by Ben Bova
“It’s of more than passing interest to me.”
Gabriel put his glass down firmly on the tabletop. Without looking up from it, he said, “I’m crazy about you. I don’t know anything about your body. I’ve seen it clothed and it looks pretty good. But more than that I can’t tell. And I don’t go after girls for business reasons.” He looked up at her. “What I have to settle with Finger I’ll settle for myself. And it’s time that I did.”
Brenda put a hand on his arm. “If you confront B.F. you’ll blow the whole series. He’ll have you kicked off the ship and out of any connection with Titanic.”
“So I’ll take the idea someplace else. I don’t need Titanic. He needs me.”
“He’ll make life miserable for you.”
Gabriel pulled his arm free of her. With a light tap on her cheek, he went back to pure Cagney. “Don’t you worry about me, kid. I know how to handle myself.”
To his cronies, who looked up from their cardgame, Gabriel said, “Keep her out of trouble.”
They nodded. Both unemployed, nonselling young writers, they were looking forward to script assignments on the series. If they could avoid starvation long enough to wait for the series to go into production. At the moment they were avoiding starvation—and work—by living in Gabriel’s house.
The rest home for starveling writers, Gabriel thought as he made his way around the dancefloor and toward the Sky Bar’s exit. But he remembered his own beginning years, the struggle and the hollow-gutted days of hunger. Somehow he seemed to have more fun in those days than he did now. Shit! You’d think there’d be a time when a guy could relax and enjoy himself.
He reached the exit and gave a final glance back. Jenkins and McHugh had resumed their cardgame. Bacall had moved closer to them and started kibbitzing.
Gabriel hitched up his pants and made a Cagney grimace. “Okay, Schemer,” he whispered to himself. “Here’s where you get yours.”
It took a while for Gabriel to figure out where Finger had gone. He searched the Main Lounge, the pool area and all the bars before realizing that Finger must have retreated to his private suite.
Theoretically, the suite was impregnable. Only one entrance, through double-locked steel watertight doors. Nobody in or out without Finger’s TV surveillance system scanning him. Gabriel considered knocking off one of the fire alarms, but rejected that idea. People might get hurt or even jump overboard and drown. Besides, Finger had his own motor launch just outside the emergency hatch of his suite. That much Gabriel knew from studying the ship’s plans.
For a few moments he considered scrambling over the ship’s rail and down the outer hull to get to the emergency hatch. But then he realized that there would still be no way for him to get inside.
With a frown of frustration, Gabriel paced down the ship’s central staircase, thinking hard but coming up with no ideas.
He stopped on the deck where the ship’s restaurant was. Looking inside the elaborately decorated cafeteria, where the walls and even the ceiling were plastered with photos from Titanic’s myriad TV shows—all off the air now—Gabriel started on a chain of reasoning.
It was a short chain; the last link said that there must be some connection between the ship’s galley, where the food was prepared, and Finger’s suite on the deck above.
Gabriel made his way through the restaurant-turned-cafeteria, heading for the galley. A few couples and several singles were scroffing food hastily, as if they expected someone to tap them on the shoulder and put them off the ship. Gabriel noticed almost subliminally that they weren’t the young hungry actors or writers or office workers; they were the older, middle-aged ones. The kind who dreaded the inevitable day when they were turned out to the dolce vita of forced retirement on fixed pensions and escalating cost of living.
Move up or move out, was the motto at Titanic and most other business establishments. The gold watch for a lifetime of service was a thing of ancient history. Nobody lasted that long unless they owned the company or were indispensable to it.
Gabriel walked like Cagney through the cafeteria: shoulders slightly forward, bouncing on the balls of his feet. He entered the galley, where a couple of cooks were loafing around a TV set.
“Hey, whatcha doin’ back here?” one of them asked, a black tall enough for college basketball.
“City Health Inspector,” Gabriel replied in his own voice.
The cook towered over Gabriel and waved a frozen dinner-sized fist at him. “What is this? We paid you guys off last week, on your regular collection day.”
