The Mammoth Book of Golden Age SF

by Martin Greenberg

  No questions. Each was getting a fabulous salary, and each wanted to appear eager to earn it. They all signed.

  The resourceful Johnson bought for us a small rooming house, and we paid an exorbitant fee to a detective agency to do the cooking and cleaning and chauffeuring required. We requested that the lip-readers refrain from discussing their work among themselves, especially in front of the house employees, and they followed the instructions very well.

  One day, about a month later, we called a conference in the projection room of Johnson’s laboratory. We had a single reel of film.

  “What’s that for?”

  “That’s the reason for all the cloak-and-dagger secrecy. Never mind calling your projection man. This I’m going to run through myself. See what you think of it.”

  They were all disgusted. “I’m getting tired of all this kid stuff,” said Kessler.

  As I started for the projection booth I heard Mike say, “You’re no more tired of it than I am.”

  From the booth I could see what was showing on the downstairs screen, but nothing else. I ran through the reel, rewound, and went back down.

  I said, “One more thing, before we go any further, read this. It’s a certified and notarized transcript of what has been read from the lips of the characters you just saw. They weren’t, incidentally, ‘characters,’ in that sense of the word.” I handed the crackling sheets around, a copy for each. “Those ‘characters’ are real people. You’ve just seen a newsreel. This transcript will tell you what they were talking about. Read it. In the trunk of the car, Mike and I have something to show you. We’ll be back by the time you’ve read it.”

  Mike helped me carry the machine from the car. We came to the door just in time to see Kessler throw the transcript as far as he could. He bounced to his feet as the sheets fluttered down.

  He was furious. “What’s going on here?” We paid no attention to him, nor to the excited demands of the others until the machine had been plugged into the nearest outlet.

  Mike looked at me. “Any ideas?”

  I shook my head and told Johnson to shut up for a minute. Mike lifted the lid and hesitated momentarily before touching the dials. I pushed Johnson into his chair and turned off the lights myself. The room went black. Johnson, looking over my shoulder, gasped. I heard Bernstein swear softly, amazed.

  I turned to see what Mike had shown them.

  It was impressive, all right. He had started just over the roof of the laboratory and continued straight up in the air. Up, up, up, until the city of Los Angeles was a tiny dot on a great ball. On the horizon were the Rockies. Johnson squeezed my arm until it hurt.

  “What’s that? What’s that? Stop it!” He was yelling. Mike turned off the machine.

  You can guess what happened next. No one believed their eyes, nor Mike’s patient explanation. Twice he had to turn on the machine again, once going far back into Kessler’s past. Then the reaction set in.

  Marss smoked one cigarette after another, Bernstein turned a gold pencil over in his nervous fingers. Johnson paced like a caged tiger, and burly Kessler stared at the machine, saying nothing at all. Johnson was muttering as he paced. Then he stopped and shook his fist under Mike’s nose.

  “Man! Do you know what you’ve got there? Why waste time playing around here? Can’t you see you’ve got the world by the tail on a downhill pull? If I’d ever known this—”

  Mike appealed to me. “Ed, talk to this wild man.”

  I did. I can’t remember exactly what I said, and it isn’t important. But I did tell him how we’d started, how we’d plotted our course, and what we were going to do. I ended by telling him the idea behind the reel of film I’d run off a few minutes earlier.

  He recoiled as though I were a snake. “You can’t get away with that! You’d be hung – if you weren’t lynched first!”

  “Don’t you think we know that? Don’t you think we’re willing to take that chance?”

  He tore his thinning hair. Marrs broke in. “Let me talk to him.” He came over and faced us squarely.

  “Is this on the level? You going to make a picture like that and stick your neck out? You’re going to turn that . . . that thing over to the people of the world?”

  I nodded. “Just that.”

  “And toss over everything you’ve got?” He was dead serious, and so was I. He turned to the others. “He means it!”

