MARTIN: Was he bothering you?
They exchange smiles.
SHERIFF (voice over): You guys are all the same. I seen plenty of you.
CUT TO:
A sheriff closing jail-cell doors.
SHERIFF: All the same. Think you can come into a town and raise hell . . .
Martin, now being locked up, is no longer smiling.
SHERIFF (voice over): . . . and do whatever you want. Well, I’m here to tell you things are changing.
Angle past the Sheriff to Blane, standing in the jail outer office.
SHERIFF: There’s a law here now. You can’t go plugging whoever you please.
BLANE: But, Sheriff, it was self-defense.
SHERIFF: That’s what they all say. Fact is, he shot a man. Have to stand trial.
The Sheriff turns to Blane.
SHERIFF: Judge’ll be here next week . . . I was you, I wouldn’t trouble over your friend here. Judge Benson likes to hang ’em. (nods thoughtfully) Hang ’em high.
BLANE: But, Sheriff—
SHERIFF: That’s all. Now beat it.
The Sheriff slumps into a chair, props his feet up on the desk. Blane remains standing there. He looks at the Sheriff. Then he looks at Martin, shrugging from behind bars. Blane winks.
SHERIFF: I said beat it.
Blane leaves.
Martin sits down on his crude cot, leaning back against the stone wall, folding his arms across his chest, sighing.
MARTIN (almost to himself): I’ve never been in jail before.
The Sheriff, his feet propped up on his desk, his back to Martin, doesn’t look back.
SHERIFF: First time for everything.
MARTIN: But I haven’t done anything wrong.
SHERIFF: Shot a man. I’d say that was something . . . Where’re you from?
MARTIN: Chicago.
SHERIFF (back to Martin): Chicago’s a long way off, fella. Thousand miles and more . . . (turns to look at Martin) I hear they got a building in Chicago that’s five stories high. That right?
MARTIN: Yeah.
SHERIFF: Damned high. (he turns around) Don’t know why you bothered coming out here.
CUT TO:
Martin, who just stares.
CUT TO:
The western town at midday, in the blinding heat of the sun. The dust and glare are forbidding, unpleasant. Blane is on the boardwalk, talking to a lovely Apache girl, giving her a cloth-covered tray. She nods and crosses the street toward the jail as Blane watches her. Angle on the Girl, reaching the jail, looking back once. Blane nods slowly. The Girl goes inside the jail.
CUT TO:
The Sheriff, feet on his desk, stops the Girl indolently, using his leg as a barricade. He looks under the cloth at the food, nods, swings his leg away. She goes to the cell, passes the food in to Martin. Under the tray is a note.
CUT TO:
Martin reading the note. He nods.
CUT TO:
The Girl leaving the jail. As she goes, the Sheriff pinches her bottom, and she squeals and slaps his hand away. He chuckles, settles back in his chair, pulls his hat down over his face.
CUT TO:
Outside the jail. The Girl emerges, waves her hand slightly in a signal. Blane nods, turning away.
CUT TO:
Martin, in his cell, eating his lunch, has moved away from the bunk bed. He glances at the Sheriff, who is asleep, snoring. Martin nervously eats a bite, then puts the plate away, his appetite gone.
CUT TO:
Outside the jail a couple of horsemen lazily ride by. A buckboard jounces by. We hold on the shot . . . and hold . . . and hold . . . and suddenly there is an explosion, and the whole side wall of the jail blows out.
CUT TO:
Blane turned away, holding two horses by the reins.
CUT TO:
The wall blowing out, people scattering.
CUT TO:
The Sheriff, startled.
CUT TO:
Blane mounting up, as debris flies.
CUT TO:
Martin running out through the hole in the jail as Blane comes up with an extra horse. Martin climbs up awkwardly—the one false touch in the otherwise perfect western cliché—and his slowness allows the Sheriff to come bursting out the front door.
SHERIFF: Hold it!
Blane fires instantly, slamming the Sheriff back against the brick of his jail. Women cower and scream. The Sheriff, only wounded, tries to get up. Blane blasts again. The Sheriff, dying, pitches forward, spurting catsup.
