American Science Fiction Five Classic Novels 1956-58

by Gary K. Wolfe

  “Well, you’re here, at least. Let’s get down to business.”

  “Surely. Which brings to mind,” I added, “there was mention of a bonus, or retainer.”

  “Oh, yes.” He turned to the man on the couch. “Jock, pay him.”

  “For what?”

  “Pay him!”

  I now knew which one was boss—although, as I was to learn, there was usually little doubt when Dak Broadbent was in a room. The other fellow stood up quickly, still scowling, and counted out to me a fifty and five tens. I tucked it away casually without checking it and said, “I am at your disposal, gentlemen.”

  The big man chewed his lip. “First, I want your solemn oath not even to talk in your sleep about this job.”

  “If my simple word is not good, is my oath better?” I glanced at the smaller man, slouched again on the couch. “I don’t believe we have met. I am Lorenzo.”

  He glanced at me, looked away. My barroom acquaintance said hastily, “Names don’t matter in this.”

  “No? Before my revered father died he made me promise him three things: first, never to mix whisky with anything but water; second, always to ignore anonymous letters; and lastly, never to talk with a stranger who refuses to give his name. Good day, sirs.” I turned toward the door, their hundred Imperials warm in my pocket.

  “Hold it!” I paused. He went on, “You are perfectly right. My name is——”

  “Skipper!”

  “Stow it, Jock. I’m Dak Broadbent; that’s Jacques Dubois glaring at us. We’re both voyageurs—master pilots, all classes, any acceleration.”

  I bowed. “Lorenzo Smythe,” I said modestly, “jongleur and artist—care of The Lambs Club.” I made a mental note to pay my dues.

  “Good. Jock, try smiling for a change. Lorenzo, you agree to keep our business secret?”

  “Under the rose. This is a discussion between gentlemen.”

  “Whether you take the job or not?”

  “Whether we reach agreement or not. I am human, but, short of illegal methods of questioning, your confidences are safe with me.”

  “I am well aware of what neodexocaine will do to a man’s forebrain, Lorenzo. We don’t expect the impossible.”

  “Dak,” Dubois said urgently, “this is a mistake. We should at least——”

  “Shut up, Jock. I want no hypnotists around at this point. Lorenzo, we want you to do an impersonation job. It has to be so perfect that no one—I mean no one—will ever know it took place. Can you do that sort of a job?”

  I frowned. “The first question is not ‘Can I?’ but ‘Will I?’ What are the circumstances?”

  “Uh, we’ll go into details later. Roughly, it is the ordinary doubling job for a well-known public figure. The difference is that the impersonation will have to be so perfect as to fool people who know him well and must see him close up. It won’t be just reviewing a parade from a grandstand, or pinning medals on girl scouts.” He looked at me shrewdly. “It will take a real artist.”

  “No,” I said at once.

  “Huh? You don’t know anything about the job yet. If your conscience is bothering you, let me assure you that you will not be working against the interests of the man you will impersonate—nor against anyone’s legitimate interests. This is a job that really needs to be done.”

  “No.”

  “Well, for Pete’s sake, why? You don’t even know how much we will pay.”

  “Pay is no object,” I said firmly. “I am an actor, not a double.”

  “I don’t understand you. There are lots of actors picking up spare money making public appearances for celebrities.”

  “I regard them as prostitutes, not colleagues. Let me make myself clear. Does an author respect a ghost writer? Would you respect a painter who allowed another man to sign his work— for money? Possibly the spirit of the artist is foreign to you, sir, yet perhaps I may put it in terms germane to your own profession. Would you, simply for money, be content to pilot a ship while some other man, not possessing your high art, wore the uniform, received the credit, was publicly acclaimed as the Master? Would you?”

  Dubois snorted. “How much money?”

  Broadbent frowned at him. “I think I understand your objection.”

  “To the artist, sir, kudos comes first. Money is merely the mundane means whereby he is enabled to create his art.”

