The Mammoth Book of Golden Age SF

by Martin Greenberg

  I spent a week digging through the files of Central Casting before I was satisfied, but it took a month of snooping and some under-the-table cash to lease a camera that would handle Tru-color film. That took the biggest load off my mind. When I got back to Detroit the big view camera had arrived from Rochester, with a truckload of glass color plates. Ready to go.

  We made quite a ceremony of it. We closed the venetian blinds and I popped the cork on one of the bottles of champagne I’d bought. The blond secretary was impressed; all she’d been doing for her salary was accept delivery of packages and crates and boxes. We had no wine glasses, but we made no fuss about it. Too nervous and excited to drink any more than one bottle, we gave the rest to the blond and told her to take the rest of the afternoon off. After she left – and I think she was disappointed at breaking up what could have been a good party – we locked up after her, went into the studio itself, locked up again, and went to work.

  I’ve mentioned that the windows were sealed. All the inside wall had been painted dull black, and with the high ceiling that went with that old bank lobby, it was impressive. But not gloomy. Midway in the studio was planted the big Trucolor camera, loaded and ready. Not much could we see of Mike’s machine, but I knew it was off to the side, set to throw on the back wall. Not on the wall, understand, because the images produced are projected in midair like the meeting of the rays of two searchlights. Mike lifted the lid and I could see him silhouetted against the tiny lights that lit the dials.

  “Well?” he said expectantly.

  I felt pretty good just then, right down to my billfold.

  “It’s all yours, Mike,” and a switch ticked over.

  There he was. There was a youngster, dead twenty-five hundred years, real enough, almost, to touch. Alexander. Alexander of Macedon.

  Let’s take the first picture in detail. I don’t think I can ever forget what happened in the next year or so. First we followed Alexander through his life, from beginning to end. We skipped, of course the little things he did, jumping ahead days and weeks and years at a time. Then we’d miss him, or find that he’d moved in space. That would mean we’d have to jump back and forth, like the artillery firing bracket or ranging shots, until we found him again. Helped only occasionally by his published lives, we were astounded to realize how much distortion has crept into his life. I often wonder why legends arise about the famous. Certainly their lives are as startling, or appalling, as fiction. And unfortunately we had to hold closely to the accepted histories. If we hadn’t, every professor would have gone into his corner for a hearty sneer. We couldn’t take that chance. Not at first.

  After we knew approximately what had happened and where, we used our notes to go back to what had seemed a particular photogenic section and work on that awhile. Eventually we had a fair idea of what we were actually going to film. Then we sat down and wrote an actual script to follow, making allowance for whatever shots we’d have to double in later. Mike used his machine as the projector, and I operated the Trucolor camera at a fixed focus, like taking moving pictures of a movie. As fast as we finished a reel it would go to Rochester for processing, instead of one of the Hollywood outfits that might have done it cheaper. Rochester is so used to horrible amateur stuff that I doubt if anyone ever looks at anything. When the reel was returned we’d run it ourselves to check our choice of scenes and color sense and so on.

  For example, we had to show the traditional quarrels with his father, Philip. Most of that we figured on doing with doubles, later. Olympias, his mother, and the fangless snakes she affected, didn’t need any doubling, as we used an angle and amount of distance that didn’t call for actual conversation. The scene where Alexander rode the bucking horse no one else could ride came out of some biographer’s head, but we thought it was so famous we couldn’t leave it out. We dubbed the closeups later, and the actual horseman was a young Scythian who hung around the royal stables for his keep. Roxanne was real enough, like the rest of the Persians’ wives Alexander took over. Luckily, most of them had enough poundage to look luscious. Philip and Parmenio and the rest of the characters were heavily bearded, which made easy the necessary doubling and dubbing-in the necessary speech. (If you ever saw them shave in those days, you’d know why whiskers were popular.)

