Myself: The specially gifted. Are they the next step in our evolution or abominable freaks of nature?
Smuthers: Or a hoax?
Myself: Not these freaks.
Smuthers: Are you sure?
Myself: Sure I'm sure. I tested them.
Smuthers: How?
Myself: I asked them to guess the number of hairs on a cat.
Smuthers: (Laughing) And how could you know the answer, yourself?
Myself: It wasn't easy. I had to shear the cat, gather the trimmings into a bag, and use a super sensitive scale to compute its number of hairs by weight.
Smuthers: And your guests guessed it?
Myself: No, but they were only off by a hair. Speaking of whom, our first possesses a most uncanny talent; the supermarket can't pull anything on this guy. And yet you can tell by his laces that he still hasn't learned to tie a knot. We've put Janie on a checkout machine to test his accuracy. Would you kindly join me in welcoming Arnold Baker, Barcode Breaker! (I rise and lightly applaud with the audience. Enter a conservatively dressed Baker, wearing a gas mask. He pulls off the mask and we shake hands.) Thanks for coming. Hope you don't mind our smog.
Baker: (As we sit) I had to remove my gas mask so you could hear my voice.
Myself: Indeed. Most gracious of you. Now to demonstrate your outstanding gift, I've compiled a short list of household items for you to convert into barcodes on the spot. My delightful assistant will check your answers as we go along. Are you ready, Janie?
Smuthers: (Standing at machine) I don't know. Orange sparks were flying out of this thing when it powered up. Are you sure it's safe?
Myself: I'm sure you have nothing to worry about on such an ordinary device. All right, Mr Baker, the first household item on my list is 'lotion.'
Baker: 0-56594-00305-7.
Myself: Is that right, Janie?
Smuthers: (Typing the number) Hold on. (Reading result) It spells Aloe Body Rub.
Myself: That sounds like two for two! (Cheers.) A wig.
Baker: 0-60100-03615-6.
Smuthers: (After typing) Ash Blond Hairpiece Number Five-Eight. What the hell kind of products are those?
Myself: I got them out of a catalog.
Smuthers: Do you smell something burning? Oh no! (The checkout machine erupts in a small fire. Smuthers must act quickly to drown the flames with a beverage.)
Myself: Perfect score! Great job! (I take his hand and shake it profusely. Loud cheers.) We've finally had a flawless segment on this show!
Smuthers: This death trap almost started a fire!
Myself: You must be very successful.
Baker: No, not really.
Myself: No?
Baker: That's why I was glad to read in our agreement that this show would pay six figures. (Smuthers bursts into hysterical laughter.)
Myself: Have you read the fine print? Use this. (I give Baker a magnifying glass. He plucks a document from his breast pocket and examines it through the glass.)
Baker: (Reading) 000,000.
COMMERCIAL
Myself: Up next is a man whose conversations with birds have furnished him with inexplicable knowledge. We'll just have to take his word for it. Mr Martin Finch! (Applause. Enter Finch. I rise to shake his hand. An occupied birdcage sits on my desk. We take our seats.) Thanks for coming. I bet you could get this parrot to talk. It only wants to squawk and whistle for me.
Finch: In fact it is repeating the phrase, 'talk is cheap.' (Smothers scowls in skepticism.)
Myself: It is? (Examining bird) It must be smarter than it looks.
Finch: Yes, but that's all it seems to know. I'm afraid you can't learn much from pet parrots. They seldom have anything original to say. I find pigeons far more enlightening.
Smuthers: Do any pay for your act?
Myself: For your information, Mr Finch is a forensic specialist. Tell us how you help the police, sir.
Finch: I just tell the police what the birds tell me.
Myself: Sounds innocent enough. (Smuthers rolls her eyes.) What do the birds tell you?
Finch: Well, last week the ravens told me about the freshly slain corpse of a young lady in the woods. I passed the details on to the police, which led them straight to just such a body. No one had noticed her absence yet. We were the only ones who knew about it. (To Smuthers) She was about your age.
Myself: Incredible. The ravens must have communicated with you. There's no other explanation.
Smuthers: Did they catch the killer?
Finch: Not yet, they're working on it.
Smuthers: And you're the only one who knew about it?
Finch: Just me and the ravens. I'm good at helping police find the slain bodies of young women who look like you. The geese helped me to locate another one on the beach. And the pigeons found one in an alley. They were all about your age and weight and height, with roughly your hairstyle. And they'd all been killed the same way. Nobody else knew where the bodies were but us.