  “Hmm . . . All right, so you won’t do it just for money. Would you do it for other reasons? If you felt that it had to be done and you were the only one who could do it successfully?”

  “I concede the possibility; I cannot imagine the circumstances.”

  “You won’t have to imagine them; we’ll explain them to you.”

  Dubois jumped up off the couch. “Now see here, Dak, you can’t——”

  “Cut it, Jock! He has to know.”

  “He doesn’t have to know now—and here. And you haven’t any right to jeopardize everybody else by telling him. You don’t know a thing about him.”

  “It’s a calculated risk.” Broadbent turned back to me.

  Dubois grabbed his arm, swung him around. “Calculated risk be damned! Dak, I’ve strung along with you in the past— but this time before I’ll let you shoot off your face, well, one or the other of us isn’t going to be in any shape to talk.”

  Broadbent looked startled, then grinned coldly down at Dubois. “Think you’re up to it, Jock old son?”

  Dubois glared up at him, did not flinch. Broadbent was a head taller and outweighed him by twenty kilos. I found myself for the first time liking Dubois; I am always touched by the gallant audacity of a kitten, the fighting heart of a bantam cock, or the willingness of a little man to die in his tracks rather than knuckle under . . . And, while I did not expect Broadbent to kill him, I did think that I was about to see Dubois used as a dust rag.

  I had no thought of interfering. Every man is entitled to elect the time and manner of his own destruction.

  I could see tension grow. Then suddenly Broadbent laughed and clapped Dubois on the shoulder. “Good for you, Jock!” He turned to me and said quietly, “Will you excuse us a few moments? My friend and I must make heap big smoke.”

  The suite was equipped with a hush corner, enclosing the autograph and the phone. Broadbent took Dubois by the arm and led him over there; they stood and talked urgently.

  Sometimes such facilities in public places like hotels are not all that they might be; the sound waves fail to cancel out completely. But the Eisenhower is a luxury house and in this case, at least, the equipment worked perfectly; I could see their lips move but I could hear no sound.

  But I could indeed see their lips move. Broadbent’s face was toward me and Dubois I could glimpse in a wall mirror. When I was performing in my famous mentalist act, I found out why my father had beaten my tail until I learned the silent language of lips—in my mentalist act I always performed in a brightly lighted hall and made use of spectacles which—but never mind; I could read lips.

  Dubois was saying: “Dak, you bloody, stupid, unprintable, illegal and highly improbable obscenity, do you want us both to wind up counting rocks on Titan? This conceited pip-squeak will spill his guts.”

  I almost missed Broadbent’s answer. Conceited indeed! Aside from a cold appreciation of my own genius I felt that I was a modest man.

  Broadbent: “. . . doesn’t matter if the game is crooked when it’s the only game in town. Jock, there is nobody else we can use.”

  Dubois: “All right, then get Doc Capek over here, hypnotize him, and shoot him the happy juice. But don’t tell him the score—not until he’s conditioned, not while we are still on dirt.”

  Broadbent: “Uh, Capek himself told me that we could not depend on hypno and drugs, not for the performance we need. We’ve got to have his co-operation, his intelligent co-operation.”

  Dubois snorted. “What intelligence? Look at him. Ever see a rooster strutting through a barnyard? Sure, he’s the right size and shape and his skull looks a goo
d bit like the Chief—but there is nothing behind it. He’ll lose his nerve, blow his top, and give the whole thing away. He can’t play the part—he’s just a ham actor!”

  If the immortal Caruso had been charged with singing off key, he could not have been more affronted than I. But I trust I justified my claim to the mantle of Burbage and Booth at that moment; I went on buffing my nails and ignored it— merely noting that I would someday make friend Dubois both laugh and cry within the span of twenty seconds. I waited a few moments more, then stood up and approached the hush corner. When they saw that I intended to enter it, they both shut up. I said quietly, “Never mind, gentlemen, I have changed my mind.”

  Dubois looked relieved. “You don’t want the job.”