  The most trouble we had was with interior shots. Smoky wicks in a bowl of lard, no matter how plentiful, are too dim even for fast film. Mike got around that by running the Trucolor camera at a single frame a second, with his machine paced accordingly. That accounts for the startling clarity and depth of focus we got from a lens stopped well down. We had all the time in the world to choose the best possible scenes and camera angles; the best actors in the world, expensive camera booms, or repeated retakes under the most exacting director can’t compete with us. We had a lifetime from which to choose.

  Eventually we had on film about eighty percent of what you saw in the finished picture. Roughly, we spliced the reels together and sat there entranced at what we had actually done. Even more exciting, even more spectacular than we’d dared hope, was the realization that we’d done a beautiful job, despite the lack of continuity and sound. We’d done all we could, and the worst was yet to come. So we sent for more champagne and told the blond we had cause for celebration. She giggled.

  “What are you doing in there, anyway?” she asked. “Every salesman who comes to the door wants to know what you’re making.”

  I opened the first bottle. “Just tell them you don’t know.”

  “That’s just what I’ve been telling them. They think I’m awfully dumb.” We all laughed at the salesmen.

  Mike was thoughtful. “If we’re going to do this sort of thing very often, we ought to have some of these fancy hollow-stemmed glasses.”

  The blond was pleased with that. “And we could keep them in my bottom drawer.” Her nose wrinkled prettily. “The bubbles—You know, this is the only time I’ve ever had champagne, except at a wedding, and then it was only one glass.”

  “Pour her another,” Mike suggested. “Mine’s empty too.” I did. “What did you do with those bottles you took home last time?”

  A blush and a giggle. “My father wanted to open them, but I told him you said to save it for a special occasion.”

  By that time I had my feet on her desk. “This is the special occasion, then,” I invited. “Have another, Miss . . . what’s your first name, anyway? I hate being formal after working hours.”

  She was shocked. “And you and Mr. Laviada sign my checks every week! It’s Ruth.”

  “Ruth. Ruth.” I rolled it around the piercing bubbles, and it sounded all right.

  She nodded. “And your name is Edward, and Mr. Laviada’s is Migwell. Isn’t it?” And she smiled at him.

  “MiGELL,” he smiled back. “An old Spanish custom. Usually shortened to Mike.”

  “If you’ll hand me another bottle,” I offered, “shorten Edward to Ed.” She handed it over.

  By the time we got to the fourth bottle we were as thick as bugs in a rug. It seems that she was twenty-four, free, and single, and loved champagne.

  “But,” she burbled fretfully, “I wish I knew what you were doing in there all hours of the day and night. I know you’re here at night sometimes because I’ve seen your car out in front.”

  Mike thought that over. “Well,” he said a little unsteadily, “we take pictures.” He blinked one eye. “Might even take pictures of you if we were approached properly.”

  I took over. “We take pictures of models.”

  “Oh, no.”

  “Yes. Models of things and people and whatnot. Little ones. We make it look like it’s real.” I think she was a trifle disappointed.

  “Well, now I know, and that makes me feel better. I sign all those bills from Rochester and I don’t know what I’m signing for. Except that they must be film or something.”

  “That’s just what it is; film and things like that.”

  “Well, it bothered me— No, there’s two mor
e behind the fan.”

  Only two more. She had a capacity. I asked her how she would like a vacation. She hadn’t thought about a vacation just yet.

  I told her she’d better start thinking about it. “We’re leaving day after tomorrow for Los Angeles, Hollywood.”

  “The day after tomorrow? Why—”

  I reassured her. “You’ll get paid just the same. But there’s no telling how long we’ll be gone, and there doesn’t seem to be much use in your sitting around here with nothing to do.”

  From Mike: “Let’s have that bottle”; and I handed it to him. I went on.

  “You’ll get your checks just the same. If you want, we’ll pay you in advance so—”

  I was getting full of champagne, and so were we all. Mike was humming softly to himself, happy as a taco. Ruth was having a little trouble with her left eye. I knew just how she felt, because I was having a little trouble watching where she overlapped the swivel chair. Blue eyes, sooo tall, fuzzy hair. Hm-m-m. All work and no play— She handed me the last bottle.