  Bernstein said, “Can’t be done!”

  Words flew. I tried to convince them that we had followed the only possible path. “What kind of a world do you want to live in? Or don’t you want to live?”

  Johnson grunted. “How long do you think we’d live if we ever made picture like that? You’re crazy! I’m not. I’m not going to put my head in a noose.”

  “Why do you think we’ve been so insistent about credit and responsibility for direction and production? You’ll be doing only what we hired you for. Not that we want to twist your arm, but you’ve made a fortune, all of you, working for us. Now, when the going gets heavy, you want to back out!”

  Marss gave in. “Maybe you’re right, maybe you’re wrong. Maybe you’re crazy, maybe I am. I always used to say I’d try anything once. Bernie, you?”

  Bernstein was quietly cynical. “You saw what happened in the last war. This might help. I don’t know if it will. I don’t know – but I’d hate to think I didn’t try. Count me in!”

  Kessler?

  He swiveled his head. “Kid stuff! Who wants to live forever? Who wants to let a chance go by?”

  Johnson threw up his hands. “Let’s hope we get a cell together. Let’s all go crazy.” And that was that.

  We went to work in a blazing drive of mutual hope and understanding. In four months the lip-readers were through. There’s no point in detailing here their reactions to the dynamite they dictated to Sorenson every day. For their own good we kept them in the dark about our final purpose, and when they were through we sent them across the border into Mexico, to a small ranch Johnson had leased. We were going to need them later.

  The print duplicators worked overtime, but Marrs worked harder. Press and radio shouted the announcement that, in every city of the world we could reach, there would be held simultaneously the premieres of our latest picture. It would be the last we needed to make. Many wondered aloud at our choice of the word “needed.” We whetted their curiosity by refusing to release any advance information about the plot, and Johnson so well infused the men with their own now-fervent enthusiasm that not much could be pried out of them but conjecture. The day we picked for release was Sunday. Monday, the storm broke.

  I wonder how many prints of that picture are left today. I wonder how many escaped burning or confiscation. Two world wars we covered, covered from the unflattering angles that, up until then, had been represented by only a few books hidden in the dark recesses of libraries. We showed, and named, the war-makers, the cynical leaders who signed and laughed and lied, the blatant patriots who used the flaring headlines and the ugly atrocities to hide behind their flag while life turned to death for millions. Our own and foreign traitors were there, the hidden ones with Janus faces. Our lip-readers had done their work well; no guesses these, no deduced conjectures from the broken records of a blasted past, but the exact words that exposed treachery disguised as patriotism.

  In foreign lands the performances lasted barely one day. Usually, in retaliation for the imposed censorship, the theaters were wrecked by rampaging crowds. (Marrs, incidentally, had spent hundreds of thousands bribing officials to allow the picture to be shown without previous censorship. Many censors, when that came out, were shot without trial.) In the Balkans, revolutions broke out, and various embassies were stormed by mobs. Where the film was banned or destroyed, written versions spontaneously appeared on the streets or in coffeehouses. Bootlegged editions were smuggled past customs guards, who looked the other way. One royal family fled to Switzerland.

  Here in America it was a racing two weeks before the federal
government, prodded into action by the raging of press and radio, in an unprecedented move closed all performances, “to promote the common welfare, insure domestic tranquility, and preserve foreign relations.” Murmurs – and one riot – rumbled in the Midwest and spread until it was realized by the powers that be that something had to be done, quickly, if every government in the world were not to collapse of its own weight.

  We were in Mexico, at the ranch Johnson had rented for the lip-readers. While Johnson paced the floor, jerkily fraying a cigar, we listened to a special broadcast by the U.S. attorney general himself:

  . . . furthermore, this message was today forwarded to the Government of the United States of Mexico. I read: “The Government of the United States of America requests the immediate arrest and extradition of the following :

  “Edward Joseph Lefkowicz, known as Lefko.” (First on the list. Even a fish wouldn’t get into trouble if he kept his mouth shut.)

