by Ben Bova
Before Montpelier could respond, Elton Good pulled a thick wad of notes from his jacket pocket.
“Very well, Mr. Gabriel. I like a man who speaks his mind. There are eighty-seven changes that need to be made in your script before its acceptable to FINC.”
“Eighty-seven?”
Good nodded smilingly. “Yes. And as you know, heh-heh, without FINC’s mark of approval, your script cannot be shown on American television.”
“Eighty-motherloving-seven,” Gabriel moaned.
“Here’s the first of them,” said Good, peering at his notes in the dim lighting. His smile widened. “Ah, yes . . . when you have the character Rom standing behind the character Ben, who’s sitting at the command console, I believe . . . .”
“That’s in the second scene,” Montpelier murmured.
“Yes. Rom puts his hand on Ben’s shoulder . . . that’s got to come out.”
“Huh? Why?”
Good’s smile turned sickening. “Can’t you see? It’s too suggestive. One man standing behind another man and then touching him on the shoulder! Children will be watching this show, after all!”
Gabriel looked across the table at Montpelier. Even though half the writer’s face was covered by dark glasses, Montpelier could read anguish and despair in his expression.
“I shorely do love my wife,” Connors was telling Brenda, between bites of steak. “But, well, hell, honey . . . I travel an awful lot. And I’m not exactly repulsive. When I see somethin’ I like, I don’t turn my back to it.”
“That’s understandable,” Brenda said. She toyed with her salad for a moment, then asked, “And what does your wife do while you’re away on all these business trips?”
He dropped his fork into his lap. “Whattaya mean?”
Brenda widened her eyes. “I mean, does she fill in the time with volunteer work or social clubs or at the golf course? She doesn’t stay home with the children all the time, does she?”
Connors scowled at her. “No, I reckon she doesn’t. We belong to the country club. And she’s a voluntary librarian, over t’the school.”
“I see.”
He retrieved his fork and studied it for a moment, then changed the subject as he went back to the attack on his steak. “I wanted t’get yore opinion about how many TNT products we can use on the show? As props, I mean.”
“Well,” Brenda said, “the action’s supposed to be taking place seven hundred years in the future. I don’t think too many existing products will be in keeping with the scenario . . . .”
Connors’ face brightened. “They’ll still be usin’ wristwatches, won’t they? We make wristwatches. And pocket radios, calculators, all sorts of stuff.”
“Yes, but if they’re the same products that are being advertised during the commercial breaks, then the viewers will . . . .”
“Well, spit, why not? The viewers’ll think that TNT’s stuffs so good people’ll still be usin’ ‘em seven hunnert years from now. That’s terrific!”
“I don’t know if that will work . . . .”
“Shore it will. And I’ll tell yew somethin’ else, honey. I don’t want any shows about computers breakin’ down or goin’ crazy or any of that kinda stuff. We make computers that don’t break down or go crazy and we ain’t gonna sponsor any show that says otherwise.”
Brenda nodded. “I can understand that.”
“And where do you get your hair done?” Gloria Glory was asking Rita.
Earnest watched with growing concern as the two women chatted about clothes, hairdos, cosmetics, vitamins. Is Gloria probing Rita to find out about her real age? Does she know about Rita’s earlier life and her Vitaform Processing?
Across the table from him, Dulaq was demolishing a haunch of venison, using both hands to get at the meat.
If he had thumbs on his feet he’d use those, too, Earnest told himself with an inward wince of distaste.
Then he felt something odd. Something soft and tickly was rubbing against his left ankle. A cat? Not in a place like this. Don’t be absurd. There it was again, touching his ankle, just above his low-cut boots and below the cuff of his Fabulous Forties trousers.
He pulled his left foot back abruptly. It bumped into something. Glancing surreptitiously down to the floor, Earnest saw the heel of a woman’s shoe peeking out from under the tablecloth. A pink shoe. Gloria’s shoe. And the tickling, rubbing sensation started on his right ankle.
She’s playing toesies with me!