Gabriel shook his head. “Those guys are in jail. There’s been a crackdown. Didn’t anybody tell you?”
The cook’s face fell.
“I ought to get your name and number,” Gabriel bluffed, “so that you can be subpoenaed . . . .”
Hie other cooks had already backed away into the shadows. “Hey wait . . .” The black man’s voice softened.
Gabriel put on a smile. “Look, I don’t want to make trouble for you guys. I got a job to do, that’s all. Now, how many exits are there from this area . . . for emergency purposes . . . .”
Within seconds, Gabriel was riding alone up the tiny service elevator to the kitchen of Finger’s suite.
The door slid open silently and he stepped into the darkened kitchen. He stopped there, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness so he could move without bumping into anything. He heard voices from another room.
“ . . . and according to the computer analysis, doing the show in Canada will save us a bundle of money.” Sheldon Fad’s singsong.
“Whadda’ the Canadians know about making a dramatic series? All they do is documentaries about Eskimos.” The dulcet tones of Bernard Finger, part foghorn and part fishmonger.
“They have commercial networks in Canada,” Fad replied, dripping with honey.
“You seen any of their shows?”
“Well . . . .”
“They stink! They’re even worse than ours.”
Gabriel smiled in the darkness, uncertain whether Finger’s “ours” referred to all of American commercial TV or merely to Titanic’s steady string of fiascos.
“But we’ll be using our own top staff to run things. The Canadians will be working under our supervision.”
“And the writing? We’re going to put up with Ron Gabriel? That loudmouth?”
“We’ll handle him,” Fad answered. “He’ll be the top writer, but the scripts will actually be turned out by Canadians. They work cheaper and they listen to what you tell them.”
Gabriel’s smile faded. He started moving carefully toward the voices. As he got out of the kitchen and into what looked like a dining area, he could see a doorway framed in light; the door was closed, but light from the next room was seeping through the poor fit between the door and its jamb.
“I’ve even got a start on the theme music,” Fad was saying, with more than the usual amount of oil in his voice. “It’s from Tchaikovsky . . . .”
Fad must have worked the computer terminal, because the opening strains of the Romeo and Juliet Overture wafted into the suite. Finger must have reached the volume control, because the music was immediately turned down to a barely audible hum.
“Now about the production values . . . .” Fad began.
Gabriel kicked the door open and strode into the living room, chin tucked down in his collar, right fist balled in his jacket pocket as if he had a gun.
Fad was standing beside the computer terminal, at one end of a long sofa. Finger was sitting on the sofa. He was so startled that he dropped the glass he’d been holding. Fad jumped back two steps, a frightened Gary Cooper, so scared that the fringes of his buckskin jacket were twitching.
“Okay you guys,” Gabriel said, in his Cagney voice.
“Who the hell are you?” Finger demanded.
“Never mind that.” Gabriel walked slowly toward the sofa.
Backing away from him, Fad squeaked, “Is that a gun in your pocket?”
&n
bsp; “Does a bear shit in the woods?”
“What’re you doing here?” Finger asked. His voice cracked just the tiniest bit.
“You guys have been making life tough for Ron Gabriel. Now I’m going to give you what’s coming to you.”
Fad looked as if he was going to collapse. But Finger stared intently at Cagney’s face.
“Gabriel,” he said. “Is that you?”
“Who else, buhbula?” Ron took his hand from his pocket and scratched his nose. “Now what’s all this shit about going to Canada?”
“The show’s going to be shot in Canada,” Finger said testily. “If I decide to do the show, that is. And how the hell did you get in here?”
“Whattaya mean, if you decide to do it?” Gabriel shot back. “It’s the best damned idea you’ve seen in years.”
“Ideas don’t make successful shows. People do.”
“Which explains why you’ve got a string of flops on your hands.”
“Goddammit Gabriel!” Finger’s voice rose. “I’m not going to take any of your crap!”
“Go stuff yourself with it, bigshot! I’m a creative artist. I don’t need your greasy paws on my ideas!”
