The Productions of Time

by John Brunner

  Cromarty sat silent for a long moment. At last he said, "And have you?"

  "God, no!" Murray was startled at his own passion. "Nothing on earth would drive me back to the kind of hell I went through!"

  "Hmph!" Cromarty shook his head dubiously. "Well, I'll see what I can do, Mr. Douglas. But you realize that the alcohol level in the blood peaks about an hour after the last drink, and after that some people excrete the stuff faster than others. A negative finding at this time of the morning might not prove very much."

  "I haven't emptied my bladder since waking," Murray said.

  Cromarty shook his head again but got to his feet. "Well, as a fellow Scot, Mr. Douglas, I can't refuse you. I just won't promise anything."

  "Negative, Mr. Douglas."

  It had seemed like an eternity of waiting. The words were such a shock that Murray snatched the cigarette from his mouth and dropped it on the floor. He scrambled to retrieve it.

  "Thank heaven for that," he said.

  "That's within the margin of operational error, you understand." Cromarty shut the door of the consulting room and sat down at the desk. "I take it that what you wanted was a note from me to your producer to reassure him, is that it?"

  "Yes, that's exactly it." Murray felt fresh sweat, but this time it was due to relief.

  "Very well." Cromarty uncapped a pen and selected a sheet of notepaper from a pile at his side. "I shall put down the bare truth -- that you came to me at" -- he checked his watch -- "let's say you arrived half an hour ago, which is near enough, and asked me to examine you for traces of alcohol in the system, and the result of my test was negative. I won't add the qualifications which I'd have to if this were for a law court."

  He wrote rapidly, blotted the sheet, and slipped it in an envelope before handing it over. Murray took out his wallet and put the certificate inside, then started to draw out money.

  "How much -- ?" he began, but Cromarty raised his hand. "I have great sympathy with people in your plight, Mr. Douglas. One of my oldest friends was too fond of his drink, and he made no such recovery as yours. There's no charge."

  With fervent thanks, Murray headed toward the door. Cromarty swung around in his chair and called after him.

  "Oh -- and one more thing, Mr. Douglas. I'd prescribe some good solid food for your breakfast. It's obvious you've been badly shocked by this underhanded trick which was played on you. No point in making it worse."

  Murray nodded and went out.

  Breakfast was not yet over when he arrived back at Fieldfare House. He could tell as he entered the dining room that it hadn't been the calmest meal taken by the company. At the top of the table Blizzard and Delgado were arguing in low tones; Ida and Heather, sitting a couple of places away, were saying nothing and trying not to look as though they were eavesdropping; Adrian Gardner, Rett Latham and Al Wilkinson were grouped at the other end, their faces morose. When Murray appeared, everyone -- even Delgado -- turned to look at him.

  He had the certificate from Dr. Cromarty ready in his hand. With all attention still fixed on him, he strode toward Blizzard and planted the paper in front of him.

  "All right," he said harshly. "Laugh that off."

  Blizzard read it. During the pause, Murray sent what he intended to be a triumphant glance at Delgado. But the author was leaning back with a sardonic expression, and Murray's self-satisfaction abruptly evaporated.

  He realized what had happened, the instant Blizzard tapped the certificate and looked up.

  "This is very commendable, Murray," the producer said shortly. "But was this why you made that ungodly row this morning? Why you kicked up a fuss about getting out the front gate?"

  Doom gathered in Murray's mind like a threatening storm. His eyes flicked first to Delgado, then to Valentine, who stood impassively by the sideboard, coffee as black as his clothes bubbling in a Cona jug next to him.

  He had to go on, Murray realized. He was being carried by his own momentum now. It was too late to alter his assumption about Delgado's intentions. Clearly, the visit to Dr. Cromarty had caused a hasty switch but to fall in with this retraction was to admit defeat.