Earnest didn’t know what to do. One doesn’t rebuff the most powerful columnist in the business. Not if one wanted to remain in the business. Yet . . . .
He frankly stared at Gloria’s face. She was still chatting with Rita, eyes focused—glowing, actually—on the beautiful starlet. But her toes were on Earnest’s ankle.
Suddenly his stomach heaved. He fought it down, manfully, but the thought of getting any closer to that mountain of female flesh distressed him terribly. She’s fat and ugly and . . . old! But what really churned his guts was the realization that whatever Gloria wanted, Gloria got. There were no exceptions to the rule; in her own powerful way, she was quite irresistible.
Maybe it’s Dulaq she’s after. How to let her know she had the wrong ankle? Earnest pondered the problem and decided that the best course of action was a cautious retreat.
Slowly he edged his right foot back toward the safety of his own chair, where his left foot cowered. He tried not to look directly at Gloria as he did so, but out of the corner of his eye he noticed a brief expression of disappointment cross her bloated face.
His feet tucked firmly under his chair, Earnest watched as Gloria squirmed slightly and seemed to sink a little lower in her seat. Dulaq chomped away on his venison, oblivious to everything else around him. If she’s made contact with him, Earnest raged to himself, he hasn’t even noticed it. He’ll ruin us all!
Rita was saying, “And I take all the megavitamins. Have you tried the new multiple complexes? They’re great for your complexion and they give you scads of energy . . . .”
Earnest squeezed his eyes shut with the fierceness of concentrated thought. If she’s after Dulaq and he doesn’t pay attention to her, we’re all sunk. I’ll have to get into the act and (his stomach lurched) volunteer for duty with her. At least, she’ll be flattered enough to forget about Dulaq.
Trying not to think of what he’d have to do if Gloria liked him or was after him in the first place, Earnest quietly slipped off one boot and stuck his toes out cautiously toward Dulaq’s side of the table.
His stockinged toes bumped into a leg. He quickly pulled back. Trying not to frown, he wished he could see what was going on under the table. Gloria’s leg shouldn’t be extended so far, she was missing Dulaq entirely, no doubt.
Very carefully, he sent his toes on a scouting mission around Gloria’s extended foot, trying to find where Dulaq’s massive hooves might be. And he bumped into another leg. Rita gave a stifled little yelp as he touched the second leg. It was hers.
Earnest froze. Only his eyes moved and they ping-ponged back and forth between Gloria and Rita. They’re playing toesies with each other! he realized, horrified.
But from the smiles on both their faces, he saw that he was the only one startled by the idea.
Dulaq kept on eating.
“ . . . and here in Act Two, shot twenty-seven,” Elton Good was saying, “you can’t have the girl and the man holding each other and kissing that way. This is a family show.”
Montpelier hadn’t bothered to order dinner. He kept a steady flow of beer coming to the table. It was a helluva way to get drunk, but Good didn’t seem to consider beer as sinful as hard liquor. Or wine, for some reason. So Montpelier sipped beer and watched the world get fuzzier and fuzzier.
As Ron Gabriel bled to death.
“They can’t hug and kiss?” Gabriel was a very lively corpse. He was bouncing up and down as he sat in the booth. The seat cushions complained squawkingly under him. “They’re lovers, for god’s
sake . . . .”
“Please!” Good closed his eyes as tightly as his mind. “Do not take the Deity’s name in vain.”
“What?” It was a noise like a goosed duck.
“You don’t seem to understand,” Good said with nearly infinite patience, “that children will be watching this show. Impressionable young children.”
“So they can’t see two adults kissing each other? They can’t see an expression of love?”
“It could affect their psyches. It would be an inconsistency in their young lives, watching adults act lovingly toward each other.”
Gabriel shot a glance at Montpelier. The executive merely leaned his head on his hand and propped his elbow on the table next to the beer. It was an age-old symbol of noninvolved surrender.
“But . . . but . . . .” Gabriel sputtered and flapped back through several pages of Good’s notes, startling the gentleman. “ . . . back here in shot seventeen, where the two Capulets beat up the Montague . . . you didn’t say anything about that. I was worried about the violence . . . .”
“That’s not ‘violence,’ Mr. Gabriel,” Good said, with a knowing condescension in his voice. “That’s what is called ‘a fight scene.’ It’s perfectly permissible. Children fight all the time. It won’t put unhealthy new ideas into their heads.”
“Besides,” Montpelier mumbled, “maybe we can get Band-Aids or somebody to sponsor that segment of the show.”
Good smiled at him.
“What about the night life in this hyar town?” Connors was asking. “I hear they got bellydancers not far from here.”
Brenda nodded. “Yes, that’s right. They do.”
“Y’all wanna come along with me?”
“I’d love to, but I really can’t. We start shooting again tomorrow and I have to get up awfully early.”
Connors’ normally cheerful face turned sour. “Shee-it, I shore don’t like the idea of prowlin’ around a strange city all by rneself.”
Thinking about the Mexican wife and six children back home in Texas, Brenda found herself in a battle with her conscience. She won.
“I’ll tell you what, Mr. Connors . . . there are a couple of girls here at the hotel—they’re going to be used as extras in some of our later tapings. But they’re not working tomorrow.” Not the day shift! “Would you like me to call one of them for you?”
Connors’ face lit up. “Starlets?” he gasped.
Hating herself, Brenda said, “Yes, they have been called that.”
Earnest was still in a state of shock. Dulaq had polished off two desserts and was sitting back in his chair, mouth slack and eyes drooping, obviously falling asleep. Gloria and Rita had joined hands over the table now, as well as feet underneath. They spoke to each other as if no one else was in the restaurant.
But Earnest reconciled himself with the thought, at least we ought to get some good publicity out of the old gasbag.
Gabriel was actually pulling at his hair.
“But why?” His voice was rising dangerously, like the steam pressure in a volcano vent just before the eruption. “Why can’t they fight with laser guns? That’s what people will use seven hundred years in the future!”
His beneficent smile absorbing all arguments, Good explained, “Two reasons: first, if children tried to use lasers they could hurt themselves . . . .”
“But they can’t buy lasers! People don’t buy lasers for their kids. There aren’t any laser toys.”
Good waited for Gabriel to subside, then resumed: “Second, most states have very strict safety laws about using lasers. You wouldn’t be able to employ them on the sound stage.”
“But we weren’t going to use real lasers! We were going to fake it with flashlights!”
Real lasers are too expensive, Montpelier added silently, from the slippery edge of sobriety.
“No, I’m sorry.” Good’s smile looked anything but that. “Lasers are on FINC’s list of forbidden weapons and there’s nothing anyone can do about it. Lasers are out. Have them use swords, instead.”
“Swords!” Gabriel screamed. “Seven hundred years in the future, aboard an interstellar spaceship, you want them to use swords! Aaarrgghhhh . . . .”
Gabriel jumped up on the booth’s bench and suddenly there was a butterknife in his hand. Good, sitting beside him, gave a startled yell and dived under the table. Gabriel clambered up on top of the table and started kicking Good’s notes into shreds that were wafted into the air and sucked up into the ceiling vents.
“I’ll give you swords!” he screamed, jumping up and down on the table like a spastic flamenco dancer. Montpelier’s beer toppled into his lap.
Good scrambled out past Montpelier’s legs, scuttled out of the booth on all fours, straightened up and started running for his life. Gabriel gave a war screech that couldn’t be heard outside the booth, even though it temporarily deafened Montpelier, leaped off the table and took off in pursuit of the little censor, still brandishing his butterknife.
They raced past Connors and Brenda, who had just gotten up from their booth and were heading for the foyer.
“What in hell was that?” Connors shouted.
Brenda stared after Gabriel’s disappearing, howling, butterknife-brandishing form. The waiters and incoming customers gave him a wide berth as he pursued Good out beyond the entryway.
“Apache dancers, I guess,” Brenda said. “Part of the floorshow. Very impromptu.”
Connors shook his head. “Never saw nuthin’ like them back in Texas and we got plenty Apaches.”
“No, I suppose not.”
“Hey,” he said, remembering. “You were gonna make a phone call fer me.”
Since their table was not soundproofed, Earnest heard Gabriel’s cries for blood and vengeance before he saw what was happening. He turned to watch the censor fleeing in panic and the enraged writer chasing after him.
No one else at the table took notice: Dulaq was snoring peacefully; Gloria and Rita were making love with their eyes, fingertips and toes.
Earnest smiled. The little bastard’s finished now, for sure. I won’t even have to phone Finger about him. The show is mine.
14: The Exodus
It was snowing.
Toronto International Jetport looked like a scene from Doctor Zhivago. Snowbound travelers slumped on every bench, chair and flat surface where they could sit or lie down. Bundled in their overcoats because the terminal building was kept at a minimum temperature ever since Canada had decided to Go Independent on Energy, the travelers slept or grumbled or moped, waiting for the storm to clear and the planes to fly again.
Ron Gabriel stood at the floor-to-ceiling window of Gate 26, staring out at the wind-whipped snow that was falling thickly on the other side of the double-paned glass. He could feel the cold seeping through the supposedly vacuum-insulated window. The cold, gray bitterness of defeat was seeping into his bones. The Unimerican jetliner outside was crusted over with snow; it was beginning to remind Gabriel of the ancient woolly mammoths uncovered in the ice fields of Siberia.
He turned and surveyed the waiting area of Gate 26. Two hundred eleven people sitting there, going slowly insane with boredom and uncertainty. Gabriel had already made dates with seventeen of the likeliest-looking girls, including the chunky security guard who ran the magnetic weapons detector.
He watched her for a moment. She was sitting next to the walkthrough gate of her apparatus, reading a comic book. Gabriel wondered how bright she could be, accepting a date from a guy she had just checked out for the flight to Los Angeles. Maybe she’s planning to come to L.A., he thought. Then he wondered briefly why he had tried to make the date with her, when he was leaving Toronto forever. He shrugged. Something to do. If we have to stay here much longer, maybe I can get her off into . . . .
“Ron!”
He swung around at the sound of his name.
“Ron! Over here!”
A woman’s voice. He looked beyond the moribund waiting travelers, following the sound of her
voice to the corridor outside the gate area.
It was Brenda. And Bill Oxnard. Grinning and waving at him.
Gabriel left his trusty suitcase and portable typewriter where they sat and hurried through the bundled bodies, crumpled newspapers, choked ashtrays and tumbled suitcases of the crowd, out past the security girl—who didn’t even look up from her Kookoo Komix—and out into the corridor.
“Hey, what’re you two doing here? You’re not trying to get out of town, are you?”
“No,” Brenda said. “We wanted to say goodbye to you at the hotel, but you’d already left.”
“I always leave early,” Gabriel said.
“And when we heard that the storm was expected to last several hours and the airport was closed down, we figured you might like some company,” Oxnard explained.
“Hey, that’s nice of you. Both of you.”
“We’re sorry to see you leave, Ron,” Brenda said; her throaty voice sounded sincere.
Gabriel shrugged elaborately. “Well . . . what the hell is left for me to stay here? They’ve shot the guts out of my scripts and they won’t let me do diddely-poo with the other writers and the whole idea of the show’s been torn to shreds.”
“It’s a lousy situation,” Oxnard agreed.
Brenda bit her lip for a moment, then—with a damn the torpedoes expression on her face—she said, “I’m glad you’re going, Ron.”
He looked at her. “Thanks a lot.”
“You know I don’t mean it badly. I’m glad you found the strength to break free of this mess.”
“I had a lot of help,” Gabriel said, “from Finger and Earnest and the rest of those bloodsuckers.”
Brenda shook her head. “That’s not what I’m talking about. I thought Rita really had you twisted around her little finger.”
“She did,” Gabriel admitted. “But I got untwisted.”
“Good for you,” Brenda said. “She’s trouble.”
Oxnard said, “I just hate to see you getting screwed out of the money you ought to be getting.”