  Demurely she hid a tiny hiccup. “I’m going to save all the corks— No, I won’t, either. My father would want to know what I’m thinking of, drinking with my bosses.”

  I said it wasn’t a good idea to annoy your father. Mike said why fool with bad ideas, when he had a good one. We were interested. Nothing like a good idea to liven things up.

  Mike was expansive as the very devil. “Going to Los Angeles.”

  We nodded solemnly.

  “Going to Los Angeles to work.”

  Another nod.

  “Going to work in Los Angeles. What will we do for pretty blond girl to write letters?”

  Awful. No pretty blond to write letters and drink champagne. Sad case.

  “Gotta hire somebody to write letters anyway. Might not be blond. No blonds in Hollywood. No good ones, anyway. So—”

  I saw the wonderful idea, and finished for him. “So we take pretty blond to Los Angeles to write letters!”

  What an idea that was! One bottle sooner and its brilliancy would have been dimmed. Ruth bubbled like a fresh bottle, and Mike and I sat there, smirking like mad.

  “But I can’t! I couldn’t leave day after tomorrow just like that—!”

  Mike was magnificent. “Who said day after tomorrow? Changed our minds. Leave right now.”

  She was appalled. “Right now! Just like that?”

  “Right now. Just like that.” I was firm.

  “But—”

  “No buts. Right now. Just like that.”

  “Nothing to wear—”

  “Buy clothes any place. Best ones in Los Angeles.”

  “But my hair—”

  Mike suggested a haircut in Hollywood.

  I pounded the table. It felt solid. “Call the airport. Three tickets.”

  She called the airport. She intimidated easy.

  The airport said we could leave for Chicago any time on the hour, and change there for Los Angeles. Mike wanted to know why she was wasting time on the telephone when we could be on our way. Holding up the wheels of progress, emery dust in the gears. One minute to get her hat.

  “Call Pappy from the airport.”

  Her objections were easily brushed away with a few word-pictures of how much fun there was to be had in Hollywood. We left a sign on the door, Gone to Lunch – Back in December, and made the airport in time for the four o’clock plane, with no time left to call Pappy. I told the parking attendant to hold the car until he heard from me and we made it up the steps and into the plane just in time. The steps were taken away, the motors snorted, and we were off, with Ruth holding fast her hat in an imaginary breeze.

  There was a two-hour lay over in Chicago. They don’t serve liquor at the airport, but an obliging cab driver found us a convenient bar down the road, where Ruth made a call to her father. Cautiously we stayed away from the telephone booth, but from what Ruth told us, he must have read her the riot act. The bartender didn’t have champagne, but gave us the special treatment reserved for those that order it. The cab driver saw that we made the liner two hours later.

  In Los Angeles we registered at the Commodore, cold sober and ashamed of ourselves. The next day Ruth went shopping for clothes, for herself and for us. We gave her the sizes and enough money to soothe her hangover. Mike and I did some telephoning. After breakfast we sat around until the desk clerk announced a Mr. Lee Johnson to see us.

  Lee Johnson was the brisk professional type, the high-bracket salesman. Tall, rather homely, a clipped way of talking. We introduced ourselves as embryo producers. His eyes brightened when we said that. His meat.

  “Not exactly the way you think,” I told him. “We already have eighty percent or better of the final print.”

  He wanted to know where he came in.

  “We have several thousand feet of Trucolor film. Don’t bother asking where or when we got it. This footage is silent. We’ll need sound and, in places, speech dubbed in.”

  He nodded. “Easy enough. What condition is the master?”

  “Perfect condition. It’s in the hotel vault right now. There are gaps in the story to fill. We’ll need quite a few male and female characters. And all of these will have to do their doubling for cash, and not for screen credit.”

  Johnson raised his eyebrows. “Why? Out here, screen credit is bread and butter.”

  “Several reasons. This footage was made – never mind where – with the understanding that film credit would favor no one.”

  “If you’re lucky enough to catch your talent between pictures, you might get away with it. But if your footage is worth working with, my boys will want screen credit. And I think they’re entitled to it.”

  I said that was reasonable enough. The technical crews were essential, and I was prepared to pay well. Particularly to keep their mouths closed until the print was ready for final release. Maybe even after that.

  “Before we go any further,” Johnson rose and reached for his hat, “let’s take a look at that print. I don’t know if we can—”

  I knew what he was thinking. Amateurs. Home movies. Feelthy peekchures mebbe?

  We got the reels out of the hotel safe and drove to his laboratory, out Sunset. The top was down on his convertible and Mike hoped audibly that Ruth would have sense enough to get sport shirts that didn’t scratch.

  “Wife?” Johnson asked carelessly.

  “Secretary,” Mike answered just as casually. “We flew in last night and she’s out getting us some light clothes.” Johnson’s estimation of us rose visibly.

  A porter came out of the laboratory to carry the suitcase containing the film reels. It was a long, low building, with the offices at the front and the actual laboratories tapering off at the rear. Johnson took us in the side door and called for someone whose name we didn’t catch. The anonymous one was a projectionist who took the reels and disappeared into the back of the projection room. We sat for a minute in the soft easy chairs until the projectionist buzzed ready. Johnson glanced at us, and we nodded. He clicked a switch on the arm of his chair and the overhead lights went out. The picture started.

  It ran a hundred and ten minutes as it stood. We both watched Johnson like a cat at a rathole. When the tag end showed white on the screen, he signaled with the chair-side buzzer for lights. They came on. He faced us.

  “Where did you get that print?”

  Mike grinned at him. “Can we do business?”

  “Do business!” He was vehement. “You bet your life we can do business! We’ll do the greatest business you ever saw!”

  The projection man came down. “Hey, that’s all right. Where’d you get it?”

  Mike looked at me. I said, “This isn’t to go any further.”

  Johnson looked at his man, who shrugged. “None of my business.”

  I dangled the hook. “That wasn’t made here. Never mind where.”

  Johnson rose and struck, hook, line and sinker. “Europe! Hm-m-m. Germany. No, France, Russia, maybe, Ein
stein, or Eisenstein, or whatever his name is?”

  I shook my head. “That doesn’t matter. The leads are all dead, or out of commission, but their heirs . . . well, you get what I mean.”

  Johnson saw what I meant. “Absolutely right. No point taking any chances. Where’s the rest–?”

  “Who knows? We were lucky to salvage that much. Can do?”

  “Can do.” He thought for a minute. “Get Bernstein in here. Better get Kessler and Marrs, too.” The projectionist left. In a few minutes Kessler, a heavyset man, and Marrs, a young, nervous chain-smoker, came in with Bernstein, the sound man. We were introduced all around, and Johnson asked if we minded sitting through another showing.

  “Nope. We like it better than you do.”

  Not quite. The minute the film was over, Kessler, Marrs, and Bernstein bombarded us with startled questions. We gave them the same answers we’d given Johnson. But we were pleased with the reception, and said so.

  Kessler grunted. “I’d like to know who was behind that camera. Best I’ve seen, by Cripes, since Ben Hur. Better than Ben Hur. The boy’s good.”

  I grunted right back at him. “That’s the only thing I can tell you. The photography was done by the boys you’re talking to right now. Thanks for the kind word.”

  All four of them stared.

  Mike said, “That’s right.”

  “Hey, hey!” from Marrs. They all looked at us with new respect. It felt good.

  Johnson broke into the silence when it became awkward. “What’s next on the score card?”

  We got down to cases. Mike, as usual, was content to sit there with his eyes half closed, taking it all in, letting me do all the talking.

  “We want sound dubbed in all the way through.”

  “Pleasure,” said Bernstein.

  “At least a dozen, maybe more, speaking actors with a close resemblance to the leads you’ve seen.”

  Johnson was confident. “Easy. Central Casting has everybody’s picture since the Year One.”

  “I know. We’ve already checked that. No trouble there. They’ll have to take the cash and let the credit go, for reasons I’ve already explained to Mr. Johnson.”