by John Brunner
"You mean that?" Murray hesitated. It was plausible, granted. He'd worked once for a few weeks with someone who exactly fitted Lester's description, who had been paying out fat fees to a charlatan for collections of minerals to improve the color of his aura. This guy had hated to admit the fact.
"I'd be inclined to bet on it." Lester waved toward the embroidery. "At first glance, you see, that pattern makes a sort of sense. Make it up in copper tube, you might even be able to get TV signals with it. But on close inspection it doesn't figure. It's got just about the right half-baked quality to fit my theory."
"And the stuff in the TV set, too?"
"More than likely." As though reminded, Lester moved toward the set and began cautiously to replace the rear panel. "I don't see how it can be important enough to worry about. Far as I'm concerned, Delgado can believe in table turning if he chooses. I was telling you when I came in, wasn't I, that what he's doing strikes me as pretty well miraculous?"
"Yes, but -- "
Lester finished replacing the back of the television, stood up, and clapped Murray on the shoulder.
"Come off it!" he said. "I'd have thought you were glad enough to be in on the deal after the bad times you've been through, without bothering yourself about Delgado's cranky notions."
Murray forced a smile. "I ought to have more sense, I guess. You're quite right. Better this than the breadline."
When Lester had gone out, Murray lit a cigarette and stared at the design on the mattress.
Sure. Very plausible. But somehow I don't feel there's an off-the-top-of-the-head explanation. 1 think it goes deeper.
He came to an abrupt decision. It was on the level of poking a stick into a hornets' nest to see what would happen, but he was growing impatient. These irksome problems were destroying his ability to sink himself, as the others were doing, in the creation of the play. And he wanted to do that.
He grasped the head of the mattress and hauled on it. The metal thread twanged and snapped as it had done last night. Once more he pulled the whole of the thread free, rolled it up, and tossed it in an ashtray.
Then he went to the cable of the TV set and looked it over. It occurred to him that if it was carrying the load Lester suspected, he had better not take it in his hands for what he had in mind. Instead, he picked up the entire set with a grunt -- it was much heavier than it appeared -- and carried it across the room.
When the cable was taut, he took a fresh grip, and lunged forward, expecting the cable either to break or to pull loose. It did neither. Another six or seven feet of cable emerged from the hole in the floor, and beyond the wall -- in room number thirteen -- there was a monumental crash. It sounded as though someone had thrown a crate of milk bottles into a pile of scrap iron and brought the lot tumbling.
Murray raised an eyebrow. A smile quirked the corner of his mouth. With exaggerated care he restored the television to its stand and turned back the carpet over the extra length of cable.
Then he went to the door of the room and opened it a quarter-inch. He waited, his eye at the narrow slit. Soon he was rewarded by seeing the normally imperturbable Valentine come down the corridor at a dead run.
Well, what do you know?
The door of room thirteen opened and closed. Murray shut his own door and went to put his ear to the dividing wall. All he heard, though, was a tinkling and clanging as though Valentine were picking up the pieces.
Good enough. Now to find out what Delgado's reaction was. He left the room and went downstairs whistling.
X
The reaction came, but though it might have originated with Delgado, it came from Blizzard, and Murray had to wait patiently for it until more than an hour after the end of dinner.
There was rain rattling at the windows. He listened to it while keeping up a desultory conversation with Adrian Gardner, and then was struck by a casual thought. Everyone was here apart from Blizzard and Delgado; the group was becoming almost agoraphobic. No one had suggested going to explore the local pubs, or even walking around the grounds during the lunch break, either yesterday or today. The shower, and the breeze which had brought it, might have been an Arctic snowstorm.
Go for a drive after dinner tomorrow night, maybe. Don't want to box in my mind completely. . . .
"Murray, I'd like a word with you. Excuse us, Ade -- it's important."
With a start Murray returned from his private musings. Blizzard had appeared and taken a chair facing him, and Adrian, shrugging, was getting up to go and talk to someone else.
"Yes, Sam -- what can I do for you?" Murray said.
"You can stop being a damned nuisance, if you really want to know," Blizzard answered. He took a cigar from his pocket, bit off the end, and spat the fragment into a handy ashtray. There was a table lighter within reach. Blizzard picked it up and lit the cigar.
Murray waited till he had finished. Then he said, "Sam, if you're trying to get my back up, I warn you, you won't like it when you succeed. How am I supposed to be a damned nuisance?"
"Have you been mucking about with the TV set in your room?"
"I thought I might prefer it on the other side of the bed," Murray said blandly. "If that's 'mucking about,' I'll confess to it cheerfully."
Blizzard looked at him intently. But his professional mask was proof against the scrutiny. Finally the director gave a sigh.
"Well, for Christ's sake don't do it again," he said. "I had Valentine come to me practically in hysterics. Look, all the sets upstairs are connected to a rediffusion system. Apparently you hauled on the flex of your set, and it pulled over a stand of equipment and smashed about fifty quid's worth of valves and junk." He wiped his forehead. "Murray, I don't have to tell you that there's more money behind this venture than anything else I've ever tangled with. But it's not a bottomless supply, you know."
