Santa Claus The Movie

by Joan D. Vinge

  Patch hopped down from his perch on the mantel. “Just let me use your toy factory,” he said, his eyes shining with sudden eagerness.

  “To make what?” B.Z. asked bluntly.

  Patch grinned. “Something special. Here’s the idea. First you stop making all your regular toys—” He gestured at the display of scandal-ridden objects on the far wall. “I’m sure they’re fine and dandy, dandy and fine,” he said placatingly, certain that this would be a point of strong resistance, “but we won’t need them anymore.”

  B.Z. brightened, his own eyes lighting up at the prospect of something—anything—that would replace his own suddenly notorious and unsaleable line. If this oddly dressed nut had anything like a good idea, he’d brought it to exactly the right place. He sat down in the nearest chair, pulling it closer attentively, his mind racing with possibilities.

  “Tell me something,” the elf said, his face suddenly pulling down with a frown of concern, as if something had been bothering him that he hadn’t admitted until now. “You’re a man of the world and I’m just an elf of the top-of-the-world. How can we tell all the people about my ‘something special’?”

  B.Z. grinned. “Advertise,” he said simply.

  Patch scratched his head, trying to remember if he had ever heard the word. “How do you do that?”

  “In my line, television works best,” B.Z. said, his mind beginning to turn over the possibilities for a new ad campaign to restore his tarnished image.

  Patch nodded suddenly. “Oh . . .” he said, remembering. “Those little picture-box thingies? Can we get on those?”

  B.Z. snorted. “With money a horse in a hoop skirt can get on television.”

  Patch grimaced, trying to keep up with this flood of new concepts. “Money,” he muttered. “I don’t know much about that.”

  B.Z. grinned again. “Good. Let’s keep it that way.”

  Patch nodded happily, relieved not to have to worry about all the messy little details himself. This B.Z. was clearly a man who knew what he was doing; he’d put his trust in the perfect person. “You just fix it so I can be on tele-whatchamacallit.”

  “When?” B.Z. asked.

  “Christmas Eve.”

  Well, that wasn’t too soon, at least. “For how long?”

  Patch thought a moment. “Is a minute all right?”

  That wasn’t too long. B.Z. nodded. “What channel?”

  The elf looked confused, as if he had suddenly lost track of the conversation again. “I’ve read about the English Channel. Is that one of them?” His face brightened as his mind caught up once more with the gist of the conversation. “Ah, you mean, what tele-thingamabob in what country? All of them.”

  “All of them?” B.Z. gasped, his face falling like a ton of bricks.

  The elf nodded. “All the countries. All the channel thingies.” Patch cocked his head. “Well, it’s only for a minute,” he said, wondering why the toymaker was staring at him as if he had suggested something akin to stopping the planet in its tracks.

  “That would cost a fortune!” B.Z. held his head; the very thought of it made his brains ache.

  Patch shrugged again. “If you give extra kisses, you get bigger hugs. That’s what Santa’s wife always says.” He thought fleetingly and fondly of Anya’s smiling face, and felt a twinge of homesickness.

  B.Z. was now staring at him in open wonder. “You really are an elf, huh?” he murmured. Nobody, not even a lunatic, could be as ignorant of the world as this character, unless he was from the North Pole, too. The thought was almost too mind-boggling to believe, and yet somehow, he believed it.

  “Anyway,” Patch said soothingly, trying to reassure the flabbergasted human, “that’s all the ‘advertising’ you’ll ever need.”

  B.Z. pulled himself together with an effort, concentrating on the practical again. “It better be,” he said sourly. “How many workers does this . . . eh . . . this product require?” He still didn’t know what it was, but now he was almost afraid to ask.

  “Just me,” the elf said, smiling.

  B.Z.’s mouth dropped open; he looked like a dog eyeing the prospect of a particularly meaty bone. “No payroll?” he asked.

  “My needs are small,” Patch said modestly. “A bowl of stew—heavy on the dill—a cold place to sleep—”

  B.Z. rubbed his hands together, nodding tentative agreement. This really sounded promising . . . “How much will this cost?” he snapped, finally asking the one thing he really wanted to know.

  “Cost?” Patch said blankly. “Cost who?”

