Terra Incognita

by Connie Willis

  “Coming,” I said, staring at the blank screen. Saratoga Trunk? No, that had Ingrid in it, too, and anyway, if this was going to happen all the time, I’d better know it before I took anything else.

  “Notorious,” I said softly. “Frame 54-119,” and waited for Ingrid’s face to come up.

  “Tom!” Heada shouted. “Is something wrong?”

  Cary Grant went out of the ballroom, and Ingrid gazed after him, looking anxious and like she was about to cry. And looking like Ingrid, which was a relief.

  “Tom!” Heada said, and I opened the door.

  Heada came in and handed me some blue capsules. “Take two. With water. Why didn’t you answer the door?”

  “I was getting rid of the evidence,” I said, pointing at the screen. “Thirty-four champagne bottles.”

  “I watched that movie,” she said, going over to the screen. “It’s set in Brazil. It’s got stock shots of Rio de Janeiro and Sugarloaf.”

  “Right as always,” I said, and then, casually, “Speaking of which, you know everything, Heada. Do you know if Fred Astaire’s been copyrighted yet?”

  “No,” she said. “ILMGM’s appealing.”

  “How long before these ridigaine take effect?” I said before she could ask why I wanted to know about Fred Astaire.

  “Depends on how much you’ve got in your system,” she said. “The way you’ve been popping it, six weeks.”

  “Six weeks?”

  “I’m kidding,” she said. “Four hours, maybe less. Are you sure you want to do this? What if you start flashing again?”

  I didn’t ask her how she knew I’d been flashing. This was, after all, Heada.

  She handed me the glass. “Drink lots of water. And pee as much as you can,” she said. “What’s really up?”

  “Slashing and burning,” I said, turning back to the frozen screen. I cut out another champagne bottle.

  She leaned over my shoulder. “Is this the scene where they run out of champagne, and Claude Rains goes down to the wine cellar and catches Cary Grant?”

  “Not when I get through with it,” I said. “The champagne’s going to be ice cream. What do you think, should the uranium be hidden in the ice-cream freezer or the bag of rock salt?”

  She looked at me seriously. “I think there’s something wrong. What is it?”

  “I’m four weeks behind on Mayer’s list, and he’s twitching down my neck, that’s what’s wrong. Are you sure these are ridigaine?” I said, peering at the capsules. “They aren’t marked.”

  “I’m sure,” she said, still looking suspiciously at me.

  I popped the capsules in my mouth and reached for the bourbon.

  Heada snatched it out of my hand. “You take them with water.” She went into the bathroom, and I could hear the gurgle of the bourbon being poured down the drain.

  She came out of the bathroom and handed me a glass of water. “Drink as much as you can. It’ll help flush your system faster. No alcohol.” She opened the closet, felt around inside, pulled out a bottle of vodka.

  “No alcohol,” she said, unscrewing the cap, and went back into the bathroom to pour it out. “Any other bottles?”

  “Why?” I said, sitting down on the bed. “You decide to switch over from chooch?”

  “I told you, I quit,” she said. “Stand up.”

  I did, and she knelt down and started fishing under the bed.

  “Which is how I know how the ridigaine’s going to make you feel,” she said, pulling out a bottle of champagne. “You’ll want a drink, but don’t. You’ll just toss it. And I mean toss it.” She fumbled with the cork on the bottle. “So don’t drink. And don’t try to do anything. Lie down as soon as you start feeling anything, headache, shakes. And stay there. You might have halluces. Snakes, monsters…”

  “Six-foot-tall rabbits named Harvey,” I said.

  “I’m not kidding,” she said. “I felt like I was going to die when I took it. And chooch is a lot easier to quit than alcohol.”

  “So why’d you quit?” I said.

  She gave me a wry look and went back to messing with the cork. “I thought it would make somebody notice me.”

  “And did they?”

  “No,” she said, and went back to messing with the cork. “Why did you call and ask me to bring you some ridigaine?”

  “I told you,” I said. “Mayer—”

  She popped the cork. “Mayer’s in New York, pimping support for his new boss, who, the word has it, is on the way out. The rumor is, the ILMGM execs don’t like his high-handed moralizing. At least when it applies to them.” She poured out the champagne and came back in the room. “Any other champagne?”