Smuthers: (Dismayed) You and the birds.
Finch: Yes.
Smuthers: (Trembling) How were they killed?
Finch: Smothered. (Smuthers gulps.) Gloved hands. No prints. No murder weapon. Very tidy. There's supposed to be one more in the desert. The starlings heard it from a buzzard. Would you like to ride out there with me on the back of my motorcycle? We can see if it's true. It'll give me a chance to break in my new riding gloves. (He dons black leather gloves.)
Myself: Go for it, Janie! Sounds like fun! (Enter police abruptly.)
Police: (Seizing and cuffing the guest) Martin Finch, you are under arrest for four counts of girlslaughter. Sorry, folks, we just missed him at his home and had to track him down here. Are you all right, Miss? You look like you're just his type. (Smuthers feints.)
Myself: And now for a timely distraction...
COMMERCIAL: Pseudo-Gin Non-Alcoholic Cocktail
(An afternoon get-together. A seated guest has just been served a drink.)
Guest: Lemonade? Good thing I brought my Pseudo-Gin. (He pulls out a mickey, unscrews the cap, and takes a long gulp from the bottle.) Ah! Now we're getting somewhere.
Disappointed by healthy refreshments? Pseudo-Gin offers the hard kick of a dry martini without getting you plastered.
(An hour later. A waitress, standing with a tray, taps the guest on the shoulder from behind. He yelps and ducks under the table.)
Succumb to the grip of Pseudo-Gin Non-Alcoholic Cocktail.
Myself: With a brief glimpse, she can detect the exact velocity of an object in motion! (Rising) May I present the remarkable Janet Claire! (Applause. Enter Claire in a lab coat. I lead her to the guest chair.) So you work at NASA?
Claire: I do.
Myself: You must have been a whiz at math.
Claire: No, I'm bad at counting.
Myself: Did you say accounting?
Claire: No, counting. I can't make it past two. After that, I'm only guessing.
Myself: What about the speed of light?
Claire: It appears to me as a vision.
Myself: You really can't count? (Holding up three fingers) How many fingers?
Claire: Ten?
Myself: Good heavens! How did you get into NASA?
Claire: (Beaming) Through the universal business of catering.
Myself: I see. Well, rather than asking you to serve this egg salad sandwich, I'm going to do it myself with this tennis racket, driving it past that radar post, which has been turned around to hide its readout. I will ask you first to guess its speed and my charming assistant will tell us what the radar says. Are you in position back there, Janie?
Voice of Smuthers: (From behind the radar post) Yes, I'm here. Can't you see me?
Myself: Are you ready, Miss Claire?
Claire: Fire away.
Myself: Okay, oh, and please round off your figures to the nearest whole number. (Drum roll. I squish the bread into a solid dough ball and belt it with the racket.)
Claire: One hundred and two miles per hour.
Myself: Is that all?
Voice of Smuthers: One zero two miles per hour. (Cheers.)
Myself: Very good, Miss Claire!
Claire: Thank you.
Myself: Janie, please keep your head out of sight. It's dangerous.
Voice of Smuthers: But I want to see.
Myself: Stay in position. Now let's see how our guest performs with this crossbow. (Drum roll. I aim and shoot into the centre of an archery target.)
Claire: Five hundred and twelve miles per hour.
Voice of Smuthers: Five hundred and twelve miles per hour. (Cheers.)
Myself: Janie, you exposed your head again. You're taking a grave risk.
Voice of Smuthers: I wanted to see the arrow.
Myself: You'll see it sticking out between your eyes if you keep taking chances like that. Good work, Miss Claire. Still time for one more. Let's use the bazooka.
Voice of Smuthers: Bazooka? Isn't that a little dangerous?
Myself: (Shouldering the barrel) Don't worry, I unscrewed the warhead. This'll be great. (I crouch, aim, and fire. A blinding flash is followed by a thundering blast.)
Claire: Zero to eight hundred and thirty-five miles per hour. (A small mushroom cloud hovers above a blackened void where radar post formerly stood.)
Myself: Oh no, a live round! How did that get in there? Janie! Are you still with us? Janie! Answer me! I can't see anything but smoke!
Voice of Smuthers: (Offstage) I'm over here. I dropped my lip balm and it rolled away on me. Chasing after it led me out of the blast zone.
Myself: Thank goodness!
Smuthers: (Approaching) I've just met a nice lawyer in the audience with some questions for you about workplace safety. (I vanish.) Hey, where'd you go?
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