"Son of a bitch," murmured Brant, "do I hate Chapter Ones."
Phretys gave an unhappy laugh. "You think they're tough on you. I really miss the way it used to be before your time. Doc Smith. John Campbell. I'd just give them an idea and they'd be off. It hasn't been the same since Kornbluth and Kuttner died." Her voice trailed away; she left the locker room on the verge of tears.
"It's hard on her," said Justin Benarcek. "She doesn't have enough to do these days, the way some of these people write. They don't bother to wait for inspiration. An editor says, 'Write about a magic sword,' and that's it. No story and no characters, just a magic sword. They don't want to know anymore. It makes her depressed."
Steve Weinraub looked in the mirror of his locker. His face still looked young. His hairline hadn't changed; there weren't wrinkles yet at the corner of his eyes. He hadn't lost a step going down to first base; it was just that he hadn't been sent down to first base in a long time. He slammed the door of his locker closed. "She gets depressed. She gets depressed? Goddamn Muse, huh? What does that give her? Thinks she's some special deal or something? A lot she has to worry about. Do you think she cares what kind of a life we have? Do you think she ever whispers that in his ear sometime?"
Brant went to the machine and punched the button for a can of Coke. She popped the top and took a swallow. "How hard is it for us, Stevie? How hard? It isn't so hard. She has it hard, Stevie. He has it hard. All we have to do is follow the directions."
"They both count on us to come up with new stuff all the time," said Benarcek. "You know I'm not very good at that. I'm great at following the story, but..."
Brant waved at him to be quiet. "Stevie, you've been working longer than anybody. The goddamn first story he ever sold had you in it."
"That's right," said Weinraub, "and do you know how long it's been—"
"It's been a long time," said Staefler, the dumb, athletic one. "He says he's gotten through all that material, that it's been all used up."
"All used up," muttered Weinraub. He gave a cynical laugh and sat down on the bench. "Where does that leave me?" He stared at the row of lockers.
The mad villain, Dr. Bertram Waters, leaned against a blackboard and exhaled smoke from an expensive French cigarette. He was tall and dark-haired, with eyes that were always described as magnetic, whatever that means. He was compelled to wear a carefully trimmed beard that made his fleshless face look satanic. Above his shoulder, written on the blackboard, were two announcements: Please see P. if you haven't signed your Character's Agreement Form and SPACE SPY/TIME SPY anniversary picnic meets here Sat. at 10:30. "You know what I think is sad?" said Dr. Waters. "What is so sad to me is that he's out there right now, right this very minute writing this, too, and we're tap dancing through this goddamn story for him. That makes me sad as hell."
"Me, too," said Brant bitterly. "I hate this kind of thing."
"Look," said Benarcek, "is this some kind of stupid 'What Is Reality?' story or something? Nobody does that anymore. Phretys wouldn't try to palm that kind of thing off on him, would she?"
"Is it any worse than magic swords?" asked Staefler.
"Lots," said Benarcek.
"He wouldn't go for it anyway," said Dr. Waters. "That's the whole point. He does what he does because he has judgment about these things. And we do what we do because—"
"Because he makes us do it," said Weinraub.
"Well, yes, but sometimes we assume a little control."
"He counts on that," said Benarcek, "like I said. But I—"
"This had better not degenerate into a reality story," said Robert Hanson. "I won't have any part of them. Or magic swords either. Couldn't you just see it? A Cipher Book, in one of their awful pink covers: Robert Wayne Hanson, Barbarian Swordsman."
"Eileen Brant and the Magic Singing Sword of the Lost Empire" said Brant. "It makes the Book Club, naturally, wins a Hugo, ends up as a Marvel Comics series that lasts four issues."
We sat in silence for a minute or two, looking around the room. There really wasn't much to do at this point; all the action would come later. He was busy sketching in the setting, the way he usually began. Once, these people from West Virginia wrote him a letter saying his books would be a lot better if someone died a horrible death in the first three pages. Who knows? Maybe they were right.