Fad edged around the sofa and tried to interpose himself between the two men. “Now wait, fellas. Let’s not . . . .”
“Where the hell’s the phone?” Finger turned as he sat, searching the room. “I’ll get the security guards up here so fast . . . .”
“You reach for that phone and I’ll break your arm,” Gabriel warned. “You’re going to listen to me for a change.”
“I’m gonna get you thrown overboard, is what I’m gonna do!”
“The hell you are!”
“Fellaaas . . . be reasonable.”
“Loudmouth creep.”
“Moneygrubbing asshole!”
“Fellaaas . . . .”
It was a cosmic coincidence that at precisely that moment the love theme from Romeo and Juliet started on the computer-directed stereo. Such moments are rare, but they happen.
And precisely at that moment, the most exquisitely beautiful girl Gabriel had ever seen stepped sleepily into the living room, rubbing her eyes. She wore nothing but a whiff of a pink nightgown, bearly long enough to reach to her thighs and utterly transparent. Her long golden hair was sleep tousled. Her face was all childish innocence, especially the sky-blue eyes, although her mouth was sensuous. Her body had everything the eternal woman possessed: the litheness of youth combined with the soft fullness of newly ripened maturity.
“What’s all the shouting about?” she asked in a little girl voice. Petulantly: “You woke me up.”
Finger scowled mightily and got up from the sofa. “See what you’ve done?” he grumbled at Gabriel. “You woke her up!” To the girl/woman he said soothingly, “It’s all right, baby. We were just having a discussion. I’ll be back with you in a few minutes. You just go back to sleep.”
Gabriel remained rooted to the spot where he was standing. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe. His blood seemed congealed in his veins. It was like being petrified, mummified, frozen into a cryogenic block of liquid helium. Yet his brain was whirling, feverish, spinning like a Fourth of July pinwheel shooting off sparks in every direction.
She made a little moue with her full, ripe lips and turned to head back to the bedroom.
“Wait!” Gabriel’s voice sounded strained and desperate, even to himself.
She stopped and looked back at him, with those incredible blue eyes.
“Wha . . . I mean . . . who . . . what’s your name? Who are you?”
“Never mind!” Finger urged the girl toward the bedroom with an impatient gesture.
“No, wait!” Gabriel shouted. He unfroze himself and moved toward her. “What’s your name? I’ve got to know!”
“Rita,” she said, almost shyly. “Rita Yearling. Why do you hafta know?”
“Because I’m in love with you,” answered Gabriel, with absolute honesty.
7: The Agreement
Bernard Finger was not the kind of narrow-minded man to let his personal life interfere with business.
“Go on back to bed, Rita,” he said in as fatherly a tone as he could produce.
She blinked once in Gabriel’s direction. Finger could see the effect her long lashes had on the writer: the Cagney makeup seemed to be melting and Gabriel shuddered violently.
“Goodnight,” she breathed.
Gabriel watched her go back into the bedroom. To Finger, he looked like a puppy watching its master take a train to Australia. Gabriel was no longer a free-swinging, independent, irreverent sonofabitch. He wanted something that Finger possessed. That was a basis for doing business.
“Ron,” he said, as the bedroom door closed behind Rita Yearling.
Gabriel stared at the door. His eyes seemed to be unfocused.
“Ron!” Finger called more sharply.
The writer shook himself, as if suddenly awakening from an incredible dream.
“Who is she?” Gabriel asked. “Where did you find her?” Finger indicated the sofa with a gesture and Gabriel obediently sat down.
Pulling a chair close to him, Finger said to Fad, “Get us some brandy and cigars.” The producer nodded once, briskly, and went to the phone.
“I’ve never seen anyone like her.” Gabriel’s voice was still awestruck. “Who is she?”
“Titanic’s always searching for fresh talent,” Finger said. “We have scouts everywhere. But we found Rita right here in L.A.; right under our noses.” It was even the truth, Finger realized with an inward laugh. “She’s fantastic!”
