by Ben Bova
Scene Two: Int., starship bridge. BEN is sitting at the control console, watching the viewscreens as the ship flies through the interstellar void at many times the speed of light. On the viewscreens we see nothing but scattered stars against the blackness of space.
BEN
(To himself.) Guess we’ve shaken off those Capulets. Haven’t seen another ship within a hundred parsecs of us.
ROM enters. He is upset, despondent. (Tell Dulaq that the Redwings will win the Stanley Cup next year; that should work him up enough for this scene.) He glances at the viewscreens, then goes to BEN and stands beside him.
BEN
(Looking up at Rom.) Greetings, cousin. How are you this day?
ROM
Not as good. (Shakes his head)
BEN
What’s the trouble, cousin?
ROM
I dunno. Must’a been somet’in I picked up back on Rigel Six. Maybe a bug . . . .
”Cut!”
“Francois . . . the script says ‘virus,’ not ‘bug.’”
“Ahh. ‘Bug’ sounds better. I don’t like all dose fancy words.”
“Try to say ‘virus,’ will you? And watch your diction.”
“My what?”
“Your pronunciation!”
“Hey, you want me to say all dose funny words and pernounce everyt’ing your way? At de same time? Come on!”
“Take it from, ‘What’s the trouble, cousin.’”
BEN
What’s the trouble, cousin?
ROM
I dunno. Must’a been somet’in I picked up back on Rigel Six. Maybe a b . . . a virus or somet’ing.
BEN
(With a grin.) Or that Capulet girl you were eyeing, Julie.
ROM grabs BEN’s lapels and lifts him out of his chair.
ROM
(With some heat.) Hey, I don’t mess around with Capulets. Dey’re our enemies!
BEN
(Frightened.) Okay . . . okay! I was only joking.
ROM
(Lets him go. He drops back into his seat.) Some t’ings you shouldn’t kid about . . . . Go on back and grab somet’ing to eat. I’ll take over.
BEN
(Glad to get away.) Sure. It’s all yours, cousin.
BEN hurries off-camera. ROM sits at the command console, stares out at the stars.
ROM
(Pensively.) All dose stars . . . all dat emptiness. I wish she was right here, instead of back on Rigel Six.
JULIE steps out from behind the electronic computer, where she’s been hiding since she stowed away on the Montague starship.
JULIE
(Shyly.) I am here, ROM. I stowed away aboard your ship.
ROM
(Dumbfounded.) You . . . you . . . Hey, Mitch, what th’hell’s my next line?
”Cut!!!”
From up in the control booth, Les Montpelier kept telling himself, It’s not as bad as it looks. They’ll fix up all the goofs in the editing process. Maybe we can even get somebody to dub a voice over Dulaq’s lines. He looks pretty good, at least.
At that moment, Dulaq was pointing to the blank side wall of the set, where the Capulets’ starship would be matted in on the final tape.
“How’d your ship catch up wit’ us so soon?” he was asking Rita Yearling. But he was looking neither at her nor the to-be-inserted view of the other starship. He was peering, squint-eyed, toward Mitch Westerly. The director had his face sunk in his hands, as if he were crying.
“Rita looks stunning,” said Gregory Earnest, with a hyena’s leer on his face.
“She sure does,” Montpelier agreed. “But there’s something wrong about her . . . something . . . .”
Rita’s face was all dewy-cheeked youth, her eyes wide and blue as a new spring sky. But her body was adult seductress and she slinked around the set with the practiced undulations of a bellydancer.
“ . . . something about her that doesn’t seem quite right for the character she’s supposed to be playing,” Montpelier finished.
“The audience will love her,” Earnest said. “We’ve got to give them a little pizazz.”
Montpelier started to answer, but hesitated. Maybe he’s right.
“And Dulaq looks magnificent,” the Canadian went on. “Look at that costume. Shows plenty of muscles, doesn’t it?” Earnest’s voice was almost throbbing with delight.
“Too bad it doesn’t cover his mouth,” Montpelier said.
Earnest shot him an angry glance.
