, momentum carrying them both out
the ten story window. The fall was smooth, interrupted by the
water of the Olympic-sized swimming pool.
Just as the two completed their unplanned dive, a shock wave
of tremendous amplitude rocked the building to its foundations.
It was followed by a deafeningly explosive noise, somewhat akin
to a Def Leppard concert. Fragments large and small were flung
from the newly-promoted ninth floor; of the tenth there was no
sign. A few chunks of debris plopped into the pool and sank,
sizzling. Fred and Justin crawled from the water, their bodies
still tingling from the explosion.
"Th-that was Nevil's doing," Fred said aloud, shaken and not
caring if anyone heard. "He-he was one of the good guys--he
sacrificed himself for us ... "
"Who did?" asked a voice from behind him. Fred whirled.

- 16 -



"Nevil!" he cried.
"Who else?"
"Who?" asked Justin from the ground. "Why, you're one of my
creations. You can think independently. I succeeded!"
"Sure you did, big boy," Nevil told him, "more than you'll
ever know. But I'm a double agent."
"You betrayed me!" Justin said, wonder and admiration in his
voice. "It all fits now! You leaked information about us to the
President. You gave us false reports. I placed you in a high
position and you screwed me; you're human!" Justin passed out.
Nevil turned to Fred. "So I'm human, eh? That's not what
the folks on Twenty-third Street tell me when I buy the morning
paper." He looked at Justin, then back at Fred. "The question
is, what am I going to do now? I'm too old for the state
orphanage, and too young for Social Security."
"I'm not sure how they'd classify your age, but I can see
how you're an orphan," Fred said. "As a rational being, your
parents are scientific instruments."
"I want a girl just like the girl who married a dear old
syringe," sand Nevil, perfectly on key.
"Exactly," quoth Fred. Then he had a sudden flash of
inspiration: "Come back to Canada with me. I could get you a job
as a super-secret-agent-spy. We could be partners."
"Ummmm," Nevil ummmmed. "I appreciate the offer, Fred, I
really do, but from all I've learned and from all you've told me
... well, I need some time to myself, to discover who I am and
how I fit into this 'world I never made'. I hope you
understand."
"Sure I understand; we must each seek our own destiny. But
is that a yes or a no?"
"It's a yes ... partner."
"Great!" Fred grated. "But you realize that you'll have to
undergo extensive training before you can assume full status."
"Sure," Nevil nodded. "But I'm young and smart and willing.
I'll be a full-fledged super-secret-agent-spy by the next story,
and after that it's on-the-job training."
The two shook hands in a highly symbolic and cloyingly
sentimental gesture, then said together: "A team!"

* * *

Having made their decision, Fred and Nevil cleaned up the area
and reported back to the White House with Thyme to spare. Lavish
praise was heaped upon them and, in the epilogue back in Canada,
Fred told their story.
" ... so the government decided that since Thyme is a
frustrated humanitarian who had been pushed over the edge, they
put him on probation under psychiatric observation. He's working
on a project concerning the feasibility of using cloned organs in
transplant operations. E.V.I.L. is gone, as they've arrested
everybody, and on top of all that I've recruited a new super-
secret-agent-spy. That nicely wraps up all the loose ends. Not

- 17 -



the best of endings, but isn't it tidy?"
The Minister of Defence nodded. "Good work, Fred. I've a
feeling we'll be needing you again soon. Better get some rest."
That last was a feeling echoed by the villain of our piece;
at that very moment he was feeling rather tired:
"Beddy-byes! Where's my dolly?"
"Here I am, darling," a sultry voice answered.
"I'm not that innocent," said Justin Thyme. "Boy, I love
happy endings!"

- FINIS -




























- 18 -
 
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