  He spoke in a level voice. "When I woke up this morning I found a bottle of gin by my bed, an overturned glass, and another bottle on the floor. I can't think of any trick more damnable than that to play on somebody in my condition, and I want to know who did it and why."

  Blizzard drew his eyebrows together. "I see!" he exclaimed. "Were you afraid it might not be a trick, Murray? Was that why you went to the trouble of getting this?" He tapped the paper before him. "I agree -- it sounds like a bastardly thing to do to you."

  Murray wasn't watching him. He had his eyes fixed on Delgado. Even so he didn't spot the signal which the author gave to his creature Valentine. Maybe it had been arranged beforehand. At any rate, Valentine moved forward and spoke in a low tone.

  "I beg your pardon, Mr. Blizzard, but perhaps I might suggest that Mr. Douglas had a vivid nightmare. I myself have checked his room, and I found no traces of the kind he described."

  Delgado permitted himself a parody of a smile, clearly intended for Murray's eyes only. But as Murray was shaping a challenge, planning to demand of Valentine why he had "checked" his room, there was an unexpected interruption.

  "That's a damned lie for a start!"

  All heads turned. Murray hadn't noticed Gerry Hoading come into the room. Only a slight flush in his cheeks and an unnatural brightness in his eyes betrayed the condition he had been in yesterday. He was impeccably dressed and his skin had a clean, scrubbed look.

  "I heard what Murray said, and I heard what Valentine said," Hoading went on. He planted his hands on the back of a vacant chair and leaned over it as though to emphasize his words. "And Valentine's lying. I went to Murray's room when I got up. I wanted to say -- well, that doesn't matter! I wanted to see him about something, that's all. And I didn't get an answer when I knocked, though I was sure I'd heard movements in the room. So I watched the corridor from behind my own door, and I saw this -- this creep of a steward come out with a couple of gin bottles. I'm telling you."

  Murray felt an overwhelming surge of relief. There had been a long dreadful second when he wondered if in fact proof was going to be given him that he had imagined it all.

  He glanced at Delgado. The sallow face was contorted with fury. Like the sarcastic smile of a few moments back, the expression didn't last long. But this time it wasn't deliberate, for his benefit. Murray drew a deep breath.

  "Valentine?" Blizzard snapped.

  The steward, very pale, said, "I apologize, sir. I am aware of Mr. Douglas' unfortunate condition -- he left no room for misunderstanding when he ordered me to remove all liquor from his quarters the day of his arrival. I can only say I was being misguidedly discreet."

  "Sam, I think you and I had better go and have a word about this in private," Delgado said, coloring his voice with plausible concern now. He pushed back his chair.

  "Sit down!" Murray thundered. "We're going to have this out in public. Sam, you listening to me? I'm accusing Delgado of putting that liquor in my room -- either doing it himself or getting Valentine to do it -- and then backing down because I insisted on going to a doctor, but still hoping I'd make a fool of myself and give you the impression I was having delusions. And except for Gerry here, isn't that what would have happened?"

  He thought for a moment that he was getting through. Then, with a sick feeling, he read his failure on Blizzard's face. The director was so mesmerized by Delgado's personality that he had dismissed the accusation out of hand.

  "Douglas is overwrought," Delgado said smoothly. "I'm not surprised at this wild attack on me. It was obvious yesterday that he was unreasonably angry about my decision to abandon the existing draft of the play. Apparently he regards a fresh start as being too much like hard work."

  "You can insult me till you're blue!" Murray rasped, feeling his nerves grow raw. "Somebody put that liquor in my room and tried to make me believe
I'd been drinking it and had suffered a lapse of memory. It didn't get there by itself."

  "No, clearly not. But a much more likely explanation is that you staged this little drama yourself, to impress Sam."

  The barefaced audacity of that one was too much even for Blizzard to swallow. He said, "No, Manuel, I'm not wearing that. But I don't want to start a witch-hunt among the company. I don't accept Murray's accusation against yourself, but I can't imagine him doing it himself, either." He stood up. "Come on. You suggested that we discuss this privately, and I think it would be better that way. Murray, you sit down and have some coffee to calm yourself."

  "But -- "

  "Do as I say. I appreciate that you're upset, and I'm very sorry about what's happened. But right now you aren't making much sense. I'll get to the bottom of this for you, don't you worry."

  XV

  "I think it's a lot of crap," Rett Latham said dogmatically. "I think Murray got stinko last night in his room by himself and this morning he had qualms of conscience."

  "Shut up, Rett!" Ida said. "Hasn't it worked through your ivory skull yet that that's why he went to see this doctor in the village? The doctor said he hadn't been drinking, and Sam Blizzard has a certificate to say so."

  "What good is a blood test or whatever he had so many hours afterward?" Al Wilkinson demanded. "Some people get over the effects quicker than others, and a lush is probably quicker than anybody."

  "I believe Murray," Heather said with defiance. "Delgado is trying to make out that he staged the thing himself. But why should he?"

  "This griping's getting on my nerves," Constant said sourly. "Why should Delgado want to do a thing like that to Murray? That's a much better question!"

  "If you want the answer I can give it to you," Murray flared. "Stop flapping your mouth and start flapping your ears for a change."

  "Oh -- brilliant!" Constant grunted, stubbing a cigarette in a handy ashtray. "Who's doing your script today, Murray?"

  "Constant, for Christ's sake," Ida said. "If Murray's got an explanation, listen to it."

  "Okay, I'm listening." Constant folded his arms with elaborate pantomime.

  "To start with." Murray took a deep breath. "You don't honestly think Delgado's abandoning the play was due to my acting. You told me so last night, remember?" A protest died stillborn on Constant's lips, and a reluctant nod took its place. "He has a personal gripe against me. The only thing I've done which nobody else has is to stumble across some peculiar gadgetry in the bedrooms which Delgado can't or won't explain. I've been ripping off the nonsensical bits of wire he has on the mattresses, for example. I -- "

  He broke off, thinking from her expression that Heather was going to say something, but before she could respond to his look of inquiry Adrian Gardner had jumped into the pause.

  "Not your damned tape recorders again! Murray, you're getting to be a bore about them."

  "Agreed," Jess Aumen said from his stool at the piano. He had been occupying himself with his habitual silent "practice," and Murray hadn't thought he was listening.

  "It isn't just the tapes," Murray said. "There's stuff in the TV sets, and there's something in room thirteen. And there's something under room thirteen, too. Lester, did you know that there's a sort of giant version of the stuff on the mattresses up there over the stage? It's behind a grille on the ceiling, but you can see it from close up. Go and take a look."

  The lighting engineer shook his head, leaning back in one of the padded seats. "You know my opinion of this stuff, Murray. I think it's a lot of pseudoscientific rubbish and nothing to make such a fuss about."

  "Delgado doesn't think so," Murray snapped. "It was when I was poking at it yesterday that he -- "

  "Told you not to and got you so worked up you decided to get your own back?" That was Rett Latham again, registering boredom. "Murray, this is all doubletalk. You haven't made the case you said you were going to, and frankly I'm tired of the argument."

  "Hear hear!" agreed Adrian, and ostentatiously checked his watch. "I wish Sam and Delgado would stop wasting time on this red herring of Murray's and come and join us."

  "I think that's disgusting, Ade," Gerry Hoading exclaimed. "It was the most sadistic trick imaginable, what was done to Murray, and you call it a red herring. God, do you imagine he enjoyed it?"

  "We don't have to ask why you're taking his part, do we?" Adrian said, curling his lip.

  "What's Delgado bought you with, Ade?" Gerry whispered, tensing as though to rise and hurl himself bodily forward. "An endless supply of pretty little boys?"

  "Oh, for Christ's sake can it, will you?" Jess Aumen shouted, swinging around on the piano stool. "You'll drive the whole bloody lot of us up the wall if you go on!"

  Murray recognized the truth of the warning. He yielded despondently and walked to the side of the auditorium, where he put his forearm on the wall and leaned his head against it.

  The air smelled sour with tension. Obedient to Dr. Cromarty's instructions, Murray had contrived to force down some breakfast after Delgado and Blizzard had left the dining room, but now he was thinking it had been a mistake; it lay heavy as lead in his guts.

  Jesus, how did I get into this madhouse?

  He grew aware of someone standing beside him and raised his head. It was Gerry, a cigarette thrust between his pale lips. Fumbling for a light, the designer said, "Murray, how the hell did you stop yourself from beating Ade's head in?"

  "I don't know," Murray said shortly. Out of all those here, he would perhaps have picked Gerry last as his staunch advocate, but as a result of last night the matter was settled. "I don't know. Maybe because the only reason I can think of for Delgado to do as he's doing is to provoke that kind of row."

  "Yes." Gerry got the light to his cigarette at last. "Yes -- but what for ? Just to add a real-life tang to his play? It seems crazy!"

  "I think he is crazy," Murray muttered. "But then, so are we all, to be putting up with him."

  There was a sudden stir. Everyone swung to look at the far end of the auditorium. Murray's heart turned over, and he clenched his hands at his sides.

  Blizzard was coming down the aisle, followed by Delgado and the author didn't look his best. His forehead was distinctly shiny, and he was smoking one of his king-size cigarettes not with his usual aplomb but as though sucking comfort with the smoke.

  "Sam put up a better fight than I gave him credit for," Murray said under his breath to Gerry. "Look at Delgado!"

  Gerry nodded, betraying excitement. "You don't imagine he's got him to back down, do you?" he murmured.

  "That?" Murray gave a bitter chuckle. "Oh, I doubt it."

  But that was exactly what Blizzard had done.

  He didn't have to call for attention when he clambered up on the stage. There was an intense silence, broken only by the sound of Delgado's cat-light footsteps crossing the stage toward a chair at the back.

  "All right, I've been having a long discussion with Manuel," Blizzard said. "You all know about this thing that happened to Murray this morning -- yes? I see you do. I don't know who was responsible, but it was presumably one of you here, so I know I'm getting through when I say it was a filthy, disgusting, sadistic trick. In spite of certain opinions to the contrary" -- he didn't look at Delgado, but no one could doubt whom he meant -- "I think Murray has done very well to climb back out of the mess he got into, and he's worked hard since coming here, too. I'm going to put it down to the way we all felt yesterday as a result of -- well, of what happened. But if there's any repetition, the person responsible goes out on his ear, and I will undertake to see that his membership in Equity is cancelled immediately. He'll never get work in this country again. Is that clear?"

  He glanced around the auditorium, scowling, and finally turned to Murray. "That satisfy you, Murray?" he asked.

  "The person responsible won't be worried by that kind of threat," Murray said. "He isn't in Equity."

  "Shut up, Murray!" said Constant from the side of his mouth. Murray
shrugged and leaned against the wall.

  "Murray, I know what you mean by that," Blizzard said. "But I think everyone else here would rather I pretended not to."

  "Hear hear!" This in a subdued voice from Rett Latham.

  "All right, let's get on. That isn't the only thing I've been talking to Manuel about. We ran over the problem of the existing draft of the play. Manuel?"

  The author stirred on his chair. It was obvious he didn't like what he had to say, but he was having to put up with it. Murray's estimate of Blizzard rose anew. "Sam has suggested to me that it may be possible to salvage what we have so far," he said. "I'm willing to concede that quite a lot of effort has gone into it, and a bad lapse on the part of one of the cast" -- his eyes flickered to Murray and moved away -- "needn't necessarily mean that it all has to go to waste. So I've agreed with him that if he can get a better performance this morning we can go ahead from there. But it will have to be not merely good, but damned good. Clear?"