On the set, Dulaq was staring off into space. He thought he was looking at the red light of an active camera unit, as Westerly had instructed him to do. Actually, he was fixing his gaze on a red EXIT sign glowing in the darkness on the other end of the huge studio. Dulaq’s eyes weren’t all that good.
“I know it’s wrong,” he was saying, “But I love you, Julie. I’m mad about you.”
Rita was entwining herself about his muscular frame, like a snake climbing a tree.
“And I love you, Rom darling,” she breathed. The boom microphone, over her head, seemed to wilt in the heat of her torridly low-pitched voice.
“That’s a shy, innocent young girl?” Montpelier asked rhetorically,
Dulaq finally focused his ruggedly handsome gaze on her, as their noses touched. Suddenly he gave a strangled growl and clutched at her. Rita shrieked and they both went tumbling to the floor.
“Cut!” Mitch Westerly yelled. “Cut!”
The cameramen were grinning and training their equipment on the squirming couple. Then, out of the crowd, came a blur of fury.
Ron Gabriel leaped on Dulaq’s back and started pounding the hockey star’s head. “Leggo of her, you goddamn ape!” he screamed.
It took Dulaq several moments to notice what was happening to him. Then, with a roar, he swung around and flipped Gabriel off his back. The writer staggered to his knees, got up quickly and launched himself at Dulaq.
With a surprised look on his face, Dulaq took Gabriel’s charge. The writer’s head rammed into his stomach, but produced nothing except a slight “Oof” which might have come from either one of them. Gabriel rebounded, looking a bit glassy eyed. He charged at Dulaq again and kicked him in the shins, hard.
It finally seemed to penetrate Dulaq’s head that he was being attacked by someone who had no hockey stick in his hands. The athlete’s face relaxed into a pleasant grin as he picked Gabriel up off his feet with one hand and socked him between the eyes so hard that the writer sailed completely off the set while his shirt remained in Dulaq’s left fist.
Pandemonium raged. The only recognizable sound to come out of the roiling crowd on the set was Westerly, pathetically screaming “Cut! Cut!”
Montpelier and the technicians in the control booth bolted out the door and down the steps to the floor of the studio. Gregory Earnest sat in the darkened booth alone, watching the riot develop, and smiled to himself.
He knew at last how to get rid of Ron Gabriel. And how to cash in on what little money would be made by “The Starcrossed.”
12: The Squeeze Play
Gregory Earnest’s home was a modest ranch house in one of the new developments between Badger Studio and the busy Toronto International Jetport. Although nearly half the expense to the house had gone into insulation—thermal and acoustic—the entire place still rumbled and shivered with the infrasonic, barely audible vibrations of the big jets screaming by just over the roof.
The living quarters were actually underground, in what was originally the basement level. Earnest had spent many weekends digging, cementing, enlarging the underground portion of the house, until now—after five years’ occupancy—he had a network of bunkers that would have made Adolf Hitler feel homesick. His wife made all her neighbors envious with tales of Gregory’s single-minded handiness and devotion to home improvement. While she turned the neighborhood women green and they nagged their husbands, Earnest dug with the dedication of a prisoner of war, happily alone and free of his wife and their two milk
-spilling, runny-nosed, grammar-school children.
Les Montpelier was a little puzzled when he first rang Earnest’s doorbell. It was Sunday, the studio was still closed for repairs. Ron Gabriel had left the hospital with two black eyes and several painfully cracked ribs, but no broken bones. Francois Dulaq had a bruised hand and some interesting bite marks on his upper torso. Rita Yearling was doing television talk shows all weekend, back in the States. Mitch Westerly had disappeared under a cloud of marijuana smoke.
Montpelier was not in the jauntiest of moods. “The Starcrossed” was a dead duck, he knew, even before the second day of shooting in the studio. It was hopeless.
Yet Gregory Earnest obviously had something optimistic in mind when he had called Montpelier at the hotel.