  “Lots,” I said, and went over to the comp. “Next frame,” I said, and a tubful of champagne bottles came up on the screen. “You want to pour these out, too?” I turned, grinning.

  She was looking at me seriously. “What’s really up?”

  “Next frame,” I said. The screen shifted to Ingrid, looking anxious, her hair like a halo. I took the champagne glass out of her hand.

  “You saw her again, didn’t you?” she said.

  Everything.

  “Who?” I said, even though it was hopeless. “Yeah,” I said. “I saw her.” I shut off Notorious. “Come here,” I said, “I want you to look at something.”

  “Seven Brides for Seven Brothers,” I said to the comp. “Frame 25-118.”

  The screen lit Jane Powell, sitting in the wagon, holding a basket.

  “Forward realtime,” I said, and Jane Powell handed the basket to Julie Newmar.

  “I thought this was going into litigation,” Heada said over my shoulder.

  “Over who?” I said. “Jane Powell or Howard Keel?”

  “Russ Tamblyn,” she said, pointing at him. He’d climbed on the wagon and was gazing soulfully at the little blonde, Alice. “Virtusonic’s been using him in snuffporn movies, and ILMGM doesn’t like it. They’re claiming copyright abuse.”

  Russ Tamblyn, looking young and innocent, which was probably the point, went off with Alice, and Howard Keel lifted Jane Powell down off the buckboard.

  “Stop,” I said to the computer. “I want you to look at this next scene,” I said to Heada. “At the faces. Forward realtime,” I said, and the dancers formed two lines and bowed and curtsied to each other.

  I don’t know what I’d expected Heada to do—gasp and clutch her heart like Lillian Gish maybe. Or turn to me halfway through and ask, “What exactly is it I’m supposed to be looking for?”

  She didn’t do either. She watched the entire scene, still and silent, her face almost as focused on the screen as Alis’s had been, and then said quietly, “I didn’t think she’d do it.”

  For a moment, I couldn’t register what she said for the roaring in my head, the roaring that was saying, “It is her. It’s not a flash. It is her.”

  “All that talk about finding a dance teacher,” Heada was saying. “All that stuff about Fred Astaire. I never thought she’d—”

  “Never thought she’d do what?” I said blankly.

  “This,” she said, waving her hand vaguely at the screen, where the sides of the barn were going up. “That she’d end up as somebody’s popsy,” she said. “That she’d sign on. Give up. Sell out.” She gestured at the screen again. “Did Mayer say which of the studio execs you were doing it for?”

  “I didn’t do it,” I said.

  “Well, somebody did it,” she said. “Mayer must’ve asked Vincent or somebody. I thought you said she didn’t want her face pasted on somebody else’s.”

  “She didn’t. She doesn’t,” I said. “This isn’t a paste-up. It’s her, dancing.”

  She looked at the screen. A cowboy brought his hammer down hard on Russ Tamblyn’s thumb.

  “She wouldn’t sell out,�
� I said.

  “To quote a friend of mine,” she said, “everybody sells out.”

  “No,” I said. “People sell out to get what they want. Getting her face pasted onto somebody else’s body isn’t what she wanted. She wanted to dance in the movies.”

  “Maybe she needed the money,” Heada said, looking at the screen. Someone whacked Howard Keel with a board, and Russ Tamblyn took a poke at him.

  “Maybe she figured out she couldn’t have what she wanted.”

  “No,” I said, thinking about her standing there on Hollywood Boulevard, her face set. “You don’t understand. No.”

  “Okay,” she said placatingly. “She didn’t sell out. It isn’t a paste-up.” She waved at the screen. “So what is it? How’d she get on there if somebody didn’t paste her in?”

  Howard Keel shoved a pair of brawlers into the corner, and the barn fell apart, collapsing into a clatter of boards and chagrin. “I don’t know,” I said.

  We both stood there a minute, looking at the wreckage.

  “Can I see the scene again?” Heada said.

  “Frame 25-200, forward realtime,” I said, and Howard Keel reached up again to lift Jane Powell down. The dancers formed their lines. And there was Alis, dancing in the movies.