"So it's supposed to be a rediffusion system," Murray nodded, ignoring the last part of what Blizzard had said. "How odd. Lester didn't think it was."
He cocked one eyebrow, preserving the most innocent expression he could contrive.
"Lester! So that was your doing, too. Murray, what the hell are you playing at? Is your vanity hurt or something? Because if you don't like it here, I'm sure we can -- "
"Just a second," Murray cut in. The near passion in Blizzard's voice had taken him aback. "What am I alleged to have done to Lester?"
"He came to me before dinner with some kind of solemn warning about Delgado." Blizzard shot a rapid glance around the room to ensure he was not overheard. "He was saying he thinks Delgado is a crank of some kind because of these tape recorders in the beds that you were kicking up a stink about last night. Murray, will you please do me a favor and shut your big mouth?"
Murray tensed. He leaned forward. "Sam, are you trying to run this place like a concentration camp? Are you putting a ban on curiosity? Jesus, you know the kind of people we have here! You want hysteria?"
"No, that's precisely what I don't want, and it's also what you're likely to cause. Listen to me, Murray. We know each other pretty well -- we've worked together before -- so you won't misunderstand me unless you deliberately want to. I'm no happier than anybody else with this notion of cramming a dozen high-strung people under one roof and then working them up to fever pitch. I've never heard of anything like it before. But it happens to be Delgado's preferred method of tackling things, and if he wants it, I want it. What's your impression of Delgado so far, Murray?"
"I'm still working it out."
"I've been involved with him -- and his backers -- for about four or five months." Blizzard tipped the ash off his cigar. "I know what I think about him. The man is a simon-pure, twenty-four-karat genius. He makes my skin crawl, but he also makes me shiver with awe. Ever hear me say that about anyone else, Murray?"
"So you see what I mean. He has fantastic talent. He has incredible money behind him, from some Argentine billionaire who apparently wants to prove some point about his country's culture by selling it to Europe. I have t
o keep this gang of neurotics under control -- ah, sorry! It slipped out, Murray."
"We're all neurotic," Murray said without humor.
"Yes. Let me get on, anyway. The point I'm making is that I don't want irrelevancies to foul us up. If Delgado wants to use this sleep-learning gag, let him, because neither your nor Lester nor a gang of professors will make me interfere. And does it matter , anyway? If it works it works, if it doesn't why should you worry? I'm not banning curiosity, as you put it. I'm trying to keep the project on the rails."
Murray hesitated. There was such naked emotion in Blizzard's voice that he felt slightly ashamed of himself. It hadn't been necessary to pull the cable of the TV and smash fifty pounds' worth of gear, after all; there was no good reason to take Lester's word about a rediffusion system instead of Blizzard's. Lester wasn't a TV repairman, only a lighting engineer with a hobbyist's interest in electronics.
He said at length, "You could have started off better, Sam. I haven't any illusions left about myself. Don't think I'm ungrateful. I'm glad to be involved with this. But on the strength of the film Delgado made, and his work in Paris, you could have asked for Fleet Dickinson, or . . . or could you?"
He hadn't meant to finish in those words. But a memory of what Roger Grady had told him crossed his mind. It had been something about getting a flat no from someone to whom he wasn't even making an offer.
Fortunately Blizzard was prepared to take his suggestion at face value. "It's not quite like that, Murray. Delgado is authoritarian as hell. I'm sure you've noticed. He does it cleverly, and he's so transparently right that as long as you're caught up in his enthusiasm you don't mind. But I've worked with Fleet more times than I can remember, on things like Absalom's Father and our modern-dress Lear. He's used to being boss."
Blizzard broke off. "Odd! You know, it just hit me, Murray, this is the first time I've seriously talked about what we're doing with you, or Ida, or Ade -- in fact, with anybody except Delgado. I don't know what the hell's come over me."
"He's come over you," Murray said. "I'm a bit worried, Sam. I mean, it's good to know you have such confidence in the guy. We're going to need confidence if we're to turn out a West End production from where we are now. For Christ's sake don't lose your objectivity. I can see us going up with a stinker, and we'll all be drunk on it and think it's a masterpiece."
"I'm doing my best." Blizzard sounded almost contrite. "But until I have my hands on this -- this cooperatively evolved script, I'm more of a housefather than a director, aren't I?"
Murray frowned. "Yes. . . . You know, in spite of the line Roger Grady fed me, about collective improvisation and so on, I didn't really believe it. I expected to be given a plot, at any rate. And then maybe to build dialogue around it, the way they do in the Method schools. I was thinking, okay, it's experimental, but it might be an oddball success like that movie -- uh -- Cassavetes' thing. Shadows , that's the one. I surely was not expecting to find we had nothing at all."
"But we have something now!" Blizzard made the words a challenge. "You can't deny that. And it's after only two working days."
"Oh, granted, granted!" Murray gave the director a puzzled frown.
