Short Fiction by Fritz Leiber (top romance novels .TXT) 📕

what is behind all this, Mr. Snedden? What recalculations were you trusting, when our physicists had demonstrated months ago that the helium loaf was safely stackable in light airs and gentle breezes⁠—winds up to Beaufort’s scale 3. Why should a change from heavier to lighter wrappers result in complete non-delivery?”

Roger Snedden’s paleness became tinged with an interesting green. He cleared his throat and made strange gulping noises. Tin Philosopher’s photocells focused on him calmly, Rose Thinker’s with unfeigned excitement. P. T. Gryce’s frown grew blacker by the moment, while Megera Winterly’s Venus-mask showed an odd dawning of dismay and awe. She was getting new squawks in her earphones.

“Er⁠ ⁠… ah⁠ ⁠… er⁠ ⁠…” Roger said in winning tones. “Well, you see, the fact is that I⁠ ⁠…”

“Hold it,” Meg interrupted crisply. “Triple-urgent from Public Relations, Safety Division. Tulsa-Topeka aero-express makes emergency landing after being buffeted in encounter with vast flight of objects first described as brown birds, although no failures reported in airway’s electronic anti-bird fences. After grounding safely near Emporia⁠—no fatalities⁠—pilot’s windshield found thinly plastered with soft white-and-brown material. Emblems on plastic wrappers embedded in material identify it incontrovertibly as an undetermined number of Puffyloaves cruising at three thousand feet!”

Eyes and photocells turned inquisitorially upon Roger Snedden. He went from green to Puffyloaf white and blurted: “All right, I did it, but it was the only way out! Yesterday morning, due to the Ukrainian crisis, the government stopped sales and deliveries of all strategic stockpiled materials, including helium gas. Puffy’s new program of advertising and promotion, based on the lighter loaf, was already rolling. There was only one thing to do, there being only one other gas comparable in lightness to helium. I diverted the necessary quantity of hydrogen gas from the Hydrogenated Oils Section of our Magna-Margarine Division and substituted it for the helium.”

“You substituted⁠ ⁠… hydrogen⁠ ⁠… for the⁠ ⁠… helium?” Phineas T. Gryce faltered in low mechanical tones, taking four steps backward.

“Hydrogen is twice as light as helium,” Tin Philosopher remarked judiciously.

“And many times cheaper⁠—did you know that?” Roger countered feebly. “Yes, I substituted hydrogen. The metal-foil wrapping would have added just enough weight to counteract the greater buoyancy of the hydrogen loaf. But⁠—”

“So, when this morning’s loaves began to arrive on the delivery platforms of the walking mills⁠ ⁠…” Tin Philosopher left the remark unfinished.

“Exactly,” Roger agreed dismally.

“Let me ask you, Mr. Snedden,” Gryce interjected, still in low tones, “if you expected people to jump to the kitchen ceiling for their Puffybread after taking off the metal wrapper, or reach for the sky if they happened to unwrap the stuff outdoors?”

“Mr. Gryce,” Roger said reproachfully, “you have often assured me that what people do with Puffybread after they buy it is no concern of ours.”

“I seem to recall,” Rose Thinker chirped somewhat unkindly, “that dictum was created to answer inquiries after Roger put the famous sculptures-in-miniature artist on 3D and he testified that he always molded his first attempts from Puffybread, one jumbo loaf squeezing down to approximately the size of a peanut.”

Her photocells dimmed and brightened. “Oh, boy⁠—hydrogen! The loaf’s unwrapped. After a while, in spite of the crust-seal, a little oxygen diffuses in. An explosive mixture. Housewife in curlers and kimono pops a couple slices in the toaster. Boom!”

The three human beings in the room winced.

Tin Philosopher kicked her under the table, while observing, “So you see, Roger, that the non-delivery of the hydrogen loaf carries some consolations. And I must confess that one aspect of the affair gives me great satisfaction, not as a Board Member but as a private machine. You have at last made a reality of the ‘rises through the air’ part of Puffybread’s theme. They can’t ever take that away from you. By now, half the inhabitants of the Great Plains must have observed our flying loaves rising high.”

Phineas T. Gryce shot a frightened look at the west windows and found his full voice.

“Stop the mills!” he roared at Meg Winterly, who nodded and whispered urgently into her mike.

“A sensible suggestion,” Tin Philosopher said. “But it comes a trifle late in the day. If the mills are still walking and grinding, approximately seven billion Puffyloaves are at this moment cruising eastward over Middle America. Remember that a six-month supply for deepfreeze is involved and that the current consumption of bread, due to its matchless airiness, is eight and one-half loaves per person per day.”

Phineas T. Gryce carefully inserted both hands into his scanty hair, feeling for a good grip. He leaned menacingly toward Roger who, chin resting on the table, regarded him apathetically.

“Hold it!” Meg called sharply. “Flock of multiple-urgents coming in. News Liaison: information bureaus swamped with flying-bread inquiries. Aero-expresslines: Clear our airways or face lawsuit. U.S. Army: Why do loaves flame when hit by incendiary bullets? U.S. Customs: If bread intended for export, get export license or face prosecution. Russian Consulate in Chicago: Advise on destination of bread-lift. And some Kansas church is accusing us of a hoax inciting to blasphemy, of faking miracles⁠—I don’t know why.”

The business girl tore off her headphones. “Roger Snedden,” she cried with a hysteria that would have dumbfounded her underlings, “you’ve brought the name of Puffyloaf in front of the whole world, all right! Now do something about the situation!”

Roger nodded obediently. But his pallor increased a shade, the pupils of his eyes disappeared under the upper lids, and his head burrowed beneath his forearms.

“Oh, boy,” Rose Thinker called gayly to Tin Philosopher, “this looks like the start of a real crisis session! Did you remember to bring spare batteries?”

Meanwhile, the monstrous flight of Puffyloaves, filling midwestern skies as no small fliers had since the days of the passenger pigeon, soared steadily onward.

Private fliers approached the brown and glistening bread-front in curiosity and dipped back in awe. Aero-expresslines organized sightseeing flights along the flanks. Planes of the government forestry and agricultural services and ’copters bearing the Puffyloaf emblem hovered on the fringes, watching developments and waiting for orders. A squadron of supersonic fighters hung