  “Maybe it isn’t her,” Heada said. “That’s why you asked me to bring over the ridigaine, wasn’t it, because you thought it might be the alcohol?”

  “You see her, too.”

  “I know,” she said, frowning, “but I’m not really sure I know what she looks like. I mean, the times I saw her I was pretty splatted, and so were you. And it wasn’t all that many times, was it?”

  That party, and the time Heada sent her to ask me for the access, and the episode of the skids. Memorable occasions, all.

  “No,” I said.

  “So it could be it’s just somebody else who looks like her. Her hair’s darker than that, isn’t it?”

  “A wig,” I said. “Wigs and makeup can make you look really different.”

  “Yeah,” Heada said, as if that proved something. “Or really alike. Maybe this person’s wearing a wig and makeup that makes her look like Alis. Who is it, anyway? In the movie?”

  “Virginia Gibson,” I said.

  “Maybe this Virginia Gibson and Alis just look alike. Was she in any other movies? Virginia Gibson, I mean? If she was, we could look at them and see what she looks like, and if this is her or not.” She looked concernedly at me. “You’d better let the ridigaine work first, though. Are you having any symptoms yet? Headache?”

  “No,” I said, looking at the screen.

  “Well, you will in a few minutes.” She pulled the blankets off the bed. “Lie down, and I’ll get you some water. Ridigaine’s fast, but it’s rough. The best thing is if you can—”

  “Sleep it off,” I said.

  She brought a glass of water in and set it by the bed. “Access me if you get the shakes and start seeing things.”

  “According to you, I already am.”

  “I didn’t say that. I just said you should check out this Virginia Gibson before you jump to any conclusions. After the ridigaine does its stuff.”

  “Meaning that when I’m sober, it won’t look like her.”

  “Meaning that when you’re sober, you’ll at least be able to see her.” She looked steadily at me. “Do you want it to be her?”

  “I think I will lie down,” I said to get her to leave. “My head aches.” I sat down on the bed.

  “It’s starting to work,” she said triumphantly. “Access me if you need anything.”

  “I will,” I said, and lay back.

  She looked around the room. “You don’t have any more liquor in here, do you?”

  “Gallons,” I said, gesturing toward the screen. “Bottles, flasks, kegs, decanters. You name it, it’s in there.”

  “It’ll just make it worse if you drink anything.”

  “I know,” I said, putting my hand over my eyes. “Shakes, pink elephants, six-foot-tall rabbits, ‘and how are you, Mr. Wilson?’ ”

  “Access me,” she said, and left, finally.

  I waited five minutes for her to come back and tell me to be sure and piss, and then another five for the snakes and rabbits to show up, or, worse, Fred and Eleanor, dressed in white and dancing side by side. And thinking about what Heada’d said. If it wasn’t a paste-up, what was it? And it couldn’t be a paste-up. Heada hadn’t heard Alis talking about wanting to dance in the movies. She hadn’t seen her, that night down on Hollywood Boulevard, when I offered her a chance at one. She could have been digitized that night, been Ginger Rogers, Ann Miller, anybody she wanted. Even Eleanor Powell. Why would she have suddenly changed her mind and decided she wanted to be a dancer nobody’d ever heard of? An actress who’d only appeared in a handful of movies. One of which starred Fred Astaire.

  “We’re this close to having time travel,” the exec had said, his thumb and finger almost touching.

  And what if Alis, who was willing to do anything to dance in the movies, who was willing to practice in a cramped classroom with a tiny monitor and work nights in a tourate trap, had talked one of the time-travel hackates into letting her be a guinea pig? What if Alis had talked him into sending her back to 1954, dressed in a green weskit and short gloves, and then, instead of coming back like she was supposed to, had changed her name to Virginia Gibson and gone over to MGM to audition for a part in Seven Brides for Seven Brothers? And then gone on to be in six other movies. One of which was Funny Face. With Fred Astaire.

  I sat up, slowly, so I wouldn’t turn my headache into anything worse, and went over to the terminal and called up Funny Face.

  Heada had said Fred Astaire was still in litigation, and he was. I put a watch-and-warn on both the movie and Fred in case the case got settled. If Heada was right—and when wasn’t she?—Warner would turn around and file immediately, but if there was a glitch or Warner’s lawyers were busy with Russ Tamblyn, there might be a window. I set the watch-and-warn to beep me and called up the list of Virginia Gibson’s musicals again.