"I was concerned about it, too," Blizzard admitted after a pause. "Still, it's the way he works, and it seems to be going pretty well. That was another reason for not trying to get Fleet or someone like him, by the way. Fleet is very choosy about his parts. He talks about his 'image' a lot. Not even Delgado's reputation would make him buy a part sight unseen."
"Especially in view of the way Delgado's mind works," Murray nodded.
"How's that?"
"You know -- he said it himself. Cancer and gangrene. I thought it was a form of words designed to shock us into taking notice. But it isn't. He means it. And it makes me feel a bit dirty." Once again, Murray found himself speaking his mind more fully than he had intended.
"Come off it, Murray," Blizzard said. "We do have a sick world, and he does have his own point of view, but it's as valid as Genet's, for example. And I can't imagine you making the same comment about Genet."
"It isn't the same thing." Murray stared past Blizzard with his eyes unfocused, hunting for words. "Genet is obsessed with things that are intrinsically unattractive -- buggery and petty theft . . . Whereas Delgado has this knack of making things which are perfectly respectable stink in your nostrils. You know what I mean. Like lifting up the base of the Venus di Milo to show slugs and wood lice underneath."
Murray stopped for a moment, and then went on in a lower tone. "Sam, I don't quite know how to ask you this, but it's been itching my mind, and I've got to. You keep talking about Delgado's personal way of working. Well, is part of the idea to coop us up together like a real-life No Exit until we're all ready to scream, and then put the screaming on the stage?"
Blizzard didn't answer at once. When he did speak, he sidestepped the question.
"What gives you that idea, Murray?"
"Two things. One is what Delgado himself said, about wanting an identification deeper than Method stuff. And the other is the crowd you've picked. Me and liquor. Gerry and horse. Ade and his pretty little boys. Constant grabbing his first chance out of rep and into the West End -- his first and probably last, too. A gang of people who can't afford to lose their tempers and walk out, because this is the make-or-break offer, and they won't get another like it in a lifetime."
"Any time you want to, you can get in your car and go up to town or whatever you like," Blizzard said stiffly. "If that's cooping you up, I'm a Dutchman."
Murray grunted and got to his feet. "I think I shall do exactly that," he said. "The rain's stopped. Some fresh air won't do me any harm before I turn in.
He was out in the hallway before he realized Blizzard had not given him a straight answer. He was debating whether to go back for one, when Valentine materialized from the dining room.
"Are you going out, Mr. Douglas?" he inquired with absolute courtesy.
"Why do you want to know?" Murray countered.
"I have been requested by Mr. Blizzard to close the main gate at eleven o'clock, sir. But if you wish, I can arrange for it to remain open for your car."
"No. No, that won't be necessary. I've changed my mind. I'm not going out."
"Very good, sir." Valentine gave a hint of a bow and continued across the hall.
"Valentine!" Murray said when he had gone a few steps.
"Yes, Mr. Douglas?"
"Do me a favor, will you? Stop fooling around. Stop saying 'Mister Blizzard told me.' I know as well as you do that Delgado gives the orders, not Sam Blizzard."
"I -- I don't know what you mean, sir." Valentine's voice was plausibly colored with surprise, but he betrayed himself by shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
"Then you'd better find out, hadn't you?" Murray suggested, and walked toward the stairs. When, from the landing at the top, he looked around. Valentine had disappeared.
Musing, he made for his room.
Crazy damned setup. . . . Delgado's a weirdie, and poor Sam's in a flat spin, and I think he half-suspects Delgado's idea is the one I put to him. . . . But he's right: I'm apt to make it worse if I go on about the tape recorders and the junk in room thirteen. . . . Okay, I'll pipe down.
But even having reached that decision, he went through what threatened to become a nightly ritual, and stripped twenty yards of fine wire from his mattress before he got into bed.
XI
"Okay, everybody. Break now. See you back at -- uh -- ten to two."
"Break, he says," Ida stage whispered with Maria Marten force. "Me, I'm broken already. Foof!"
Murray drew a deep breath and let it go slowly, feeling the tension ooze out of him. He made a sort of mental check on a calendar in his head. Thursday: the first time Sam Blizzard gives the order to break instead of Delgado. Maybe we're really going to have a play.
There was even a title now. Nobody had picked it. It had just suddenly been used. Upstream . Not bad. He trie
d his tongue on it.
We have a set of characters. It's moving. We have Gerry out the back somewhere making canvas flats with his ideas on them. . . .
His subvocal recital of the items on the credit side of the ledger stopped abruptly. His eyes had wandered to the back of the auditorium and spotted a figure in shadow alongside the projection booth.
Heather. Good God -- she isn't in here yet. She hasn't even been up to the stage this morning.
He jumped down from the stage and went up the aisle to the exit in the wake of Rett Latham, who was putting a debatable point to Adrian with all the emphasis he could muster. He and Adrian both passed Heather with only a nod. Murray stopped, facing her.
"Hello," he said. "Where've you been?"