CUT TO:
Blane and Martin riding off down the street with townspeople staring amazed after them.
CUT TO:
Blane and Martin disappearing from sight.
CUT TO:
People coming out into the middle of the street to watch them go.
DISSOLVE TO:
Blane and Martin sitting in the hills, at the feet of their horses.
MARTIN: I guess that makes us desperados.
BLANE: I guess.
MARTIN: What do we do now?
BLANE (after a long pause): The way I figure it, anything we want. There’s no law in that town now. We go in there, do anything we want.
There’s a long pause. Finally:
MARTIN: You know what? I almost believe all this.
BLANE: Why shouldn’t you believe it? It’s as real as anything else.
MARTIN: Yep. I reckon.
A long shot of the two men sitting in desolation with their horses.
CUT TO:
Central control. We track around the technicians on their consoles, catching snatches of technical dialogue.
TECHNICIAN ONE: What can you give me in grid seven?
TECHNICIAN TWO: We have that on SM-five-one-four. Transfer now.
TECHNICIAN THREE: Transferred. Reschedule. Now what about that mountain lion?
TECHNICIAN FOUR: Inoperative, but we are rechecking the tapes on the mechanism.
TECHNICIAN FIVE: Listen she wants to meet the King, and we have to restructure for that. Can’t disappoint a guest.
TECHNICIAN SIX: . .. a little more on the stallion—
TECHNICIAN FIVE: . . . the dungeon lighting is five-five. Repeat five-five.
TECHNICIAN THREE: The Black Knight won’t be repaired until tomorrow afternoon. Switch to another scenario.
TECHNICIAN FOUR: —we have programmed infidelity in the Queen as of two minutes ago.
TECHNICIAN FIVE: Schedule the Indian attack for dawn—
TECHNICIAN SIX: I have the banquet for delivery at five-thirty if that conforms—
TECHNICIAN SEVEN: Well, I think we can arrange for her to—
TECHNICIAN EIGHT: Yes, he can be Sheriff if he wants, the Sheriff was just killed. Okay, program—
TECHNICIAN SIX: Coming up on the castle, zero . . . now . . .
End our pan on a TV screen which shows the castle of Medieval World.
CUT TO:
The castle standing in the distance.
CUT TO:
The interior of a medieval room. The Queen is being dressed and combed by her Ladies-in-Waiting. She allows this for a few minutes, then:
QUEEN: (regally) Leave me now.
The Ladies-in-Waiting depart, bowing and scraping. The door closes and the Queen is alone. From behind a tapestry a man appears, dressed as a knight. We have seen him before, on the hovercraft. He is a guest, a little too portly to be the legitimate object of the lovely Queen’s affections, yet she runs to him and embraces him.
KNIGHT: My Queen!
They kiss passionately. When they break:
QUEEN: If the king should learn of this, we would both be put to death.
KNIGHT: I’d be more than happy to die for you, my lady.
(The point here is that the Knight is trying to do the medieval dialogue with only partial success. The robot Queen is flawless in character.)
QUEEN: Let us pray it shall not be . . . I have news . . . the Black Knight has returned, and seeks a match with you.
KNIGHT: The Black Knight . . .
QUEEN (nodding gravely): None other.
KNIGHT (breaking from embrace): Is he pretty tough?
QUEEN: He has the strength of ten, and cunning besides . . .
The Knight looks glum at this news.
QUEEN: But his sight is poor in his left eye. Stay to his left, and you will prevail, and win the day.
CUT TO:
Central control room as a Technician at a console says:
TECHNICIAN: Let’s have confirmation on that reprogram on the Black Knight for left lateral weakness and instability for tomorrow . . .
CUT TO:
A TV screen showing the room with the Queen and Knight.
CUT TO:
The actual room.
QUEEN: Go now. I shall see you on the morrow.
The Knight gravely kisses her hand.
KNIGHT: My lady.
He leaves.
CUT TO:
The castle hallway outside the Queen’s room as the Knight sticks his head out the door, peers up and down, then steps out, closes the door. As he walks down the hallway:
KNIGHT: Hot damn!
He pauses to look out a window.
CUT TO:
An angle down on appropriate feudal activity in medieval town.
CUT TO:
The Knight as he smiles in delight.
CUT TO:
The Knight going down some stone steps in castle hallway. He bumps into a servant girl, a peasant type. She stumbles back. Then gets hold of herself.
SERVANT GIRL: A thousand pardons, my lord.
She bows deeply, exposing her ravishing bosom.
KNIGHT: What is your name, child?
CUT TO:
The central control room.
TECHNICIAN THREE (eating): —schedule for tomorrow A.M. Full court. It’s his last day in the resort, we’ll make it a lulu.
TECHNICIAN TWO: Tomorrow A.M. Broadswords. Schedule locked.
TECHNICIAN FOUR: We have a problem with air conditioning in beta section, send a crew out . . .
TECHNICIAN FIVE: —Yes, he can be sheriff anytime he wants, that is correct, just give him the badge . . .
CUT TO:
A group of people who are clustered around the entrance to the jail, all looking in at something we cannot see. Alter a moment the crowd moves back, and the Accountant emerges with a definite swagger. He has a shiny silver badge pinned to his shirt. He leans against a post and says to the watching crowd:
ACCOUNTANT: I’m the new law around here.
TOUGH MAN IN THE CROWD: Think you can handle things?
ACCOUNTANT: You want to find out?
CUT TO:
The western hills where Blane and Martin are still slouched down by their horses. Suddenly, one whinnies and startles. They both sit up. Simultaneously, we hear a rattling hiss.
CUT TO:
A snake coiled near them, ready to strike.
CUT TO:
Blane and Martin, frozen in panic. Then:
BLANE: Let me handle this.
He slowly reaches for his gun. Martin slowly backs away. Blane gets his gun out, aims, fires.
CUT TO:
The snake. The gunshot misses.
CUT TO:
Blane firing again.
MARTIN (horrified): Look out!
CUT TO:
The snake, striking.
CUT TO:
Blane, as it catches him on the forearm, sinks its teeth in. In horror, Blane shakes his arm, trying to shake it loose. The rattle continues. Angle on Blane, his face aghast.
CUT TO:
Martin’s face, equally aghast.
CUT TO:
Blane, spinning in a dervish dance, finally shakes the snake loose. Both men fire, blasting it. They look at Blane’s arm.
BLANE: Goddamn it!
CUT TO:
His forearm with two puncture marks.
MARTIN: Do you suppose it’s real?
BLANE: Hell no.
He goes over to the snake.
CUT TO:
The snake, dead. Through the bullet holes we can see the silver of machinery. Blane reaches down, opens the mouth. Metal teeth.
CUT TO:
Blane, angry now that his terror has worn off.
BLANE: That’s not supposed to happen.
MARTIN: Maybe it is. Maybe it’s part of the thing.
BLANE: The hell . . . stupid damned machine. (kicks snake) That’s not supposed to happen!
MARTIN (staring at snake): Well then, it’s clear.
BLANE: What is?
MARTIN: Our case. I mean, they are clearly liable for damages . . . The only question I would have is one of jurisdiction, which would influence where we brought the action, whether here or back in America. We probably ought to find out where the corporation is based, since that is potentially relevant. And of course, the extent of your damages.
CUT TO:
Central control room. The Supervisor is at a control console. The atmosphere is tense.
SUPERVISOR: When did it happen?
TECHNICIAN: About twenty minutes ago.
SUPERVISOR: The rattlesnake struck a guest?
TECHNICIAN: He was shooting and missed.
SUPERVISOR: Even so, the snakes are programmed never to hit on a strike. Was the guest injured?
TECHNICIAN: Minor puncture wounds.
SUPERVISOR: I don’t like it. It’s inexcusable to injure a guest. Pick up that snake for a total post at once. And check all the snake central mechanisms tonight during the repair period.
The Supervisor goes to a wall phone, dials. He frowns, dials again. The Aide watches. Finally the Supervisor hangs up in disgust.
CUT TO:
The Supervisor, in an electric cart, whizzing down a very long concrete tunnel. His face is grim.
CUT TO:
His view of the tunnel rushing past him.
CUT TO:
The cart going away from us, down the tunnel.