  Starlift was a World War II b-and-w, which wouldn’t give me as clear an image as color, and She’s Back on Broadway was in litigation, too, for someone I’d never heard of. That left Athena, Painting the Clouds with Sunshine, and Tea for Two, none of which I could remember ever seeing.

  When I called up Athena, I could see why. It was a cross between One Touch of Venus and You Can’t Take It with You, with lots of floating chiffon and health-food eccentrics and almost no dancing. Virginia Gibson, in green chiffon, was supposed to be Niobe, the goddess of jazz and tap or something. Whatever she was, it wasn’t Alis. It looked like her, especially with her hair pulled back in a Greek ponytail. “And with a fifth of bourbon in you,” Heada would have said. And a double dose of ridigaine. Even then, it didn’t look as much like her as the dancer in the barnraising scene. I called up Seven Brides, and the screen stayed silver for a long moment and then started scrolling legalese. “This movie is currently in litigation and unavailable for viewing.”

  Well, that settled that. By the time the courts had decided to let Russ Tamblyn be sliced and diced, I’d be chooch-free and able to see it was just somebody who looked like her, or not even that. A trick of lights and makeup.

  And there was no point in slogging through any more musicals to drive the point home. Any resemblance was purely alcoholic, and I should do what Doc Heada said, lie down and wait for it to pass. And then go back to slicing and dicing myself. I should call up Notorious and get it over with.

  “Tea for Two,” I said.

  Tea was a Doris Day pic, and I wondered if she was on Alis’s bad-dancer list. She deserved to be. She smirked her way toothily through a tap routine with Gene Nelson, set in a rehearsal hall Alis would have killed for, all floor space and mirrors and no stacks of desks
. There was a terrible Latin version of “Crazy Rhythm,” Gordon MacRae singing “I Only Have Eyes for You,” and then Virginia Gibson’s big number.

  And there was no question of her being Alis. With her hair down, she didn’t even look that much like her. Or else the ridigaine was kicking in.

  The routine was Hollywood’s idea of ballet, more chiffon and a lot of twirling around, not the kind of routine Alis would have bothered with. If she’d had ballet back in Meadowville, and not just jazz and tap, but she hadn’t, and Virginia obviously had, so Alis wasn’t Virginia, and I was sober, and it was back to the bottles.

  “Forward 64,” I said, and watched Doris smirk her way through the title number and an unnecessary reprise. The next number was a big production number. Virginia wasn’t in it, and I started to ff again and then stopped.

  “Rew to music cue,” I said, and watched the production number, counting the frame numbers. A blond couple stepped forward, did a series of toe slides, and stepped back again, and a dark-haired guy and a redhead in a white pleated skirt kicked forward and went into a side-by-side Charleston. She had curly hair and a tied-in-front blouse, and the two of them put their hands on their knees and did a series of cross kicks. “Frame 75-004, forward 12,” I said, and watched the routine in slow motion.

  “Enhance quadrant 2,” and watched the red hair fill the screen, even though there wasn’t any need for an enhancement, or for the slowmo, either. No question at all of who it was.

  I had known the instant I saw her, the same way I had in the barnraising scene, and it wasn’t the booze (of which there was at least fifteen minutes’ worth less in my system) or klieg, or a passing resemblance enhanced with rouge and eyebrow pencil. It was Alis. Which was impossible.

  “Last frame,” I said, but this was the Good Old Days when the chorus line didn’t get into the credits, and the copyright date had to be deciphered. MCML. 1950.

  I went back through the movie, going to freeze frame and enhance every time I spotted red hair, but I didn’t see her again. I ff’d to the Charleston number and watched it again, trying to come up with a theory.

  Okay. The hackate had sent her to 1950 (scratch that—the copyright was for the release date—had sent her to 1949) and she had waited around for four years, dancing chorus parts and palling around with Virginia Gibson, waiting for her chance to clunk Virginia on the head, stuff her behind a set, and take her place in Brides. So she could impress the producer of Funny Face with her dancing so that he’d offer her a part, and she’d finally get to dance with Fred, if only in the same production number.