  “The people who buy the toys,” B.Z. answered impatiently.

  “Oh, nothing,” Patch said blithely. “We’re gonna give it away free.”

  B.Z. recoiled against the back of his seat, suddenly strangling. He gasped for breath, clutching at his tie.

  Patch stared at him in wonder. “Oooh, how do you do that?” he asked, impressed. “Turn all red in the face so fast?!”

  B.Z. sputtered inarticulately. Spitting out the words that were choking him, he wheezed, “Give something away? For free?”

  Patch nodded. “That’s how we do it at the North Pole.”

  B.Z. continued to sputter like a wet firecracker. “Well,” he screamed, “that’s not how we do it here in a free enterprise society, where—” He broke off, as sudden inspiration struck him. “Hmmm . . . on the other hand,” he murmured, as much to himself as to Patch, “this would go a long way to cleaning up my public image . . .” The way things were right now, if he charged money for the toys, probably nobody would buy them anyway.

  “Excuse me?” Patch asked, once again not following his new partner’s train of thought.

  B.Z. rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Hmm,” he went on, thinking out loud, “not a bad investment, all that good PR—” He looked up at Patch once more. “I’m intrigued,” he said, his eyes gleaming with heartfelt avarice, and his mouth going absent-mindedly slack. This guy might seem crazy, but he was crazy like a fox. This could be the answer to his prayers.

  Patch leaned forward, concern showing on his face. “Excuse me,” he said politely, “you’re drooling on your tie.”

  B.Z. pulled back and snapped his mouth shut. “I know,” he grated, “I said I was intrigued, didn’t I? Now, listen, have you had any experience in toy manufacturing?”

  Patch preened confidently. “I’m entirely elf-taught,” he said, raising his hands, gesturing at his outfit. Surely his background spoke for itself. He looked back at the toymaker. “What do you say, B.Z.?”

  B.Z. took a deep breath and found the nerve to ask the only question that still filled his mind with uncertain curiosity. Not that it really mattered, but—“This . . . this product you say they’ll all want,” he murmured with the voracious interest of a hungry shark, “what is it?”

  Patch smiled again. “It’s something that’s easy to make. It’s cheap.” It was an idea that never would have occurred to him back home—one that even Santa probably would not have had the vision to approve. “And . . .” he said tantalizingly, preparing the final, irresistible argument.

  “Yes? And?” B.Z. said breathlessly, beginning to salivate again.

  “It’s got a secret ingredient!” Patch cried triumphantly. He reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled something out in his clenched fist. He held out his hand, and then opened it. In his palm lay a few precious grains of the magical reindeer fodder ingredient, glinting like captive stars.

  Eleven

  It was a balmy if somewhat humid summer’s day on Long Island. B.Z. strolled across the grounds of the B.Z. Toy Company toward the one factory building that was not locked up tight and silent as a tomb. Dr. Towzer followed faithfully behind him, perspiring, toting a padlocked briefcase. Their footsteps echoed as they entered the building and crossed the vast empty space toward an unobtrusive door at its far end.

  “Look around you,” B.Z. said, waving his arm. “No smelly workers, no strikes, no payroll—it’s practically Paradise!”
He chewed contentedly on his expensive, hand-rolled cigar. This Patch was the best thing that had ever happened to B.Z. Toys, no question.

  “Still, giving this toy away for free,” Towzer protested reluctantly, trying to reason with his boss, as he had tried to so often before, but with no more success. Giving away toys for free was the same thing as committing suicide, as far as he could see.

  B.Z. glanced at him with disdain. “That, Dr. Towzer, is precisely why I am a Captain of Industry and you are an insignificant schlepper.” He took a deep breath, attempting once again to explain his plan to his overwrought assistant. “Sure, the first Christmas it’s free. But the next one, we say, ‘You want it? Again? Bigger? Better? Well, this time it’s gonna cost you.’ ” He chuckled, a sound like rubber tearing.

  Towzer brightened. “How much?” he asked, finally beginning to grasp the method behind his boss’s apparent madness.

  “A hundred bucks?” B.Z. shrugged casually, his eyes glittering. “Two hundred?”

