Dark Benediction

by Walter M. Miller

  "Mela?" The technician paused, frowning. "Mela Stone?"

  Thornier nodded.

  Rick snatched up a copy of the uncoded script, waved it at him. "But she's in this version, Thorny! Know that! She's playing Marka."

  Thornier's laugh was brief and brittle.

  Rick reddened slightly. "Well, I mean her mannequin's playing it."

  Thorny eyed the Maestro distastefully. "Your mechanical Svengali's playing its airfoam zombies in all roles, you mean."

  "Oh, cut it out, Thorny. Be sore at the world if you want to, but don't blame me for what audiences want. And I didn't invent autodrama anyhow."

  "I don't blame anybody. I merely detest that . . . that-" He punched at the base of the Maestro with his wet plop.

  "You and D'Uccia," Rick grunted disgustedly. "Except--D'Uccia loves it when it's working O.K. It's just a machine, Thorny. Why hate it?"

  "Don't need a reason to hate it," he said snarly-petulant. "I hate air-cabs, too. It's a matter of taste, that's all."

  "All right, but the public likes autodrama-whether it's by TV, stereo, or on stage. And they get what they want."

  "Why?"

  Rick snickered. "Well, it's their dough. Autodrama's portable, predictable, duplicatable. And flexible. You can run 'Macbeth' tonight, the 'Anarch' tomorrow night, and 'King of the Moon' the next night-in the same house. No actor-temperament problems. No union problems. Rent the packaged props, dolls, and tapes from Smithfield. Packaged theater. Systematized, mass-produced. In Coon Creek, Georgia, yet."

  "Bah!"

  Rick finished feeding in the script tape, closed the panel, and opened an adjacent one. He ripped the lid from a cardboard carton and dumped a heap of smaller tape-spools on the table.

  "Are those the souls they sold to Smithfield?" Thornier asked, smiling at them rather weirdly.

  The technician's stool scraped back and he exploded: "You know what they are!"

  Thornier nodded, leaned closer to stare at them as if fascinated. He plucked one of them out of the pile, sighed down at it.

  "If you say 'Alas, poor Yorick,' I'll heave you out of here!" Rick grated.

  Thornier put it back with a sigh and wiped his hand on his coveralls. Packaged personalities. Actor's egos, analogized on tape. Real actors, once, whose dolls were now cast in the roles. The tapes contained complex psychophysiological data derived from months of psychic and somatic testing, after the original actors had signed their Smithfield contracts. Data for the Maestro's personality matrices. Abstractions from the human psyche, incarnate in glass, copper, chromium. The souls they rented to Smithfield on a royalty basis, along with their flesh and blood likenesses in the dolls.

  Rick loaded a casting spool onto its spindle, started it feeding through the pickups.

  "What happens if we leave out a vital ingredient? Such as Mela Stone's tape, for instance," Thornier wanted to know.

  "The doll'd run through its lines like a zombie, that's all," Rick explained. "No zip. No interpretation. Flat, deadpan, like a robot."

  "They are robots."

  "Not exactly. Remote marionettes for the Maestro, but interpreted. We did a run-through on 'Hamlet' once, without any actor tapes. Everybody talked in flat monotones, no expressions. It was a scream."

  "Ha, ha," Thornier said grimly.

  Rick slipped another tape on the spindle, clicked a dial to a new setting, started the feed again. "This one's Andreyev, Thornier-played by Peltier." He cursed suddenly, stopped the feed, inspected the tape anxiously, flipped open the pickup mechanism, and inspected it with a magnifier.

  "What's wrong?" asked the janitor.

  "Take-off's about worn out. Hard to keep its spacing right. I'm nervous about it getting hung up and chewing up the tape."

  "No duplicate tapes?"

  "Yeah. One set of extras. But the show opens tonight." He cast another suspicious look at the pickup glideway, then closed it and switched the feed again. He was replacing the panel when the feed mechanism stalled. A ripping sound came from inside. He muttered fluent profanity, shut off the drive, jerked away the panel. He held up a shredded ribbon of tape for Thorny to see, then flung it angrily across the booth. "Get out of here! You're a jinx!"

  "Not till I finish mopping."

  "Thorny, get D'Uccia for me, will you? We'll have to get a new pickup flown in from Smithfield before this afternoon. This is a helluva mess."