  “Miguel Jose Zapata Laviada.” (Mike crossed one leg over the other.)

  “Edward Lee Johnson.” (He threw his cigar on the floor and sank into the chair.)

  “Robert Chester Marrs.” (He lit another cigarette. His face twitched.)

  “Benjamin Lionel Bernstein.” (He smiled a twisted smile and close his eyes.)

  “Carl Wilhelm Kessler.” (A snarl.)

  These men are wanted by the Government of the United States of America, to stand trial on charges ranging from criminal syndicalism, incitement to riot, misprision of treason—

  I clicked off the radio. “Well?” to no one in particular.

  Bernstein opened his eyes. “The rurales are probably on their way. Might as well go back and face the music—” We crossed the border at Juarez. The FBI was waiting.

  Every press and radio chain in the world must have had coverage at that trial, every radio system, even the new and imperfect television chain. We were allowed to see no one but our lawyer. Samuels flew from the West Coast and spent a week trying to get past our guards. He told us not to talk to reporters, if we ever saw them.

  “You haven’t seen the newspapers? Just as well— How did you ever get yourselves into this mess, anyway? You ought to know better.”

  I told him.

  He was stunned. “Are you all crazy?”

  He was hard to convince. Only a united, concerted effort by all of us made him believe that such a machine was in existence. (He talked to us separately, because we were kept isolated.) When he got back to me, he was unable top think coherently.

  “What kind of defense do you call that?”

  I shook my head. “No. That is, we know that we’re guilty of practically everything under the sun if you look at it one way. If you look at it another—”

  He rose. “Man, you don’t need a lawyer, you need a doctor. I’ll see you later. I’ve got to get this figured out in my mind before I can do a thing.”

  “Sit down. What do you think of this?” and I outlined what I had in mind.

  “I think . . . I don’t know what I think. I don’t know. I’ll talk to you later. Right now I want some fresh air,” and he left.

  As most trials do, this one began with the usual blackening of the defendant’s character, or the claim that he lacked one. (The men we’d blackmailed at the beginning had long since had their money returned, and they had sense enough to keep quiet. That might have been because they’d received a few hints that there might still be a negative or two lying around. Compounding a felony? Sure.) With the greatest of interest we sat in that great columned hall and listened to a sad tale.

  We had, with malice aforethought, libeled beyond repair great and unselfish men who had made a career of devotion to the public weal, imperiled needlessly relations traditionally friendly by falsely reporting mythical events, mocked the courageous sacrifices of those who had dulce et gloria mori, and completely upset everyone’s peace of mind. Every new accusation, every verbal lance drew solemn agreement from the dignitary-packed hall. Against someone’s better judgment, the trial had been transferred from the regular courtroom to the Hall of Justice, and it was packed with influence, brass, and pompous legates from all over the world. Only congressmen from the biggest states, or those with the biggest votes, were able to crowd the newly installed seats. So you can see it was a hostile audience that faced Samuels when the defense had its say. We had spent the previous night together in the guarded suite to which we had been transferred for the duration of the trial, perfecting, as far as we could, our planned defense. Samuels has the arrogant sense of humor that usually goes with supreme self-confidence, and I’m sure he enjoyed standing there among all those bemedaled and bejowled bigwigs, knowing the bombshell he was going to hurl. He made a good grenadier. Like this:

  “We believe there is only one defense possible, we believe there is only one defense necessary. We have gladly waived, without prejudice, our inalienable right to trial by jury. We shall speak plainly and bluntly, to the point.

  “You have seen the picture in question. You have remarked, possibly, upon what has been called the startling resemblance of the actors in that picture to the characters named and portrayed. You have remarked, possibly, upon the apparent verisimilitude to reality. That I will mention again. The first witness will, I believe, establish the trend of our rebuttal of the allegations of the prosecution.” He called the first witness.