  “I mean that I accept the engagement. You need not make explanations. I have been assured by friend Broadbent that the work is such as not to trouble my conscience—and I trust him. He has assured me that he needs an actor. But the business affairs of the producer are not my concern. I accept.”

  Dubois looked angry but shut up. I expected Broadbent to look pleased and relieved; instead he looked worried. “All right,” he agreed, “let’s get on with it. Lorenzo, I don’t know exactly how long we will need you. No more than a few days, I’m certain—and you will be on display only an hour or so once or twice in that time.”

  “That does not matter as long as I have time to study the role—the impersonation. But approximately how many days will you need me? I should notify my agent.”

  “Oh no! Don’t do that.”

  “Well—how long? As much as a week?”

  “It will be less than that—or we’re sunk.”

  “Eh?”

  “Never mind. Will a hundred Imperials a day suit you?”

  I hesitated, recalling how easily he had met my minimum just to interview me—and decided this was a time to be gracious. I waved it aside. “Let’s not speak of such things. No doubt you will present me with an honorarium consonant with the worth of my performance.”

  “All right, all right.” Broadbent turned away impatiently. “Jock, call the field. Then call Langston and tell him we’re starting Plan Mardi Gras. Synchronize with him. Lorenzo . . .” He motioned for me to follow and strode into the bath. He opened a small case and demanded, “Can you do anything with this junk?”

  “Junk” it was—the sort of overpriced and unprofessional make-up kit that is sold over the counter to stage-struck youngsters. I stared at it with mild disgust. “Do I understand, sir, that you expect me to start an impersonation now? Without time for study?”

  “Huh? No, no, no! I want you to change your face—on the outside chance that someone might recognize you as we leave here. That’s possible, isn’t it?”

  I answered stiffly that being recognized in public was a burden that all celebrities were forced to carry. I did not add that it was certain that countless people would recognize The Great Lorenzo in any public place.

  “Okay. So change your phiz so it’s not yours.” He left abruptly.

  I sighed and looked over the child’s toys he had handed me, no doubt thinking they were the working tools of my profession—grease paints suitable for clowns, reeking spirit gum, crepe hair which seemed to have been raveled from Aunt Maggie’s parlor carpet. Not an ounce of Silicoflesh, no electric brushes, no modern amenities of any sort. But a true artist can do wonders with a burnt match, or oddments such as one might find in a kitchen—and his own genius. I arranged the lights and let myself fall into creative reverie.

  There are several ways to keep a well-known face from being recognized. The simplest is misdirection. Place a man in uniform and his face is not likely to be noticed—do you recall the face of the last policeman you encountered? Could you identify him if you saw him next in mufti? On the same principle is the attention-getting special feature. Equip a man with an enormous nose, disfigured perhaps with acne rosacea; the vulgar will stare in fascination at the nose itself, the polite will turn away— but neither will see the face.

  I decided against this primitive maneuver because I judged that my employer wished me not to be noticed at all rather than remembered for an odd feature without being recognized. This is much more difficult; anyone can be conspicuous but it takes real skill not to be noticed. I needed a face as commonplace, as impossible to remember as the true face of the immortal Alec Guinness. Unfortunately my aristocratic features are entirely too distinguished, too handsome—a regrettable handicap for a character actor. As my father used to say, “Larry, you are too damned pretty! If you don’t get off your lazy duff and learn the business, you are going to spend fifteen years as a juvenile, under the mistaken impression that you are an actor—then wind up selling candy in the lobby. ‘Stupid’ and ‘pretty’ are the two worst vices in show business—and you’re both.”

  Then he would take off his belt and stimulate my brain. Father was a practical psychologist and believed that warming the glutei maximi with a strap drew excess blood away from a boy’s brain. While the theory may have been shaky, the results justified the method; by the time I was fifteen I could stand on my head on a slack wire and quote page after page of Shakespeare and Shaw—or steal a scene simply by lighting a cigarette.

  I was deep in the mood of creation when Broadbent stuck his face in. “Good grief!” he snapped. “Haven’t you done anything yet?”