  "Why not hire a human stand-in?" he asked nastily, then added: "Forgive me. That would be a perversion of your art, wouldn't it? Shall I get D'Uccia?"

  Rick threw the Peltier spool at him. He ducked out with a chuckle and went to find the theater manager. Halfway down the iron stairs, he paused to look at the wide stage that spread away just beyond the folded curtains. The footlights were burning and the gray-green floor looked clean and shimmering, with its checkerboard pattern of imbedded copper strips. The strips were electrified during the performance, and they fed the mannequins' energy-storage packs. The dolls had metallic disks in their soles, and rectifiers in their insteps. When batteries drained low, the Maestro moved the actor's foot an inch or so to contact the floor electrodes for periodic recharging during the play, since a doll would grow wobbly and its voice indistinct after a dozen minutes on internal power alone.

  Thorny stared at the broad expanse of stage where no humans walked on performance night. D'Uccia's Siamese tomcat sat licking itself in the center of the stage. It glanced up at him haughtily, seemed to sniff, began licking itself again. He watched it for a moment, then called back upstairs to Rick.

  "Energize the floor a minute, will you, Rick?"

  "Huh? Why?"--a busy grunt.

  "Want to check something."

  "O.K., but then fetch D'Uccia."

  He heard the technician snap a switch. The cat's calm hauteur exploded. The cat screamed, scrambled, barrel-rolled, amid a faint sputter of sparks. The cat did an Immelmann turn over the footlights, landed in the pit with a clawing crash, then scampered up the aisle with fur erect toward its haven beneath Imperio's desk.

  "Whatthehell?" Rick growled, and thrust his head out of the booth.

  "Shut it off now," said the janitor. "D'Uccia'll be here in a minute."

  "With fangs showing!"

  Thornier went to finish his routine clean-up. Gloom had begun to gather about him. He was leaving-leaving even this last humble role in connection with the stage. A fleeting realization of his own impotence came to him. Helpless. Helpless enough to seek petty revenges like vandalizing D'Uccia's window box and tormenting D'Uccia's cat, because there was not any real enemy at which he could strike out.

  He put the realization down firmly, and stamped on it. He was Ryan Thornier, and never helpless, unless he willed it so. I'll make them know who I am just once he thought, before I go. I'll make them remember, and they won't ever forget.

  But that line of thought about playing one last great role, one last masterful interpretation, he knew was no good. "Thorny, if you ever played a one-last-great," Rick had said to him once, "there wouldn't be a thing left to live for, would there?" Rick had said it cynically, but it was true anyhow. And the pleasant fantasy was somehow alarming as well as pleasant.

  The chic little woman in the white-plumed hat was explaining things carefully-with round vowels and precise enunciation-to the Playwright of the Moment, up-and-coming, with awed worshipfulness in his gaze as he listened to the pert little producer. "Stark realism, you see, is the milieu of autodrama," she said. "Always remember, Bernie, that consideration for the actors is a thing of the past. Study the drama of Rome-ancient Rome. If a play had a crucifixion scene, they got a slave for the part and crucified him. On stage, but really!"

  The Playwright of the Moment laughed dutifully around his long cigarette holder. "So that's where they got the line: 'It's superb, but it's hell on the actors.' I must re-write the murder scene in my 'George's Wake.' Do it with a hatchet, this time."

  "Oh, now, Bernie! Mannequins don't bleed."

  They bot
h laughed heartily. "And they are expensive. Not hell on the actors, but hell on the budget."

  "The Romans probably had the same problem. I'll bear it in mind."

  Thornier saw them-the producer and the Playwright of the Moment-standing there in the orchestra when he came from backstage and across toward the center aisle. They lounged on the arms of their seats, and a crowd of production personnel and technicians milled about them. The time for the first run-through was approaching.

  The small woman waved demurely to Thorny when she saw him making his way slowly through the throng, then turned to the playwright again. "Bernie, be a lamb and get me a drink, will you? I've got a butterfly."

  "Surely. Hard, or soft?"

  "Oh, hard. Scotch mist in a paper cup, please. There's a bar next door."

  The playwright nodded a nod that was nearly a bow and shuffled away up the aisle. The woman caught at the janitor's sleeve as he passed.

  "Going to snub me, Thorny?"

  "Oh, hello, Miss Ferne," he said politely.