  “Your name, please?”

  “Mercedes Maria Gomez.”

  “A little louder, please.”

  “Mercedes Maria Gomez.”

  “Your occupation?”

  “Until last March I was a teacher at the Arizona School for the Deaf. Then I asked for and obtained a leave of absence. At present I am under personal contract to Mr. Lefko.”

  “If you see Mr. Lefko in this courtroom, Miss . . . Mrs. . . . ”

  “Miss.”

  “Thank you. If Mr. Lefko is in this court, will you point him out? Thank you. Will you tell us the extent of your duties at the Arizona school?”

  “I taught children born totally deaf to speak. And to read lips.”

  “Do you read lips yourself, Miss Gomez?”

  “I have been totally deaf since I was fifteen.”

  “You lip-read in English only?”

  “English and Spanish. We have . . . had many children of Mexican descent.”

  Samuels asked for a designated Spanish-speaking interpreter. An officer in the back immediately volunteered. He was identified by his ambassador, who was present.

  “Will you take this book to the rear of the courtroom, sir?” (To the Court): “If the prosecution wishes to examine that book, they will find that it is a Spanish edition of the Bible.” The prosecution didn’t wish to examine it.

  “Will the officer open the Bible at random and read aloud?” He opened the Bible at the center and read. In dead silence the Court strained to hear. Nothing could be heard the length of the enormous hall.

  Samuels: “Miss Gomez. Will you take these binoculars and repeat, to the court, just what the officer is reading at the other end of the room?”

  She took the binoculars and focused them expertly on the officer, who had stopped reading and was watching alertly. “I am ready.”

  Samuels: “Will you please read, sir?”

  He did, and the woman repeated aloud, quickly and easily, a section that sounded as though it might be anything at all. I can’t speak Spanish. The officer continued to read for a minute or two.

  Samuels: “Thank you, sir. And thank you, Miss Gomez. Your pardon, sir, but since there are several who have been known to memorize the Bible, will you tell the Court if you have anything on your person that is written, anything that Miss Gomez has no chance of viewing?” Yes, the officer had. “Will you read that as before? Will you, Miss Gomez—”

  She read that, too. Then the officer came to the front to listen to the court reporter read Miss Gomez’s words.

  “That’s what I read,” he affirmed.

  Samuels turned her over to th
e prosecution, who made more experiments that served only to convince that she was equally good as interpreter and a lip-reader in either language.

  In rapid succession Samuels put the rest of the lip-readers on the stand. In rapid succession they proved themselves as able and as capable as Miss Gomez, in their own linguistic speciality. The Russian from Ambridge generously offered to translate into his broken English any other Slavic language handy, and drew scattered grins from the press box. The Court was convinced, but failed to see the purpose of the exhibition. Samuels, glowing with satisfaction and confidence, faced the Court.

  “Thanks to the indulgence of the Court, and despite the efforts of the distinguished prosecution, we have proved the almost amazing accuracy of lipreading in general, and these lip-readers in particular.” One judge absently nodded in agreement. “Therefore, our defense will be based on that premise, and on one other which we have until now found necessary to keep hidden – the picture in question was and is definitely not a fictional representation of events of questionable authenticity. Every scene in that film contained not polished professional actors but the original person named and portrayed. Every foot, every inch of film, was not the result of an elaborate studio reconstruction but an actual collection of pictures, an actual collection of newsreels – if they can be called that – edited and assembled in story form!”

  Through the startled spurt of astonishment we heard one from the prosecution: “That’s ridiculous! No newsreel—”

  Samuels ignored the objections and the tumult and put me on the stand. Beyond the usual preliminary questions I was allowed to say things my own way. At first hostile, the Court became interested enough to overrule the repeated objections that flew from the table devoted to the prosecution. I felt that at least two of the Court, if not outright favorable, were friendly. As far as I can remember, I went over the maneuvers of the past years and ended something like this: