Westworld

by Michael Crichton

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  A close shot of the opened snake belly.

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  The technicians quietly exchanging technical comments, adjusting machinery, twisting dials, continuing their slow, careful probe of why the snake failed to operate correctly, as we see the Supervisor watching.

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  The opened mouth of the snake as it lies on the board, being checked out. It is terrifyingly realistic, even now.

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  The conference room we have previously seen, with the six men seated around the table.

  SUPERVISOR THREE: Logic circuits on the snake simply failed to respond. There was no sign of mechanical damage or tampering and no clue to the malfunction.

  SUPERVISOR TWO: Central mechanism psychosis?

  SUPERVISOR THREE: I am reporting what I found.

  SUPERVISOR SIX: I feel we should shut down the resort for a month.

  SUPERVISOR TWO: That seems rash.

  SUPERVISOR THREE: The snake injured a guest. We can’t allow that to happen. Many elements of the Delos resort are potentially dangerous—that’s part of the appeal. If they should become truly dangerous . . .

  SUPERVISOR FOUR: I agree, but we can announce the resort is overbooked, and not allow further new guests to arrive. I think we can take care of the ones already here.

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  The banquet hall. A lavish banquet is in progress. As we pan in and out around the table, we see the King and Queen, the Knight-guest, and the court all enjoying themselves expansively. Then in our cutting, we begin to go back and forth between the Knight-guest and the Black Knight, immediately recognizable by his black clothes, black hair, black mustache and evil demeanor. These two are exchanging glances.

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  Central conference room.

  SUPERVISOR THREE: If we can’t insure the safety of the guests, we are going to be in desperate trouble.

  SUPERVISOR FOUR: But we can insure their safety. Everything’s fine.

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  Miss Carrie’s Saloon. A fight is in progress. We pick out Blane and Martin, both having a terrific time. They punch people with roundhouse swings; they shoot people from the upstairs balcony; they bop people with bottles. It is absolutely more fun than anything imaginable. We also see the Accountant, who is participating—glasses and all—and making a good show of himself punching out some tough-looking guys. Slowly, as we watch, the elegant Miss Carrie’s bordello is destroyed chair by chair, table by table, chandelier by chandelier, pane of glass by glass, bottle by bottle in an orgy of controlled destruction that finally leaves the place virtually unrecognizable.

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  The robot-repair room, previously seen. The Supervisor, head bowed unhappily, walks among the robots being fixed. He stops by the Gunslinger. Two workmen are working on him.

  One workman is refilling the robot with packets of artificial blood. Another is lifting off the Gunslinger’s face to expose machinery behind it.

  SUPERVISOR: What’s his problem?

  WORKMAN: Nothing. He got shot up today and we’re taking the opportunity to replace his visual cortex. Adding the new infra-red units. And we’re increasing audio sensitivity.

  The Supervisor nods, goes on. Hold on the Gunslinger’s electronic jumble of a face.

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  The face of the Peasant Girl we have previously seen. She is in a room of the castle, with the Knight-guest.

  GIRL: You called for me, my lord?

  KNIGHT: How long have you been in the palace, Daphne?

  GIRL: Since I was three, my lord.

  As they talk, the Knight steers her to the bed. They both sit on the edge of the bed.

  KNIGHT: Charming . . .

  The Knight runs out of medieval chatter, shifts to a more modern idiom.

  KNIGHT: I think we ought to get to know each other better, Daphne.

  GIRL: Better, my lord?

  KNIGHT (leering): I can reward you well.

  He leans over to kiss her. She complacently allows it. His hand reaches out for her breast. She squirms away.

  GIRL: My lord . . .

  KNIGHT: Daphne . . .

  He grabs at her more roughly. And she slaps him on the face.

  GIRL: My lord forgets himself.

  The Knight is stunned, in more ways than one.

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  Central control room, alive with activity.

  TECHNICIAN: Problem with the girl. Program breakdown.

  The Supervisor is in the room, walks over almost casually.

  SUPERVISOR: What’s the trouble?

  TECHNICIAN (punching buttons): One of the castle machines isn’t responding. Refusing a guest seduction.

  SUPERVISOR: Refusing?

  TECHNICIAN (correcting himself): Not responding to inputs.

  SUPERVISOR: Get her out of there and report it to central repair.

  The Supervisor makes a note.

  TECHNICIAN: Yes, sir.

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  The Knight’s room as the girl leaves, slamming the heavy door behind her. The Knight sits back on the bed, frowning in confusion. He lies back in the bed and—

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  Robot-repair room. The naked feet of the Peasant Girl, on her back on a repair table. A half-dozen men in white cluster over her. The Supervisor is among them. They talk quietly, probing. Angle up at the cluster of men. Above them are a bank of lights, like operating-room lights. In fact, the whole situation is reminiscent of a surgical procedure.

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  The girl opened up. Her machinery exposed, gleaming beneath the flesh of her outer covering.

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  The Supervisor, as he turns away from the table, and walks off with an aide.

  AIDE: They find the trouble?

  SUPERVISOR: No apparent trouble.

  AIDE: But she didn’t follow programming. She didn’t permit a guest seduction, and she’s a sex model.

  SUPERVISOR: She certainly is.

  They walk a moment in silence.

  AIDE: Are they going to shut down, sir?

  SUPERVISOR: No. The directors feel that shut-down now would hurt tourist confidence.

  AIDE: Oh.

  SUPERVISOR (almost to himself): I don’t like it.

  The Aide nods dutifully. He glances up at a wall clock.

  AIDE: Almost dawn now.

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  Miss Carrie’s Saloon at dawn is demolished. Dead and exhausted bodies are slumped everywhere. Among them are Blane and Martin, snoring soundly. Martin wakes slowly, looks around.

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  The Roman villa at dawn. In the yellowish light, the Middle-Aged Woman wakes on a couch. Two men lie alongside her. She looks at them, sleeping, and she giggles like a teenager, putting her hand to her mouth.

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  The Knight’s room at dawn. The husband of the Middle-Aged Woman we have just seen, he is up and struggling to pull his tight-fitting clothes over his pauchy frame. It is comical. But finally he is dressed, and looks almost knightly. His massive stomach growls; he pats it, and sets off in search of:

  KNIGHT: Breakfast.

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  Martin struggling to his feet in Miss Carrie’s Saloon. He has a bad hangover. He reaches across the bar (supporting himself, too) and pours himself a shot, knocks it back, coughs, looks around. At his feet, Blane yawns, wakes slowly as Martin surveys the wreckage of the saloon, and the burgeoning day’s activity outside.

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  The western street. The Gunslinger is seated in a chair on the boardwalk, squinting in the morning sun, indolently smoking a cigarette. From time to time he glances toward the saloon.

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  The Knight walks down the castle corridor; his stomach growls again.

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  The Knight walks down the steps of the banquet hall. There is still some food on the banquet-hall table from the previous night. He goes over and picks around, hungry. He is interrupted by the Black Knight.


  BLACK KNIGHT: Hold, varlet!

  KNIGHT: You talking to me?

  BLACK KNIGHT: None other.

  KNIGHT: Look, I’m hungry and—

  The Black Knight sweeps the table in front of the Knight-guest with his sword, knocking aside goblets and plates. The two knights stare at each other.

  BLACK KNIGHT: Prepare for thy doom, thou scurrilous knave.

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  People looking up at the screen in central control, monitoring the progress of events. Rather bored here. One technician munches on bacon as he watches.

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  The banquet hall.

  BLACK KNIGHT: Have you no spine, varlet?

  KNIGHT: Well, uh . . .

  The Knight’s stomach growls again. Then the Black Knight looks up, and sees the Queen coming down the steps partway, and stopping.

  BLACK KNIGHT: Ah-hah!

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  Central control as one technician intones monotonously:

  TECHNICIAN: Full monitor . . . okay . . . let ’em go.

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  The banquet hall as the Black Knight swings viciously with his sword, and the Knight ducks back, and plucks a handy sword from off the wall. The two men immediately begin a brutal fight, under the watchful eyes of the Queen.

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  The control room as one technician says:

  TECHNICIAN: Up gain five-three, we’re losing a little tolerance . . . bring me up . . . fine, good . . .

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  A montage of several very loose shots of the medieval battle in progress.

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  Robot gun as the safety unit is pulled off the barrel.

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  Blane and Martin stagger out of the broken saloon, and cross the street. In contrast to the Medieval World, the western street is pretty quiet. The Gunslinger lazily gets out of his chair, going toward them. Blane and Martin continue walking.

  BLANE: Oh, my head . . .

  The Gunslinger, blocking their path.

  GUNSLINGER: Hold it.

  MARTIN: You again?

  BLANE (irritable with hangover): Let me do it this time . . . it’ll be a pleasure.

  Martin steps away. The Gunslinger smiles sadistically.

  BLANE (cool): Make your move.

  The Gunslinger draws, full speed.

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  Blane drawing full speed, and being hit and dropping like a damp rag. Plop. Striking for its lack of drama. Blane lies writhing in agony in the dust, clutching his chest.

  BLANE: I’m shot! I’m shot!

  MARTIN: Hey, Blane. . .

  Martin is smiling, convinced his friend is putting him on. He moves toward Blane.

  MARTIN: Hey, Blane, okay, that’s funny, now let’s get—

  Martin freezes. Blood seeps around Blane’s fingers as he clutches his chest.

  MARTIN (utterly serious): Hey, Blane . . .

  Blane stops writhing, sags, relaxed, dead. Martin looks up at the Gunslinger.

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  The Gunslinger and Martin. The Gunslinger has holstered his gun, now holds his hand ready. His face has a newly sadistic smile as he says:

  GUNSLINGER: Draw.

  Martin stares, looks to Blane, back to the Gunslinger, then backs off, trying to decide whether to draw or not, then,

  MARTIN: Oh my God—

  As he spins away and the Gunslinger fires at him. Martin scrambles away, rolling and twisting but really scared and not graceful at all. He hides behind the corner of the building, gets up and tries to pull his gun out of his holster but can’t; it’s jammed, so he just turns and runs.

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  Central control room is electrified with this development.

  THIRD SUPERVISOR: Shut down! Shut down immediately!

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  The banquet hall as the battle is progressing, more or less as we have left it, until suddenly the Black Knight strikes a telling blow, gashing the Knight-guest’s arm. The Knight-guest looks up in surprise for a brief instant—before his head is lopped off by another blow, and rolls across the stone floor.

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  Central control. Panic.

  SUPERVISOR: Shut down! Shut it all down!

  TECHNICIAN: Circuits don’t respond, sir!

  SUPERVISOR: Then cut the robot power!

  ANOTHER TECHNICIAN: Power cut!

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  The Roman villa. The Middle-Aged Woman is watching her two lovers fight each other to the death. She screams.

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  The western street. The Accountant comes out into the street, which is disorderly, panicked.

  ACCOUNTANT: What’s going on here?

  He is gunned down.

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  Central control. The TV screens show the surface activity. It continues as before. The Supervisor, staring in helpless horror.

  SUPERVISOR: They’re not responding.

  TECHNICIAN: Should we cut the main power grid, sir? It’ll kill the life-support systems but—

  SUPERVISOR: Shut it all down!

  We see switches being thrown, buttons punched, and then central control is plunged in near darkness. A few emergency lights remain on, and the TV monitors.

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  The TV monitor of Western World. Action still continues.

  SUPERVISOR (watching screen): They’re running on stored charge out there.

  TECHNICIAN: How long can they go?

  SUPERVISOR: Depends on the robot and the model. Some can go a full twelve hours. The others will begin to run down in an hour or so . . . Turn the main grid back on.

  ANOTHER TECHNICIAN: The relays must be frozen. We can’t get back our power.

  The Supervisor picks up a telephone.

  SUPERVISOR: Hello—

  It’s dead; he hangs up in disgust.

  TECHNICIAN: How are we going to get out of here? All those doors are electrically powered.

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  The doors around the central control room. Close on a TV screen of Western World.

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  Western street with Martin running like a frightened kid along the back of the main street. He is gasping for breath, terrified.

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  The Gunslinger lazily following Martin, in no particular hurry.

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  Central control, where the atmosphere is anything but lazy.

  THIRD SUPERVISOR: Get those doors open before we suffocate!

  TECHNICIAN: Sir, we have no control over the robots at all. We can’t protect the guests.

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  Castle dungeon as two burly, grotesque attendants drag a guest down the steps into the dungeon. The guest shouts and struggles. They move past, several figures chained to the dungeon bars, and continue on to a bizarre rack (as in “The Rack”).

  The chained figures stare in horror as the guest is clamped onto the rack. We see all the details of the preparation. Perhaps the attendants are dressed in black, like executioners.

  GUEST: Hey, come on now, for Pete’s sake, hey, you guys have got to be kidding . . . (trying a joke in his panic) . . . Listen, I’m paid up in advance, come on . . . (the guest begins to laugh hysterically) Are you guys kidding? (as the last clamp goes over his wrist) Ouch, that hurts. Hey, can’t any of you stop this?

  The attendants continue their quick but methodical preparations. Then one of them begins to twist the large steering wheel at one end of the rack, stretching the guest.

  The guest screams. Pan away from the guest to the stairs.

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  Castle corridor. The screams become fainter. Camera pans up to show an elderly woman slumped against a tapestry. She clutches her chest. Camera continues pan up to medieval faces on tapestry.

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  Roman World. A comely maiden in a toga comes running out from among some pillars, with a greedy-looking man in hot pursuit. Both pass the camera. A moment later, a guest (the Middle-Aged Woman) comes running, similarly pursued. And scared.

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  Martin runs like hell along the western street.

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  Close shot of Gunslinger’s face.

  Panning with him, then a head-on close shot of his face as he blinks his mechanical eyes.

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  The Gunslinger’s point of view. What he sees, as he sees it: a bizarre, computerized image of the world. The predominant tones are red and black, but overlaid on this are perspective lines, and flashed-up calculated figures, and shifting green tones which apparently represent shifts in the Gunslinger’s concentration. In brief, we are seeing Weltanschauung of a computer; its image of the physical world. The traveling point of view rounds a corner.

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  Martin getting onto a horse, galloping out of town as the Gunslinger watches him go.

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  The Gunslinger’s point of view, which is red and black. Several snap zooms give higher and higher magnification. Then overlay cross-hairs on Martin’s back.

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  The Gunslinger has taken out his gun to shoot, but decides against it. He holsters his gun, mounts up, and follows Martin out of town. We see two rifles in saddle slings. The Gunslinger is not hurried; he rides easily. No sweat.

  This sequence will have established the convention of the Gunslinger’s point of view, so that it is readily identifiable to us whenever it appears.

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  Back to TV image of the western main street.

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  The darkened central control room. Shadowy figures move about the room.

  TECHNICIAN: Temperature elevated ninety-eight degrees.

  TECHNICIAN TWO: Oxygen seventeen percent and dropping.

  SUPERVISOR: Get that power on so we can open the doors.

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  Pan to show the shut doors. One of the technicians is pounding on it.

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  Roman World. A woman is picked up bodily, screaming at the top of her lungs, and flung into a stately pillared pool.

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  Underwater view as she smashes into the water.

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  The woman.

  WOMAN (splashing): I can’t swim! I can’t swim!

  All around her, there is panic and pandemonium.

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  The desert. It’s very quiet, in contrast to what we’ve just seen: Martin, riding hard out into the desert.