  She leaned close and muttered: "Call me 'Miss Ferne again and I'll claw you." The round vowels had vanished.

  "O.K., Jade, but-" He glanced around nervously. Technicians milled about them. Ian Feria, the producer, watched them curiously from the wings.

  'What's been doing with you, Thorny? Why haven't I seen you?" she complained.

  He gestured with the broom handle, shrugged. Jade Ferne studied his face a moment and frowned. "Why the agonized look, Thorny? Mad at me?"

  He shook his head. "This play, Jade-The Anarch,' well-" He glanced miserably toward the stage.

  Memory struck her suddenly. She breathed a compassionate ummm. "The attempted revival, ten years ago-you were to be Andreyev. Oh, Thorny, I'd forgotten."

  "It's all right." He wore a carefully tailored martyr's smile.

  She gave his arm a quick pat. "I'll see you after the run-through, Thorny. We'll have a drink and talk old times."

  He glanced around again and shook his head. "You've got new friends now, Jade. They wouldn't like it."

  "The crew? Nonsense! They're not snobs."

  "No, but they want your attention. Feria's trying to catch your eye right now. No use making them sore."

  "All right, but after the run-through I'll see you in the mannequin room. I'll just slip away."

  "If you want to."

  "I do, Thorny. It's been so long."

  The playwright returned with her Scotch mist and gave Thornier a hostilely curious glance.

  "Bless your heart, Bernie," she said, the round vowels returning, then to Thornier: "Thorny, would you do me a favor? I've been trying to corner D'Uccia, but he's tied up with a servo salesman somewhere. Somebody's got to run and pick up a mannequin from the depot. The shipment was delivered, but the trucker missed a doll crate. We'll need it for the runthrough. Could you-"

  "Sure, Miss Ferne. Do I need a requisition order?"

  "No, just sign the delivery ticket. And Thorny, see if the new part for the Maestro's been flown in yet. Oh, and one other thing-the Maestro chewed up the Peltier tape. We've got a duplicate, but we should have two, just to be safe."

  "I'll see if they have one in stock," he murmured, and turned to go.

  D'Uccia stood in the lobby with the salesman when he passed through. The theater manager saw him and smirked happily.

  “…Certain special features, of course," the salesman was saying. "It's an old building, and it wasn't designed with autojanitor systems in mind, like buildings are now. But we'll tailor the installation to fit your place, Mr. D'Uccia. We want to do the job right, and a packaged unit wouldn't do it."

  "Yah, you gimme da price, hah?"

  "We'll have an estimate for you by tomorrow. I'll have an engineer over this afternoon to make the survey, and he'll work up a layout tonight."

  "Whatsa 'bout the demonstration, uh? Whatsa 'bout you show how da swhip-op machine go?"

  The salesman hesitated, eying the janitor who waited nearby. "Well, the floor-cleaning robot is only a small part of the complete service, but . . . I tell you what I'll do. I'll bring a packaged char-all over this afternoon, and let you have a look at it."

  "Fine. Datsa fine. You bring her, den we see."

  They shook hands. Thornier stood with his arms folded, haughtily inspecting a bug that crawled across the frond of a potted palm, and waiting for a chance to ask D'Uccia for the keys to the truck. He felt the theater manager's triumphant gaze, but gave no indication that he heard.

  "We can do the job for you all right, Mr. D'Uccia. Cut your worries in half. And that'll cut your doctor bills in half, too, like you say. Yes, sir! A man in your position gets ground down with just plain human inefficiency-other people's inefficiency. You'll never have to worry about that, once you get the building autojanitored, no sir!"

  "T'ank you kindly."

  "Thank you, Mr. D'Uccia, and I'll see you later this afternoon."

  The salesman left.

  "Well, bom?" D'Uccia grunted to the janitor.

  "The keys to the truck. Miss Ferne wants a pickup from the depot."

  D'Uccia tossed them to him. "You hear what the man say? Letsa machines do alla work, hah? Always you wantsa day off. O.K., you takka da day off, ever'day pretty soon. Nice for you, hah, ragazzo?"

  Thornier turned away quickly to avoid displaying the surge of unwanted anger. "Be back in an hour," he grunted, and hurried away on his errand, his jaw working in sullen resentment. Why wait around for two humiliating weeks? Why not just walk out? Let D'Uccia do his own chores until the autojan was installed. He'd never be able to get another job around the theater anyhow, so D'Uccia's reaction wouldn't matter.

  I'll walk out now, he thought-and immediately knew that he wouldn't. It was hard to explain to himself, but when he thought of the final moment when he would be free to look for a decent job and a comfortable living-he felt a twinge of fear that was hard to understand.

  The janitor's job had paid him only enough to keep him alive in a fourth floor room where he cooked his own meager meals and wrote memoirs of the old days, but it had kept him close to the lingering remnants of something he loved.

  "Theater," they called it. Not the theater-as it was to the scalper's victim, the matinee housewife, or the awestruck hick-but just "theater." It wasn't a place, wasn't a business, wasn't the name of an art. "Theater" was a condition of the human heart and soul. Jade Ferne was theater. So was Ian Feria. So was Mela, poor kid, before her deal with Smithfield. Some had it, others didn't. In the old days, the ones that didn't have it soon got out. But the ones that had it, still had it, even after the theater was gobbled up by technological change. And they hung around. Some of them, like Jade and Ian and Mela, adapted to the change, profited by the prostitution of the stage, and developed ulcers and a guilty conscience. Still, they were theater, and because they were, he, Thornier, hung around, too, scrubbing the floors they walked on, and feeling somehow that he was still in theater. Now he was leaving. And now he felt the old bitterness boiling up inside again. The bitterness had been chronic and passive, and now it threatened to become active and acute.

  If I could only give them one last performance! he thought. One last great role.

  But that thought led to the fantasy-plan for revenge, the plan that came to him often as he wandered about the empty theater. Revenge was no good. And the plan was only a daydream. And yet-he wasn't going to get another chance.

  He set his jaw grimly and drove on to the Smithfield depot.

  The depot clerk had hauled the crated mannequin to the fore, and it was waiting for Thornier when he entered the stockroom. He rolled it out from the wall on a dolly, and the janitor helped him wrestle the coffin-sized packing case onto the counter.

  "Don't take it to the truck yet," the clerk grunted around the fat stub of a cigar. "It ain't a new doll, and you gotta sign a release."

  "What kind of a release?"

  "Liability for malfunction. If the doll breaks down during the show, you can't su
e Smithfield. It's standard prack for used-doll rentals."

  "Why didn't they send a new one, then?"

  "Discontinued production on this model. You want it, you take a used one, and sign the release."

  "Suppose I don't sign?"

  "No siggy, no dolly."

  "Oh." He thought for a moment. Obviously, the clerk had mistaken him for production personnel. His signature wouldn't mean anything-but it was getting late, and Jade was rushed. Since the release wouldn't be valid anyhow he reached for the form.

  "Wait," said the clerk. "You better look at what you're signing for." He reached for a wrecking claw and slipped it under a metal binding strap. The strap broke with a screechy snap. "It's been overhauled," the clerk continued. "New solenoid fluid injected, new cosmetic job. Nothing really wrong. A few fatigue spots in the padding, and one toe missing. But you oughta have a look, anyhow."

  He finished breaking the lid-fastenings loose and turned to a wall-control board. "We don't have a complete Maestro here," he said as he closed a knife switch, "but we got the control transmitters, and some taped sequences. It's enough to pre-flight a doll."

  Equipment hummed to life somewhere behind the panel. The clerk adjusted several dials while Thornier waited impatiently.

  "Let's see-" muttered the cleric. "Guess we'll start off with the Frankenstein sequence." He flipped a switch.

  A purring sound came faintly from within the coffin-like box. Thornier watched nervously. The lid stirred, began to rise. A woman's hands came into view, pushing the lid up from within. The purring increased. The lid clattered aside to hang by the metal straps.

  The woman sat up and smiled at the janitor.

  Thornier went white. "Mela!" he hissed.

  "Ain't that a chiller?" chuckled the clerk. "Now for the hoochy-coochy sequence-"

  "No-"

  The clerk flipped another switch. The doll stood up slowly, chastely nude as a window-dummy. Still smiling at Thorny, the doll did a bump and a grind.

  "Stop it!" he yelled hoarsely.

  "Whassa matter, buddy?"

  Thorny heard another switch snap. The doll stretched gracefully and yawned. It stretched out in its packing case again, closed its eyes and folded its hands over its bosom. The purring stopped.