  I stared coldly. “I assumed that you wanted my best creative work—which cannot be hurried. Would you expect a cordon bleu to compound a new sauce on the back of a galloping horse?”

  “Horses be damned!” He glanced at his watch finger. “You have six more minutes. If you can’t do anything in that length of time, we’ll just have to take our chances.”

  Well! Of course I prefer to have plenty of time—but I had understudied my father in his quick-change creation, The Assassination of Huey Long, fifteen parts in seven minutes—and had once played it in nine seconds less time than he did. “Stay where you are!” I snapped back at him. “I’ll be with you at once.” I then put on “Benny Grey,” the colorless handy man who does the murders in The House with No Doors—two quick strokes to put dispirited lines into my cheeks from nose to mouth corners, a mere suggestion of bags under my eyes, and Factor’s #5 sallow over all, taking not more than twenty seconds for everything—I could have done it in my sleep; House ran on boards for ninety-two performances before they recorded it.

  Then I faced Broadbent and he gasped. “Good God! I don’t believe it.”

  I stayed in “Benny Grey” and did not smile acknowledgment. What Broadbent could not realize was that the grease paint really was not necessary. It makes it easier, of course, but I had used a touch of it primarily because he expected it; being one of the yokels, he naturally assumed that make-up consisted of paint and powder.

  He continued to stare at me. “Look here,” he said in a hushed voice, “could you do something like that for me? In a hurry?”

  I was about to say no when I realized that it presented an interesting professional challenge. I had been tempted to say that if my father had started in on him at five he might be ready now to sell cotton candy at a punkin’ doin’s, but I thought better of it. “You simply want to be sure that you will not be recognized?” I asked.

  “Yes, yes! Can you paint me up, or give me a false nose, or something?”

  I shook my head. “No matter what we did with make-up, it would simply make you look like a child dressed up for Trick or Treat. You can’t act and you can never learn, at your age. We won’t touch your face.”

  “Huh? But with this beak on me——”

  “Attend me. Anything I could do to that lordly nose would just call attention to it, I assure you. Would it suffice if an acquaintance looked at you and said, ‘Say, that big fellow reminds me of Dak Broadbent. It’s not Dak, of course, but looks a little like him.’ Eh?”

  “Huh? I suppose so. As long as he was sure it wasn’t me. I’m supposed to be on . . . Well, I’m not supposed to be on Earth just
now.”

  “He’ll be quite sure it is not you, because we’ll change your walk. That’s the most distinctive thing about you. If your walk is wrong, it cannot possibly be you—so it must be some other big-boned, broad-shouldered man who looks a bit like you.”

  “Okay, show me how to walk.”

  “No, you could never learn it. I’ll force you to walk the way I want you to.”

  “How?”

  “We’ll put a handful of pebbles or the equivalent in the toes of your boots. That will force you back on your heels and make you stand up straight. It will be impossible for you to sneak along in that catfooted spaceman’s crouch. Mmm . . . I’ll slap some tape across your shoulder blades to remind you to keep your shoulders back, too. That will do it.”

  “You think they won’t recognize me just because I’ll walk differently?”

  “Certain. An acquaintance won’t know why he is sure it is not you, but the very fact that the conviction is subconscious and unanalyzed will put it beyond reach of doubt. Oh, I’ll do a little something to your face, just to make you feel easier— but it isn’t necessary.”

  We went back into the living room of the suite. I was still being “Benny Grey” of course; once I put on a role it takes a conscious effort of will to go back to being myself. Dubois was busy at the phone; he looked up, saw me, and his jaw dropped. He hurried out of the hush locus and demanded, “Who’s he? And where’s that actor fellow?” After his first glance at me, he had looked away and not bothered to look back—“Benny Grey” is such a tired, negligible little guy that there is no point in looking at him.

  “What actor fellow?” I answered in Benny’s flat, colorless tones. It brought Dubois’ eyes back to me. He looked at me, started to look away, his eyes snapped back, then he looked at my clothes. Broadbent guffawed and clapped him on the shoulder.