VOICE OVER: In each of our resorts, we have utilized technology . . .
CUT TO:
A conference room unlike any we’ve seen so far. It is plush, with rich carpets, heavy upholstered chairs, wood paneling. A man stands on a sort of stage and speaks. He wears a well-cut suit, and sounds and acts like a salesman, which is what he is. Next to him is a projector screen. Behind him, the drapes on the stage proper are drawn. On the screen, a complex resort groundplan is being projected.
SALESMAN: . . . to re-create past environments in human history. These were carefully chosen after extensive marketing research into communal fantasy. Eventually, we settled on the American West, Medieval Europe and Imperial Rome.
CUT TO:
The listening audience: heavyset men in expensive suits, thoughtful and skeptical. They are investors.
SALESMAN (over): In principle, it was like television or movies— except that you didn’t watch it, you participated in it. We believe that modern man, living in a civilized world . . .
CUT TO:
The Salesman.
SALESMAN: . . . needs to escape into fantasy—and in fact will pay willingly for the privilege . . . Thus, we created the greatest amusement park in history, with the help of our highly advanced robotic technology . . .
CUT TO:
The hillside area where Martin and Blane were sitting earlier. A little electric cart, like a futuristic golf cart, comes rumbling over a hill and stops. Two men in coveralls get out, walk to the snake. One man bends over to pick up the snake; there is a sputtering of sparks, and he yanks his hand away in alarm.
The other man goes back to the cart and returns with a pair of insulated tongs. With these, he picks up the writhing, sputtering snake, and drops it into a box. The cart drives off.
SALESMAN (voice over): But what of the future?
CUT TO:
The investor audience. The Supervisor, immediately noticeable in his white coat, enters the back of the room, pauses, and then goes to whisper into
the ear of one of the men in the back.
SALESMAN (voice over): This is the theme of our fourth world, still under construction: Future World. Here we have used technology to create thrills that never have been, thrills of the future.
CUT TO:
The Salesman and the slide screen.
SALESMAN: Visitors will stay in an ultramodern resort complex here. The surrounding environment will be safe. There will be restaurants, casinos, and bordellos for both sexes, technologically advanced of course.
CUT TO:
The Supervisor whispering to the man in the back, who nods.
CUT TO:
SALESMAN: Outside the resort, the environment offers unpredictable weather—rains of plastic pellets, artificial quicksand, flashfloods of stinging acid—and exotic beasts roaming the countryside.
CUT TO:
The Supervisor conferring in whispers with one of the men in the back row.
SALESMAN (voice over): Now I mentioned exotic bordellos earlier, let me show you what I mean . . .
The Supervisor gets his instructions, nods, leaves.
CUT TO:
The Salesman, as a woman and a man are wheeled out onstage. They are both naked except for identical loincloths. Both are extraordinary looking, like the product of a black-white-Oriental union, and fiercely beautiful.
SALESMAN: Here are two prototypes of our most advanced product. You will notice that there is nothing realistic about them. They are unreal, and beautiful.
CUT TO:
An angle past the Salesman and the robots, out to the audience.
SALESMAN: The point here is that we are not trying to reproduce reality, but to exceed it. For instance, notice the external equipment on this robot . . .
He lifts the loincloth, and we see the audience’s reaction.
SALESMAN: . . . which is entirely unrealistic, but effective and stimulating. Internal vibratory mechanisms increase the effect.
He drops the loincloth and moves to the woman.
SALESMAN: Similarly, this female model is a technological triumph, with suction and torsion mechanisms.
CUT TO:
The Supervisor, driving away on his cart down the long concrete tunnel. The cart becomes very small, the whine dies.
CUT TO:
The autopsy room. A giant photomicrograph of electronic circuitry. We hear a buzz and a hiss over. The autopsy room; stark and simple and small; a table with a cluster of electronic equipment around it. The snake mechanism lies on the table. A man with a dissecting microscope peers down at it. Around and behind him, TV screens show images of the mechanism, the electronic circuitry, the computer test patterns. It is really a vision of machines probing machines. People look on and help out—there are, all together, three technicians in the room, and the Supervisor standing in the corner, watching quietly.
Westworld Page 5