So, puzzled and depressed, with a microfilm copy of the L.A. Free Press-News-Times Sunday help wanted ad section in the pocket of his severely styled mod Edgar Allan Poe business suit, he leaned on the bell button of Earnest’s front door. A jumbo jet came screaming up from what seemed like a few meters away, making the very ground shake with the roar of its mighty engines, and spewing fumes and excess kerosene in its wake. Montpelier suddenly realized why the lawns looked so greasy. He was glad that his suit was dead black.
The door opened and he was greeted by a smiling Eskimo. At least, she looked like an Eskimo. Her round face was framed by a furry hood. Her coat was trimmed with antlered designs from the far north. She smiled and moved her mouth, but Montpelier couldn’t hear a word over the rumbling whine of the dwindling jet.
“Can’t hear you,” he said and found that he couldn’t even hear himself.
They stood in the doorway smiling awkwardly at each other for a few minutes as the jet flew off into the distance.
“You must be Mr. Montpelier,” said the round-faced woman. Her accent was more Oxford than igloo and Montpelier realized that her face really had none of the oriental flatness of an Eskimo’s.
“I’m Gwendoline Earnest, Gregory’s wife. I was just taking Gulliver and Gertrude to the skating rink . . . .”
Two more Eskimos appeared. Little ones, round and furry in their plastiskin parkas. It wasn’t that cold outside, Montpelier realized. Maybe Eskimo is the next big style trend.
Gwendoline Earnest shooed her two little ones out and down the driveway. “Greg’s down in the study, waiting for you,” she said, squeezing past Montpelier at the doorway. She started down the driveway toward the minibus parked at the curb. “And thank you,” she called over her shoulder, “for taking him away from his eternal digging for one Sunday! It’s such a pleasure not to hear the pounding and the swearing!”
She waved a cheery “Ta-ta!” and pushed the kids into the yawning side door of the minibus.
With a bewildered shake of his head, Montpelier stepped inside what he thought would be the house’s living room. It looked more like an attic. There were bicycles, toys, crates, suitcases, piles of books and spools of videotape. Another jetliner roared overhead; even with the front door closed, the ear-splitting sound made Montpelier’s teeth ache.
He threaded his way through the maze of junk, looking for a living area. The entire house seemed to be cluttered with storage materials.
It took ten minutes of shouting back and forth before Montpelier tumbled to the fact that Earnest—and the real living quarters—were downstairs in the erstwhile basement. Another few minutes to find the right door and the stairs leading down, then the usual meaningless words of greeting, and Montpelier found himself sitting in a comfortable panelled den, in a large overstuffed chair, with a beer in his hand.
Gregory Earnest sat across the corner from him, equally at ease with a beer mug in one hand. It had an old corporation logo on it: GE. Gregory, Gwendoline, Gulliver and Gertrude Earnest, Montpelier reflected. He must’ve bought a case of those mugs when the antitrust boys broke up old GE.
In the opposite corner of the den, the three-dee set was tuned to the National Football League’s game of the week. Montpelier couldn’t tell who was playing: all he saw was a miniature set of armored players tumbling and grunting across the other side of Earnest’s den, like Lilliputian buffoons who’d been hired to entertain a sadistic king. Only the scintillations and shimmerings of the imperfect three-dee projection betrayed the fact that they were watching holographic images, rather than real, solid, miniature figures.
Earnest touched a button in the keyboard that was set into the arm of his recliner chair and the sound of pain and cheering disappeared. But the game went on.
“Imagine how terrific the games will look,” Earnest said in his nasal, oily way of speaking, “when Oxnard’s new system is used. Then you can buy giant-sized three-dee tubes. It’ll look like you’re right there on the field with them.”
Montpelier nodded. There was something about Earnest that always disturbed him. The man was too sly, too roundabout. He’d fit in well at Titanic.
Earnest was wearing a pullover sweater and an ancient pair of patched jeans. He seemed utterly at ease, smiling. Montpelier was reminded of the cobra and the mongoose, but he didn’t know who was supposed to be which.
“You look relaxed and happy,” Montpelier said.
Earnest’s smile showed more teeth. “Why shouldn’t I be?”
