"But not starving," Rod noted.
Brother Joey shook his head. "No. They're managing, on the handful of Terran patrons, and the few who come in from each of the frontier planets."
"Which makes them a nexus," Rod said softly, "one of the few surviving links between the outlying planets and the shrunken Terran Sphere."
"Yes." Brother Joey looked directly into his eyes. "Some trade survives. Only a trickle, perhaps, but it's there. In both directions."
Yorick grinned. "No wonder our freighter was bound for Otranto."
"The resorts become trade centers." Rod nodded slowly, as understanding dawned. He'd always thought the resort planets of his own time had become Sin Cities to service the merchants. He'd never realized it could have begun the other way.
"And that," Yorick went on, "is why we're here."
"Oh." Brother Joey looked up in surprise. "Did you want to go to Terra?"
Rod opened his mouth, but a short, lean man with white hair and a face with a few wrinkles bawled, "Mirane!"
"Over here, Whitey!" the girl with the computer-pad called back. She dived into the crowd and plowed toward him.
As she came up to him, he said, "About time to roll, isn't it?"
"Eight o'clock," Mirane confirmed. "And all present or accounted for."
'"Accounted for'?" Whitey's eyebrows lifted. "How many are we missing?"
"Only a couple of extras." Mirane touched a few keys on her pad. "A middle-aged peasant and a matron in a babushka."
"Nobody we can't shoot without." Whitey scowled up at the sky. "But we can't start until the clouds cooperate. What is it with that weatherman? He promised us a low overcast, with threatening thunderheads, and all we've got is a high haze!"
"We paid enough for it." Stroganoff, the plump man, joined them, scowling. "Check and find out what happened to it, will you, Mirane?"
The young woman punched buttons on her computer-pad, then pulled a handset from a pouch at her belt and talked into it, frowning at the sky.
The plump man paced. "Hang it, we've got three stars, five supporting actors, and a hundred extras tied up here! We can't afford to waste time on a weatherman who can't deliver!"
"So sue him." Whitey lounged back against a shopfront, hands in his jacket pockets. "You worry too much, Dave."
"Somebody's got to." Dave pinned him with a glare. "It's okay for you to talk, you're just the director!"
"Also the backer," Whitey reminded him. "It's my money we're wasting. Come off it, Dave, relax."
Dave heaved a sigh. "You make it sound good, Whitey. But blast it, we've got a schedule to keep! If we get behind a little every day, pretty soon we'll need an extra day's shooting—and that'll cost you a couple of therms! Besides, we lose Gawain after the twenty-seventh."
"So what's a leading man?" Whitey shrugged. "We'll just have to make sure we get all his scenes shot before then."
"All right, all right! So make sure of it, will you?"
"Oh, all right." Whitey heaved himself up with a sigh and stepped over to a fiftyish woman behind a complicated-looking console. He talked quietly with her a moment, then turned to call out, "Okay, Gawain, Herman, and Clyde! As long as we're waiting, let's run the first part of the scene, before the mob jumps the vampire."
"Where I throw the handkerchief?" asked a little man in a dark blue robe and pointed cap sprinkled with signs of the zodiac.
Whitey nodded. "Let's take it back a bit, to where Gawain has just come out of the inn and seen Herman waiting for him across the plaza."
"Right." A blond young man in a tweed suit stepped up beside Whitey. "I just woke up and found out breakfast wasn't even made yet, right?"
"That's it, Gawain. And a nice young guy like Dr. Vailin wouldn't even dream of waking somebody up just to get him a cup of coffee."
"So I'm stepping out into the false dawn to let the chill wake me up."
Whitey nodded again. "That's right. You enter from camera left, take a deep breath, look around, and see Count Dracula."
"Over there." The young man pointed at the vampire— and frowned. "Aw, come on, Herman! You had all night with that script!"
"Just making sure, lad." The vampire closed the cover on a small computer-pad and handed it to a coveralled brunette. He turned back toward Gawain and straightened his collar. "Now, then: 'It is pleasant, is it not? The air of my Transylvania.'"
"The approach of dawn clears the air," Gawain agreed. "But aren't you becoming careless, my lord? The first rays of the rising sun will touch you quite soon."
"What is existence without risk?" the vampire asked. "Only a dull, endless round of absurdity. Still, I do not hazard greatly; I have yet a little time."