  Towzer’s eyes widened. “Where would they get that kind of money?” he whispered.

  “What do I care where they get it,” B.Z. snapped, “as long as it comes rolling in, eh?” He grinned again, complacently, and linked his fingers together. Arching the bow of his hands, he cracked all his knuckles at once in a volley of sickening pops. “Ahhh,” he said, exhaling, “wonderful thing, cracking your knuckles. It’s the pleasantest sound in the world.” He couldn’t remember when he had been happier.

  By now they had reached the far door, and he heard the sounds of pounding, hammering, and clanging coming through from the mysterious room on the other side.

  “What’s he building in there?” Towzer asked.

  “I’m not sure.” B.Z. shook his head. “He says it’s the ‘delivery system.’ ” The elf had demanded strict secrecy and security measures for whatever he was building, even extending the secrecy as far as B.Z. himself. B.Z. had given in, reluctantly—being even more reluctant to offend his Golden Goose in elvish clothing. This was the first time in weeks he had even dared to intrude on the elf’s work area. But now at last they had the samples he had requested . . . The door before him was securely locked; a sign posted on it read KEEP OUT in very large letters. He raised his hand to knock, when suddenly the door opened.

  Patch stood before him, clairvoyant as always, his eyebrows raised questioningly. He held a brightly painted wooden soldier in his hand; his sleeves were rolled up, and he had the look of somebody who had been interrupted at his work, and was unhappy about it. Behind him, various gaily painted wooden toys were scattered over the floor like pieces of a giant puzzle. B.Z. wondered silently what in the world they could possibly have to do with anything, and what Patch’s so-called ‘delivery system’ could possibly be.

  “Yes?” Patch said, a trifle impatiently.

  “We’ve brought the prototypes for . . . it,” B.Z. said almost diffidently. He gestured to Towzer, who handed him the briefcase. He opened it. Inside, resting on a velvet cushion, were four lollipops; a round one, a long thin one, a big all-day sucker, and a very small one. Their colors and flavors all varied. B.Z. had not the faintest idea what Patch planned to do with the one he chose; but as long as his ‘secret ingredient’ worked, B.Z. really didn’t care.

  Patch glanced at them for the briefest fraction of a second. “That one,” he said, pointing at the small one.

  “What color?” Towzer asked.

  Patch shrugged. “What color do you like?” he said, as if he couldn’t care less.

  “I like puce,” Towzer said eagerly.

  B.Z. looked at him with disdain. “You would,” he said with heavy sarcasm.

  “What’s puce?” Patch asked.

  “It’s like fuchsia, but a shade less lavender, and a bit more pink,” Towzer gushed, waxing poetic at the very thought of his favorite color.

  B.Z. shook his head. “Towzer,” he muttered sourly, “sometimes I wonder about you.”

  But Patch nodded. “Fine, puce then,” he said brusquely. “As long as it tastes good.” Without another word, he shut the door in their faces.

  Towzer stood where he was, flushed with a combination of embarrassment and pride. B.Z. was still staring at him as if he had made a complete jerk of himself. Awkwardly, Towzer said, “If this catches on, we can come out with a liquid version. Puce juice.” He grinned, and giggled inanely.

  B.Z. glared at him, utterly unamused. Towzer’s giggling laughter died a death by strangulation. B.Z. turned on his heel and stalked away.

  Back at the North Pole, light-years away from the B.Z. Toy Company in spirit as well as in distance, Santa Claus sat in his rocking chair before the fire, whittling pensively at a block of wood. Anya came in from the kitchen, drying her hands on her apron. She glanced down, and started in surprise as she saw what her husband was doing.

  “Oh my! An elf-portrait,” she said, her voice betraying her amazement. “You haven’t made one of those since . . .” Her voice trailed off as a strange feeling, almost of unreality, filled her. Claus had not made a toy with his own hands since they had come here to the North Pole—more time than she could even clearly remember. Claus was carving a wooden toy elf, and she saw that he had lost none of his skill in the intervening centuries; in fact, his artistry seemed more remarkable than ever, as if time had only honed it.

  “It’s for Joe,” Claus said softly, expressing his inner thoughts with hesitant difficulty. “He makes me think what our son would have been like.” She realized that he was talking about the boy he had met last Christmas.

  Claus looked up at his wife. “Nobody’s ever given him a present,” he said, his eyes darkening with sadness. “And he’s too proud to ask.” He held out the toy elf to her.

  Anya knew then that this toy was very special indeed; he was making it with his own hands for a very special child. She took the wooden elf from him, looking at it more closely. Her breath caught. “Why, it’s him!” she exclaimed. “It’s Patch!” And indeed, it looked exactly like the one other person that Santa had loved almost like a son.

  Claus’s face reddened as she looked back at him, her eyebrows raised. “No, it isn’t,” he protested weakly. “It’s just a . . . well, I suppose it resembles . . .” He shook his head, sighing in surrender, as he admitted for the first time what his subconscious had led his hands to create. “My good old Patch,” he murmured. “I hope he’s . . . all right,” he said inadequately, unable to bear even the thought that his favorite young helper was anything else but all right.

  Anya smiled sadly and nodded, her hand resting on his shoulder as she handed the half-finished toy back to him.

  Patch was anything but all right, but he was the last person to admit it, if not possibly the last to suspect it. He had worked diligently in secret all year long, preparing everything for the distribution of the ultimate present for the children of the world; the triumph that would make even Santa Claus admit that he had been wrong, and Patch right, all along. Now the time had come to make the world aware of it . . . and Patch was showing uncharacteristic traces of discomfort and uncertainty.

  He stood in the middle of a television studio, clad in an haute couture version of elf attire which had been personally designed for him: an immaculately cut, styled—and then sequin-covered—travesty of his old clothing, this time made entirely of patchwork squares in vibrant puce and blue. It was far too tight, and even too gaudy for his tastes, but B.Z. had insisted it was vital to present the ‘right image’ to the public. Tugging at his jacket, Patch looked around him at the setting in which he was about to make his announcement to the children of the world. “I don’t know about this,” he muttered weakly. “It isn’t what the North Pole looks like at all.” He shook his head, but his complaints were too little and too late.

  All around him lay a display of almost mind-boggling bad taste and vulgarity, which had been painstakingly constructed and designed to B.Z.’s personal instructions. Gigantic outsized toys—which bore no resemblance to anythin
g the elves had ever made, and were remarkable only for their nauseating, thoroughly calculating overcuteness—loomed above him, making him feel even more insignificant and out of place than he already did. And assembled behind him was something he found even more disconcerting: a line of nubile chorus girls dressed in a spangled, skin-tight puce-and-blue mockery of elvish clothing that revealed far more than it concealed. The whole setting reminded him of a bad dream he had had once after eating too much icicle cream for dessert. Although he could not find the courage to admit it to himself, in his heart he knew that it was all a distressing perversion of everything elfish, as executed by the heavy hand of his human partner, B.Z. But B.Z. claimed that he knew what people wanted . . .

  “Look,” Towzer said reassuringly, “B.Z. knows what he’s doing. He knows how to grab the people.”

  “But this isn’t real,” Patch insisted, gesturing around him.

  “The public doesn’t want reality,” Towzer snapped nervously. “They want the dream!”

  Patch opened his mouth again, and closed it, telling himself for the dozenth time that B.Z. had given him everything he needed until now, and reluctantly admitting that he really didn’t know anything about this ‘advertising’ business himself. Before his doubts could rise up and get his attention again, the floor manager’s voice called out.

  “Places, everybody.”

  Patch stood frozen where he was, like a bug in a spotlight, as Towzer and the stagehands melted away from around him, and off-stage the announcer’s voice began its introductory spiel: “Live! From New York! Presenting . . . direct from the North Pole, that perky pixie, that nimble gnome, the elf himself! It’s PATCH!”

  Patch gasped as the spotlights trained on him for real, and he was irrevocably committed to this bizarre culmination of his plans. Technology compared to magic was what human beings were compared to elves—bizarre, illogical, and overly complicated. No longer was it possible simply to wish that the world could hear and see him, and have it happen: He had to remember where to look and what to say while great strange metal monsters trained their glassy eyes upon him with a merciless stare. He took a deep breath, and began to recite his greeting to children everywhere.