After a while Phretys came in again. "Chapter One is coming along fine. He has a pretty strong idea of where it's going, so you'll be working long and hard until this book is done."
"That's good," said Hanson.
Phretys looked up and raised her eyebrows, whereby we all knew that Hanson's services would very likely not be required.
"Oh," he said. He sat down and pretended to examine his shoes.
"So it looks like this: Courane, Staefler, Brant, Jennings, maybe Waters. A couple of new guys and one new girl."
"Goddamn it," said Weinraub, his voice an angry growl.
"Like I said, the book is off in a new direction. He's going to fit it into the Springfield series in kind of a nice way. It's a good idea, really, and I'm sort of proud of it. I practically had to bounce the postage scale off his head before he'd listen to me, but he finally got the message. None of you has ever worked in any of the Springfield stories, am I right?"
"No," said Brant.
"I'm connected," said Courane. "Indirectly."
"You'll all like this story," said Phretys. She sat down and took out another cigarette. "There's this asteroid with a domed city on it." She lit the cigarette.
We waited.
"Is that all so far?" asked Brant.
Phretys looked apologetic. "Well, yes, so far."
"Aha," said Brant, "an asteroid and a dome. A real wealth of possibilities." She got up and walked away, toward the trainer's office.
"You're not familiar with the Springfield series," said Phretys. "They're all charming and original and moving. In their own way."
"What she's getting at, dear," said the suave Dr. Waters, "what she's trying to find out is if Chapter One is going to be charming and original and moving."
"In its own way," said Benarcek.
"Sure," said Phretys. "Of course."
There was a tense silence.
"He doesn't have any story at all, does he?" asked Staefler.
"Of course he does. He has to. He had enough to sell to Scribner's in the first place. There's plenty of story, don't worry about that. He's just having a little trouble working into it. But this is just the first draft, remember, off the top of his head."
"Right," said Courane. He didn't sound particularly convinced.
"Why don't you give him another push?" asked Weinraub. "That's your department anyway, isn't it? Inspiration?"
"Listen," said Phretys wearily, "there's a limit to how much of that I can do. He can only handle so much at one time. And besides, it isn't my job to write the whole goddamn thing for him." She smoked her cigarette for a moment, thinking. "If you're concerned about this, I suggest you try developing some ideas for unveiling around Chapter Three or Four. This book is short on women, so that would be a good place to begin. For Brant, I mean."
Eileen Brant came back into the locker room. "Do you know how many times I've had to save something of his? Whenever things start to get a little thin in the stretch, he throws something hot and fast at me and lets the readers watch me juggle for a few pages while he catches his breath. I've had enough of that, honey."
"That's all you are to him, Eileen," said Weinraub. "He doesn't really write about women, you know that. You're just a plot device."
She looked very hurt, but she nodded wordlessly.
"Who's the new girl?" asked Dr. Waters.
"I don't know yet," said Phretys. "Haven't named her or anything. I don't even know how she's going to fit in."
"A love interest, maybe?" asked Staefler.
The Muse hesitated, then nodded.
"Good Lord," cried Brant, "then what am I for?" No one cared to answer.
; "Look, people," said Phretys, "I really do have to go now. I'll be back. Courane, you'd better be ready to get right to work when I get back. I don't know who all else."
"Give my regards to Broadway," said Brant cynically.
Phretys came back about ten minutes later. She looked like she had been in a catfight with one of the leopards at the Bronx Zoo.
Her hair was hanging down in damp ringlets on her forehead, her stola was soaked with perspiration, and she was nursing a fingernail that had been torn off below the cuticle. She dropped down on one of the hard wooden benches like a nose guard coming in after playing a tough half against Alabama. "Let me tell you," she gasped.
"Hard going?" asked Hanson.
"He writes fiction like he uses the Ohio State game-plan for an outline. You know, three yards and a cloud of dust. You buy every goddamn golden word with blood." We all made soft, sympathetic sounds and waited to hear the news.
"All right, Courane," she said, "you're on."
Sandy just sat in front of his locker for a few seconds with his eyes closed. He wasn't in a hurry to see what kind of a fix Chapter One was going to put him in.
"I'll go," said Weinraub. "Put me in if he doesn't want to go."
We all tried to ignore him. He was embarrassing himself.
"Come on, Sandy," said Phretys.
"All right," said Courane. He got up and followed her toward the tunnel.
"Look, kid," said Eileen Brant, "you're going out there a nobody, but you got to come back a star."
Courane turned and flipped her one. Brant laughed.
Now that things were starting to move along, we all felt a little better. All except the few of us who probably wouldn't be needed. But even those people still had to hang around, because you can never tell which way a story will go. Maybe Stevie would get into the book yet; that's all he wanted, because he was sure that once he got in, he could work the story around so the attention would be on him. He used to be very good that way.
We chatted and gossiped about people who weren't there and generally did all the things people do when they're bored out of their minds but can't go anywhere. Anyway, it wasn't fifteen minutes before Courane and Phretys came back. They had someone else with them.
"That was quick," said Dr. Waters. He was still leaning against the wall, and he had gone through three more expensive cigarettes. I guess he thought he looked good leaning against walls.
"You're not going to believe this one," said Courane. He took a towel and mopped his dripping face, then threw the towel disgustedly against the bank of lockers. "Chapter One starts off with a dream sequence that leads into a flashback about a half-remembered nightmarish hallucination. Is that great or what?"
"I don't want to have any part of it," said Brant.
"I didn't ask for this," said Benarcek. "I could be working for Cooperman or somebody like that."
"Now, listen," said Phretys, "I wasn't all that happy about it either. But that's because I thought he was going to dribble off into the kind of thing he used to do ten years ago. But he's not, I promise. I want you people to act your age now. This is Eunestra, one of my sisters. She's the Muse of Language and Scenes Dealing with Sex in a Frank Manner That May Offend Some Readers."
There was a general commotion. This was big news.
"Then... then this means..." said Staefler.
"He is trying something new," said Benarcek, with wonder in his voice.
"I've been waiting for this for years," said Brant, with a contented look on her face. "Tell him I'm all ready for a frank scene. I'm warming up in the wings."
"Eunestra," said Weinraub. "Sounds like an organization kids collect for on Halloween."
"You realize this affects me personally," said Courane. "Everybody already assumes that I always represent him in the story. Now if he's going to start turning out smut—"
"Smut!" cried Eunestra.
"She's very sensitive about her job," said Phretys.
"I'm sorry," said Courane. "What I meant was that if all of a sudden he makes a change in his style, then the audience is going to think that I went along with it. That I approve."
Weinraub laughed. "Who really cares if you approve? What the hell difference does it make? Not to him, not to her, not to any of us, not to anybody. And whether you approve or not, you're going to be right there, right in Chapter One in one of his brand-new scenes, busily offending some readers right from the get-go."
Courane turned away, fed up with the whole thing. He went into the shower room.
"Now's our real chance, though," said Weinraub. "We can grab hold of the book now, while he's busy flitting around in flashbacks and fantasy sequences. It means he doesn't have a strong idea of where the novel is going, or, at least, not immediately. We can do it. We can make him write our story. Why not? We've done it before, in little scenes and sections. Why not try commandeering a whole book?"
Dr. Waters peeled himself away from the wall and stretched his shoulders and back. "My dear boy," he said, yawning, "let me point out an important weakness in your plan. You are forgetting that at this moment, at this very moment, he is writing not Chapter One, but this particular short story. Chapter One doesn't really exist. That novel doesn't really exist. Only this short story has a real life. So, when you speak of commandeering the novel, you are speaking the lines he has planned for you to say. You can't sneak up on him, you can't surprise him. He is manipulating you so cleverly, you think you are manipulating him."
Weinraub started to answer, but he closed his mouth. Waters was right, and there was nothing more to say about it.
"Did you see that?" cried Robert Hanson. "Did you see the way he gagged Weinraub? Stevie was all set to say something, and then—"
Justin Benarcek walked slowly toward Phretys, a horrified look on his face. "We're helpless in here," he said. "He's going to do it, isn't he? He's turning this into a reality story. And you gave him the idea."
"No," she said, "I swear I didn't. This story was completely uninspired."
Eileen Brant gave a sardonic laugh. "What else is new?" she asked.
"I know your problem, Stevie," said Phretys. "If it were up to you—which, thank God, it's not—this thing would be titled:
STEVE WEINRAUB
in
In the Wings
by
Sandor Courane
featuring Eileen Brant and Dr. Bertram Waters
with Justin Benarcek, Bo Staefler, Robert W. Hanson
and Phretys as The Muse
"You don't really care about the rest of them. You don't really care about the ensemble's versatility."
Weinraub was livid. "You go to Hell!" he cried.
Phretys crushed out her cigarette on the floor. She smiled at him. "I've been there before, and I'll go again whenever he sends me. No problem. But you've got to get used to the idea, Stevie: you have to find a new act, or your career is over. Now, the rest of you, we have a lot of work to do. Eunestra and I will be guiding him through Chapter One, so keep your wits about you. I want Courane, Brant, Staefler, Jennings, and Waters. Right now. Come on."
The crew went with her through the tunnel. The few of us who stayed behind went back to what we'd been doing. I was reading Steinbeck's Cannery Row. That was a job I would have liked to have been in on.
I had just found my place in the book when I heard a pitiful sob from Stevie. I looked up and saw him standing at the door to the tunnel. He was looking after Phretys and the cast. "Take me with you!" he shouted. There was no reply but the echo from the damp walls. I went back to my reading; he made me feel bad, and I didn't want to watch him fall apart in front of me.
I don't know how much later it was, but finally they all came back. Chapter One was finished, and so were they. I've never seen such an exhausted group of people. The only one smiling was Eunestra. Evidently they had had a successful first venture into the Frank Manner. I would hear all about it later from Eileen Brant. I couldn't wait.
Waters and Staefler and
the others went to their lockers and started stripping. I read some more. Then there was a shout: "Look out, he has a gun!" To tell the truth, I've heard that line so many times on television and in the movies, I thought it was somebody quoting a bit from Chapter One. I glanced up to see Stevie holding a small nickel-plated automatic against Courane's head.
"Easy, Stevie," I said. These days he and I pal around a lot.
"Just shut up, all of you," he said. His voice was like the snarl of an animal. "This is the guy who killed my career."
"Phretys!" pleaded Courane.
"Weinraub, put it down!" said our Muse.
"No," said Stevie. "Not unless I'm given some guarantees."
"This isn't the way to go about it," said Phretys.
"Weinraub," said Brant urgently, "don't you realize? He's manipulating you again! Right now!"
Weinraub thought that over briefly. "Well," he said, "I'll show him how it's done." He pushed Courane away and shot him four times, three times in the chest, once in the head. The shots rang in the locker room like a great bell at the end of the world.
Courane lay on the floor, motionless, running streams of blood across the tiles, in the kind of unnatural position that can't be mistaken for anything else. Brant was crying; we had never seen her cry before. I was stunned by the whole thing, and I couldn't have moved if I had wanted to. No one else was in better condition.
"There are three bullets left in the magazine," said Weinraub. "Does anyone have a cogent reason why I shouldn't put one of them through my own head?"
"I'll tell you why," said Dr. Waters, who had never been Stevie's best friend. "I wouldn't give him the satisfaction, that's why."
Weinraub hesitated. It sounded like a good reason. He looked down at Courane on the floor and, I think, realized for the first time what he had done. Still holding the pistol, he folded up like a sprig of mimosa. Phretys stood pressed against the tiled wall of the locker room. The rest of us were still paralyzed. It became very quiet; the only sound was Eileen's weeping.
After a long pause, Courane raised his bloody head. "Is that it?" he asked. "Is the story over?"
A Thousand Deaths Page 30