After a sip of beer, Montpelier said, “If I were the producer of a show that started off as disastrously as ‘The Starcrossed’ did last week . . . .”
“Oh that.” Earnest made a nonchalant gesture. “I wouldn’t worry about that.”
“No?”
“Why worry? Is B.F. worried?”
“He sure is,” Montpelier said. “He almost went into shock when I told him what happened in the studio.”
“Really?”
Earnest’s voice got so arch that Montpelier found himself getting angry, something he never did with a potential ally. Or enemy. It was a luxury you couldn’t afford in this business. Not if you wanted to survive.
“What are you driving at?” Montpelier asked, trying to keep his voice level.
Earnest nodded toward the three-dee game that still rolled and thudded across the far side of the den.
“The Pineapples,” he said. “They’re winning.”
“So?”
“So long as they keep winning, B.F.‘s money is safe. Right?”
Montpelier fought down a gnawing panic. Either Earnest had completely flipped, which was not too unlikely, and was now certifiably insane—or he knew something that he himself didn’t know, which was a very dangerous position for Montpelier to be in.
“Are, ah . . . you betting on the Pineapples?” he fished.
“Sure I am. Especially since I found out that B.F. is sinking almost all his cash into them. When they win the title, we can forget about ‘The Starcrossed.’ Won’t matter if the show never goes beyond the first seven weeks.”
Slowly, without revealing how little he actually knew, Montpelier coaxed the story out of Earnest. It wasn’t difficult. The Canadian was very proud of himself. He had some friends in the local phone company tap all the special three-dee phones that Finger had installed in the various hotel suites. Montpelier was suddenly grateful that he didn’t rank high enough for such luxury. Only Westerly, Gabriel and Yearling had them. And Gabriel got one only because he screamed and threw tantrums until Brenda put through a call to Finger’s office.
“You should hear the conversations between Rita and B.F.,” Earnest said, licking his chops. “And see the display she puts on for him. In three-dee yet! I’ve got some of them taped, you know.”
Montpelier guided him back to the main subject. “So as long as the Pineapples keep winning their football games, Titanic’s cash is safe.”
“Right,” Earnest answered. “And ‘The Starcrossed’ is just a front operation to keep those New York bankers convinced that B.F. has invested their money in a show.”
“So the show gets as little money as possible . . . .”
“Sure. Just enough to keep it going. Oh, I think B.F. really
wants to make Rita into a star . . . but that doesn’t mean he’s going to spend more than he has to. Just enough to get her on The Tube for a few weeks and see how the public reacts to her.”
“Yeah, that sounds like B.F.‘s way of doing business,” Montpelier agreed.
But Earnest had turned his attention to the football game. One of the miniature players was scampering like mad and other players were chasing after him while the background whizzed past. Yet none of them actually moved very far across Earnest’s floor. It was like watching midgets struggling on a treadmill.
“The Pineapples just intercepted another pass!” Earnest was chortling. “I knew those Mexicans couldn’t play our style of football!”
Montpelier leaned over and nudged his shoulder. “I didn’t come here to watch a football game. You said you had something important to tell me.”
Earnest’s smile went nasty. “That’s right. What do you think would happen if those New York bankers found out what B.F.‘s doing with their money? Those banks are Mafioso, you know. The mob owns the banks and the WASPs are just front-men.”
Montpelier didn’t answer. But he had figured out which of them was the cobra.
“Now, I happen to be smart enough,” Earnest went on, “to understand what’s going on in B.F.‘s mind. ‘The Starcrossed’ is supposed to flop. When it does, B.F. will tell his bankers that the show went broke and their investment is down the drain. Maybe they’ll get Rita or some other goods as a booby prize.” He grinned at his feeble pun.
“That’s crazy . . . .”
“Is it?” Earnest shrugged, the scratched at his beard. “Maybe so. But it would make a fun story in New York, don’t you think?”
“If anybody believed you . . . .”
“They would. But why should I cut off the hand that feeds me? Especially when it’s going to feed me so well.”
“You mean blackmail.”