Fad sat at the end of the sofa, close enough to be included in the conversation if Finger so chose, yet far enough away so that he could continue a private-seeming talk with Gabriel. Kid’s got some good sense, Finger noted. “What would you say,” Finger asked Gabriel, “if I told you that Rita is one of the most accomplished actresses I’ve ever seen?”
“Who cares?” Gabriel said.
With a knowing grin, Finger added, “What would you say if I told you that I’m considering her for the female lead in ‘The Starcrossed’?”
Gabriel actually gulped. Finger could see his Adam’s Apple bob up and down. To a lesser man, what was about to happen would seem like taking milk away from an infant; but Bernard Finger was equal to the situation. False scruples had never interfered with his business acumen—nor true scruples, for that matter.
“I think she’s a natural for the part,” Finger went on, enjoying the perspiration that was breaking out on Gabriel’s Cagneyish face. “She’s got looks, talent, exper . . . eh, youth.”
“The show couldn’t miss with her in it,” Fad chimed in.
“Yeah,” said Gabriel.
Finger slapped his palms on his thighs, a sharp cracking sound that startled the other two men. “Listen,” he said. “Let’s let bygones be bygones. I know you and I have had our differences in the past, Ron. But let’s work together to make ‘The Starcrossed’ a big hit. Titanic needs a hit and you need a hit. So let’s work together, instead of against each other.”
Gabriel nodded. He still seemed to be stunned. “Okay,” he mumbled.
Looking over at Fad, Finger said: “Our producer’s come up with the idea of doing the show in Canada. It’ll let us stretch our money further. What we save in production costs we can add to production values: better sets, better scripts, better talent . . . .”
Gabriel was visibly trying to pull himself together, get his brain back in gear.
“This is going to be an expensive show to produce. Starships and exotic planets every week . . . expensive sets, expensive props, big-name guest stars every week . . . it’s all very expensive.”
“And costly,” Fad echoed. Finger shot him down with a sharp glance.
Gabriel frowned. “Artistic control.”
“What about it?”
“I want artistic control,” Gabriel said. He was returning to the real world. “This show has got to have one
strong conceptual vision, a consistent point of view . . . we can’t have directors and assistant producers and script girls screwing things around from one week to the next.”
Finger was too experienced to give in immediately, but after fifteen minutes of discussion, he had his arm around Gabriel’s shoulders as they walked together toward the door.
“You’ve convinced me,” Finger was saying expansively. “When you’re right, you’re right. Artistic control will be in your hands. One guy has got to keep the central vision of the show consistent from week to week. That’s important.”
“And it’ll be written into my contract,” Gabriel said warily.
“Of course! Everything down in black and white so there’s no misunderstanding.”
They shook hands at the door. Gabriel still looked uneasy, almost suspicious. Finger had his friendliest smile on.
“My agent will get in touch with you tomorrow,” Gabriel said.
“Who you got . . . still Jerry Morgan?”
“Yeah.”
“Good man, We’ll work out the clauses with no trouble.”
Gabriel left and Finger closed the door firmly. Fad was standing in the middle of the living room, shaking his head. He looked like Gary Cooper with an ulcer.
“What’s the matter?”
“You let him have artistic control of the series! He’ll want to do everything his way! The expense . . . .”
Finger raised a calming hand. “Listen. Right now he’s on the other side of that door, going through his pockets to see what I stole from him. And he won’t find a thing missing. Tonight he’ll have wet dreams about Rita and tomorrow morning he’ll phone Jerry Morgan and tell him to be sure to get a clause about artistic control into his contract.”
“But we can’t . . . .”
“Who gives a damn about artistic control?” Finger laughed at the perplexed producer, “There’s a million ways to get around such a clause. We’ll have clauses in there about financial limits and decisions, clauses that tie him up six ways from Sunday. And even in his artistic control clause we’ll throw in the line about no holding up production with unreasonable demands. Ever see anybody win a lawsuit by proving his demands were not unreasonable? We got him by the balls and he won’t know it until we go into production.”