"Thirteen and a half minutes," snapped the little man in the blue gown.
"Ah, my colleague is always precise," Dracula purred. "You have not been introduced, I believe. Dr. Vailin, allow me to present the esteemed sorcerer, Vaneskin Plochayet."
Gawain gave a slight bow. "Charmed."
"Not yet," the sorcerer chuckled, "not yet."
"Not ever," Gawain's face became stern. "The words of Aristotle will preserve me from your illusions, Master Plochayet."
The little sorcerer cackled, and Dracula sneered, "Surely you do not believe that your puny science can avail against our might, young man! You are not now in your native Germany, so far to the north and west! Nor are you in Italy, the Land of Faith; nor Greece, the Land of Reason! Nay, both are…" He broke off, turning to the director. "Damn it, Whitey! Am I supposed to make that sound realistic?"
"Of course not," Whitey retorted, "it's a fantasy. Just make it believable. Come on, come on! 'Greece, the Land of Reason…'"
Herman sighed and turned back to Gawain. "'Nay! Both are my neighbors—and uneasy neighbors they are. For you bide now in Transylvania, home of witchcraft and horror! Southeast of Austria, southwest of Russia we bide, poised between the lands of Reason and the land of feudal darkness, where your Science can have no sway!"
"Not so," Dr. Vailin smiled, almost amused. "Science rules the universe, even this small, forgotten corner—for science is the description of Order, and Order proceeds from the Good. No creature of Evil can stand against its symbol!" He slipped a crucifix from his breast pocket and brandished it. The Count shrieked and cowered, hands raised to ward him from the sight of holiness. But his sorcerer-ally leaped in front of him, hurling something as he shouted an incantation.
It was a silk scarf, and it fluttered to the pavement at his feet.
"Cut!" Whitey bawled, and he turned to the woman behind the console. "Well! That was a majestic flop. What happened, Hilda? The kerchief was supposed to fly across to drape itself over the crucifix!"
Hilda was punching buttons, looking miffed. "Sorry, Whitey. It's the static-charge generator. It was working ten minutes ago, I swear!"
"Don't," Whitey advised, "it's not nice. Get the gremlins out of it, will you?"
"Clouds!" Dave slapped Whitey on the shoulder, pointing at the sky.
Ominous charcoal-colored thunderheads were drifting toward them in full majesty.
Whitey turned to Mirane, beaming. "You got through!"
She nodded. "Just a clerk's foul-up. They promised it'll be nicely ominous within fifteen minutes."
"Awright!" Whitey grinned. "Now we can get to work!" He turned to Hilda. "How soon can you have that static generator fixed?"
Hilda's jaw set. "I'm a special-effects operator, Whitey, not a repairman!"
"Specialists!" Whitey rolled his eyes up. "Preserve me from 'em, Lord—or David. You're closer. Talk to her, will you?" He turned back to Mirane. "What else can we shoot?"
Dave heaved a sigh and rolled over to Hilda. "Don't you know how the gadget works?"
She stared at him for a moment, then blushed and shook her head. "Sorry, Dave. I just push the buttons."
Whitey turned away from Mirane, bawling, "Places for Scene 123!"
Dave stepped up to Mirane. "Where's the nearest electronics tech?"
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"They're all kinds of them on this planet," she answered. "Somebody has to keep all those holo effects working. But they're all on salary, Dave, and they've all got regular rounds. I don't think we could get one on less than a day's notice."
"Blast!" Dave scowled. "And I was hoping we could finish up with Clyde and Herman today. Well, no help for it. We'll just have to scratch the scene and pick it up tomorrow. "
Mirane punched keys, and frowned at her pad. "Another day of Clyde and Herman will cost you a therm and a half each. And the minimum crew for an extra day is 843 kwahers."
Dave paled. "That'll put us over budget."
"Uh, your pardon, please." Brother Joey stepped up. "I'm afraid I eavesdropped."
"Not hard," Dave grunted. "We haven't exactly been tiptoeing."
"Perhaps I could help." Brother Joey slipped his screwdriver out. "I'm very good with gadgets and gizindigees."
Dave stared a moment, then smiled with tolerant patience. "This isn't exactly a job for a hobbyist, fella."
"I made a living at it," Brother Joey said, poker-faced. "I used to fix holo gear on spaceliners."
Dave really stared now, his lips parting toward a grin.
"But you're not in the union!" Hilda howled.
"He doesn't have to be; we aren't on Luna now." Dave grinned wickedly. "Or anywhere within the Terran Sphere, for that matter—so we don't have unions yet."
"Well, we ought to," Hilda grumbled.
"Why, Hildie?" one of the camera ops said. "If we had, you couldn't've gotten in—or any of us, except Harve, here. He's the only one who had an uncle in the union."
Harve nodded. "Besides, union max was twenty kwahers a day below what they're paying us here."
"Bribery," Hilda snipped. "Lousy union-busters."
"No, victims." Harve grinned wickedly. "There ain't too many of us out here, Hilda. We can call down top money."
"It's right here, I think," Brother Joey called, his head and shoulders inside an access hatch. "The trouble, I mean. A weak chip."
"How canst thou tell?" Gwen knelt beside the hatch, peering in with avid interest.
Rod listened with growing trepidation as Brother Joey explained about test meters. Gwen's infatuation with technology was really beginning to be depressing.
"Paranoid?" Chornoi asked at his shoulder.
"Always," Rod assured her.
"Turn it off, please." Brother Joey pulled himself out of the hatch and looked up at Hilda. "Let it cool down."
Tight-lipped, she stabbed at a button, and the telltale lights died.
Brother Joey stood up, dusting off his hands, and turned to the producer. "That chip quits when it overheats. Just get it to a circuit-doctor, and have him put in a new one."
Dave pressed a hand to his forehead. "You mean we have to scrap the scene, after all?"
"No, of course not. Just have somebody run over to the multi-shop and pick up a freezer. You know, one of the little plug-in sticks for cooling down martinis? I'll frost that chip for you just before you run the scene. That'll get you through the day."
"My savior!" Dave grabbed him by the shoulders.
"No, that's my boss." Brother Joey held up a cautioning forefinger. "But I get paid, you know. In my business, we have to pull our own weight. The chapter house is too far away to send me a salary."
"Union rates plus!" Dave turned to Mirane. "Send a gopher for a freezer, will you?"
"He's on his way."
"That's my girl!" Dave spun away too fast to see Mirane blush. "We just have to wait for this scene, Whitey."
"I was going to, anyway." Whitey surveyed the ersatz peasant mob. "Hey, wait a minute—who put the monk in with the farmers?"
Mirane stepped up beside him, frowning. "He's in costume. And that outfit goes with any period—after 1100 ad., of course."
"Yeah, but the poor vampire wouldn't stand a chance with a priest in the crowd. Besides, look at that little yellow screwdriver in his pocket. They never had those in nineteenth century Transylvania." He turned to Dave. "Who hired him for this scene?"
Dave opened his mouth, but Brother Joey answered, "Nobody."
Mirane was touching computer keys again. "He's right. I checked off all the extras, and he's not included." She looked up at Rod, frowning. "None of you are."
"Never claimed to be," Rod confirmed.
Dave was frowning. "Uh, come over here a second, would you?"
Rod and Gwen exchanged glances, then stepped over to the producer.
"I hate to seem rude," Dave muttered, "but if you weren't hired for this scene, what're you doing here?"
Rod shrugged. "Just watching."
"Tourists!" Dave heaved a martyred sigh. "How do you keep 'em out? Look, folks, I appreciate your interest, but we can't have you mixing in with the cast. Just too many legal problems."
"Well, that's show biz," Yorick sighed.
"Very short career," Rod agreed.
"'Twas pleasant, whilst it endured," Gwen concurred.
"Urn, I don't mean to give you the bum's rush, especially since we just hired your friend, here, below-the-line." Dave nodded toward Brother Joey. "You're welcome to watch, if you want to. Just stand way behind the camera ops, okay?"
"I shall surely watch!" Gwen stepped over to Brother Joey and knelt down to study what he was doing. Apprehension prickled Rod's spine.
"Figure it out?" Whitey asked, stepping up.
"Yeah—and I appointed them guests." Dave waved toward Whitey. "This is the director, folks. His name's Tod Tambourin."
Chornoi stared. So did Rod. Even Yorick looked impressed.
"Yes," Dave sighed, "the Tod Tambourin."
"The poet laureate of the Terran Sphere?" Chornoi gasped.
"Not anymore," Whitey assured her. "PEST took the laurels away. They didn't like my verses—decided I favored individualism too much. Horrible, immoral concepts, you know, such as 'freedom' and 'human rights.'"
Chornoi paled. "PEST did that?"
"Hey!" Yorick clasped her shoulder. "Don't take it personally. It's not as though you did it."
"But I did," she breathed, "I did."
"So did every person who voted extra power to the Executive Secretary," Whitey snorted, "but I'm not about to blame each one of 'em." He shrugged. "Besides, they're paying for it now, anyway. Just a bunch of poor suckers, that's all."
"Yes," Chornoi whispered, "we were."
"Hey, don't let it bog you down! Spend too much time cursing yourself for what you did yesterday, and you'll hamstring yourself for tomorrow! Besides…" Whitey shrugged. "I never was too comfortable being 'Tod Tambourin,' anyway. Always preferred being 'Whitey the Wino.'"
Chornoi stared. Then she straightened, and her mouth finned with resolution.
"Well! Always glad to have admirers around." Whitey turned to pump Rod's hand. "What do you think of my show?"
"Uh…" Rod cast a look of appeal to Gwen. "You wrote the script for this epic?"
"Yeah, me." Whitey frowned. "What is it? What don't you like?"
Rod took a deep breath and plunged. "Little on the wordy side, isn't it?"
"Hm." Whitey gazed at him, scowling.
Then he turned to Mirane. "Call Gawain over here, will you? And Clyde and Herman." He gazed off into space, abstracted.
Rod turned to Dave with a word of apology on his lips, but Dave held up a palm. "Shh! He's working."
The actors came up, and Whitey said, "Herman, take it from, 'You are not now in your native Germany,' will you?"
Herman frowned. '"You are not now in your native Germany, so far to the north and west! Nor are you in…'"
"All right, cut!" Whitey chopped down with his hand. "Condense it, Herman. How would your character say it?"
Herman stared at him for a moment, then smiled and said, '"Surely you do not believe that puny science can prevail against me, young man!'"
Mirane stared up at him, her finger keying the dictation mode on her keypad.
"'You are in my Transylv
ania now, not in your native Germany, where logic prevails!'" Herman went on. "'No, you are caught between Faith and Reason to the west, and witchcraft and superstition to the east…'"
"That's enough." Whitey chopped crosswise with his hand. "I get the point; I tried to work in too much geography at one blow. Okay, let's try it this way: Uh… 'You are trapped here, young man—trapped in Transylvania, trapped between the logic of Germany, to the west, and the superstition of Russia, to the east.'"
"Dracula would keep the 'my Transylvania,'" Herman said softly.
Whitey nodded. "Right. Yeah, he would." He flashed a glare at Rod. "Always listen to the actors, because they know the characters better than the writer does."
"But the writer created those characters!" Chornoi objected.
"But the actor re-creates the character his own way," Whitey corrected her. "If I get an actor to portray my character, it ceases to be just mine anymore. It becomes that actor's character, even more than mine, or the actor will do a lousy job." He turned back to Herman with a grin. "But I get the final say."
"Only because you hired the producer," Clyde snorted. "It's immoral, young man—the Executive Producer doing his own directing."
"It's my money, and I'll spend it as I like, old-timer. Now—'You are trapped in Transylvania, my Transylvania, the land of superstition… no… the land of Superstition and Sorcery… no, Superstition and Black Magic… where Science can have no sway!'"
They went on, overhauling the section of dialogue. When they were done, Mirane reminded, "We were going to shoot the scene with the peasants."
"Of course!" Whitey struck his forehead with the heel of his hand. "How much time have we wasted?"
"Not a second," Dave assured him. "We'll make it all back, because it'll be a better epic. But we should shoot all the day's scenes, Whitey."
"Right! Back to your places!" Whitey spun to the camera ops. "George, you go over by the south wall. Harve, over here, next to me!"
"That's one disadvantage of the writer doing his own directing," Dave confided to Rod. "A separate director could have been shooting a different scene, while he was overhauling this one."
"But how can he?" Chornoi cried. "How can he allow his deathless prose to be violated this way?"
The Warlock Wandering Page 17
