Professor Farnsworth released the button on the microphone he was holding. "She's not responding," he said somberly. "I hope nothing's happened to her."
"Ya know," mused Bender, "I'll bet fewer people will kill themselves once they realize they can pick up someone's psychic residue just by walking into a suicide booth."
"It's spooky," Cubert remarked. "And the potential for lawsuits is even spookier."
The professor attempted to contact the Planet Express ship again, but Amy was in no position to respond. "Don't answer that," said Fry, waving the barrel of his laser pistol in her direction.
It's a .44 Zapgun, the most powerful blaster in the world, thought Amy as her painted fingernails dug into the armrests of the captain's chair. It could blow my head right off. I've got to ask myself a question—do I feel lucky?
"Farnsworth to Amy," the professor's voice sounded. "Amy, come in. I have reason to believe that Fry may be dangerous."
"He doesn't know how dangerous," said Fry cockily. "The old crackpot."
The spacecraft rumbled and shook as it passed through a stormcloud high above the District of Columbia. Amy swiveled in her seat and gazed at the armed redhead, who glowered back. He doesn't know that I really set a course for Arlington National Cemetery, she thought. We'll be killed, but we won't take anyone with us who isn't already dead. She swung around slowly, and focused her eyes on the copilot seat ejection button. That little red button could be the answer. I'd have to time it just right…and I'd have to distract him somehow…
She turned her attention back to Fry. "Uh, is it all right if I stand up?" she requested. "I'm getting a cramp in my leg."
"All right," said Fry with a suspicious glare. "But keep your hands where I can see them."
If only I were Leela, thought Amy as she unlatched her shoulder harness. Then you'd have to worry about my feet instead of my hands. Once she had risen, she struck a seductive pose and tried to come up with something distracting to say.
"No tricks," Fry cautioned her from three yards away. "No sudden moves. My finger's on the trigger."
He's from the 20th century, Amy told herself. There's a lot he doesn't know about our time. I've got to use that to my advantage somehow. Hey…I've got it!
She smiled facetiously. "If you're dead set on throwing your life away for nothing," she taunted the grim-looking Fry, "then go right ahead. I won't stand in your way."
"What do you mean?" said Fry, taking a step closer to her. "I'm gonna assassinate Nixon."
"No, you're not," said Amy as she minced stealthily, placing the copilot's chair between herself and Fry. "Get with the times, Philip. In your century, anyone could hijack a plane and drop it on the President. But in the 31st century, that won't work."
Visibly angered, Fry strode forward and pressed the point of the laser pistol against Amy's nose. "Why won't it?" he demanded.
The blocky-haired girl shuffled back a few inches, forcing Fry to lean slightly over the back of the chair. The sight of the glassy, glowing beam projector at the end of Fry's gun sent a chill through her, but she spoke as bravely as she could. "President Nixon will deliver his State of the World address from the Oval Office," she told him, "and the Oval Office is protected by a force field."
"A what?" Fry sputtered. "A force field?"
"A force field," Amy assured him. "It's been in place ever since the Omicronian invasion. It's so strong, even a nuclear bomb can't penetrate it."
She could see Fry's gun hand quiver with consternation. "You're lying," he snarled.
"If you go through with this," she went on, unperturbed, "you won't kill Nixon, but you will kill a buttload of innocent people."
Uncertainty registered on Fry's face, indicating to Amy that it was time to act. In one quick, limber movement, she leaned backwards and reached for the console, punching the red eject button. Before Fry had a chance to regain his focus, a panel flew open in the hull above him, and the copilot chair exploded upwards like a rocket. The rim of the chair struck his chin with such force that he performed a double back flip before landing belly-up and unconscious on the cabin floor.
Fry awoke to a world of spinning blurs and tremendous pain. He could make out four, or maybe five, amorphous objects towering above him. "Wh-where am I?" he attempted to say, but as his mouth would not open, he could only manage "Wh-whmmmph mmmph?"
"He's coming to," uttered three simultaneous voices that sounded like Leela's.
He knew that he was lying down on a mattress, but didn't recognize the feel of the mattress. He remembered only bits and pieces of the previous few days. The lights in the ceiling of the strange room pierced his brain like daggers. It hurt even to think.
"Good news, everyone!" It was Professor Farnsworth's voice. "The Psychoencephalograph reports that Fry's brain has reverted to its normal configuration. He's no longer a detail-obsessed paranoid conspiracy nut."
"That is good news, professor," Fry heard Amy say.
"Indeed," said Farnsworth. "As I endeavored to prove in my doctoral dissertation, any type of mental disorder can be completely cured by a strong enough blow to the head."
In his mouth, Fry sensed the coldness of metal and a slight taste of blood. His head, throbbing with agony, felt as if it was being held together by duct tape and baling wire. "Sweet frog of Prague!" exclaimed the voice of Hermes. "His head's bein' held together with duct tape and baling wire!"
"What did you expect?" said Zoidberg from nearby. "My hands are claws, for crying out loud."
A warm, smooth hand caressed Fry's cheek. "I was so worried about you," uttered Amy's voice. "I'm sorry I had to knock you out, but I couldn't let you kill the President."
Kill the President? he thought with alarm. "Kmmm thmm Prmmmdmmt?" he mumbled.
"Even though he does have it comin'," said a bluish-silver blur with a spike rising out of its head. "I'm just glad you're not the one who did the deed, 'cause I wouldn't want to get involved."
I tried to kill the President, thought Fry. God, I'm a bad drunk.
Amy, Bender, and Zoidberg remained at Fry's side in the clinic, while Farnsworth, Leela, and Hermes made their way to the exit of the PE building. "There's still the problem of finding a new delivery boy to fill Fry's position," said Leela.
"Oh, that's not a problem at all," said Farnsworth, directing his words to Hermes. "Since his name is still on the personnel records, we can simply pretend he was never fired. That way, you won't need to fill out any extra forms."
"But I like filling out forms," Hermes protested.
Once they reached the sidewalk, Farnsworth spotted a suicide booth a block away and marched determinedly towards it. "Where are you going, professor?" Leela asked him.
"I'm going to see if Cubert's psychic residue theory holds water or not," said the old man as the other pedestrians walked past him, or rather, dodged him.
"Okay, mon," said Hermes, following after. "Just don't kill yourself."
To the New New Yorkers who waited impatiently in line for their turn to die, Farnsworth said, "Pardon me, I'm a safety inspector." Grumbling, they stood to one side as the wizened scientist stepped into the booth and closed the door.
"If Cubert's right," Leela said to Hermes, "then the professor may walk out of there a totally different person."
"I'll believe it when I see it," said the Jamaican.
A few seconds passed, and Farnsworth emerged from the booth, his head bowed with apparent grief. Leela quicky approached the glum-looking senior citizen. "Professor, what's wrong?" she asked.
He shook his head weakly. "I look old," he lamented. "I don't know how anybody can stand to look so old."
"There, there," said Leela, stroking his shoulders. "You look old because you are old. It's part of life."
Farnsworth shot her a grateful look. "Leela, I need some advice," he said. "Which foundation do you think would work best for my skin type?"
THE END