Dark Benediction

by Walter Michael Miller

  Great Actors Immortalized—that was one of Smithfield’s little slogans. But they had discontinued production on Mela Stone, the depot clerk had said. Overstocked.

  The promise of relative immortality had been quite a bait. Actors unions had resisted autodrama, for obviously the bit players and the lesser-knowns would not be in demand. By making dozens—even hundreds—of copies of the same leading star, top talent could be had for every role, and the same actor-mannequin could be playing simultaneously in dozens of shows all over the country. The unions had resisted—but only a few were wanted by Smithfield anyhow, and the lure was great. The promise of fantastic royalties was enticing enough, but in addition immortality for the actor, through duplication of mannequins. Authors, artists, playwrights had always been able to outlive the centuries, but actors were remembered only by professionals, and their names briefly recorded in the annals of the stage. Shakespeare would live another thousand years, but who remembered Dick Burbage who trouped in the day of the bard’s premiers? Flesh and bone, heart and brain, these were the trouper’s media, and his art could not outlive them.

  Thorny knew the yearnings after lastingness, and he could no longer hate the ones who had gone over. As for himself, the autodrama industry had made him a tentative offer, and he had resisted—partly because he was reasonably certain that the offer would have been withdrawn during testing procedures. Some actors were not “cybergenic”—could not be adequately sculptured into electronic-robotic analogues. These were the portrayers, whose art was inward, whose roles had to be lived rather than played. No polygraphic analogue could duplicate their talents, and Thornier knew he was one of them. It had been easy for him to resist.

  At the corner of Eighth Street, he remembered the spare tape and the replacement pickup for the Maestro. But if he turned back now, he’d hold up the ran-through, and Jade would be furious. Mentally he kicked himself, and drove on to the delivery entrance of the theater. There he left the crated mannequin with the stage crew, and headed back for the depot without seeing the producer.

  “Hey, bud,” said the clerk, “your boss was on the phone. Sounded pretty unhappy.”

  “Who… D’Uccia?”

  “No… well, yeah, D’Uccia, too. He wasn’t unhappy, just having fits. I meant Miss Ferne.”

  “Oh… where’s your phone?”

  “Over there. The lady was near hysterical.”

  Thorny swallowed hard and headed for the booth. Jade Ferne was a good friend, and if his absent-mindedness had goofed up her production—

  “I’ve got the pickup and the tape ready to go,” the clerk called after him. “She told me about it on the phone. Boy, you’re sure on the ball today, ain’t ya—the greasy eight ball.”

  Thorny reddened and dialed nervously.

  “Thank God!” she groaned. “Thorny, we did the run-through with Andreyev a walking zombie. The Maestro chewed up our duplicate Peltier tape, and we’re running without an actor-analogue in the starring role. Baby, I could murder you!”

  “Sorry, Jade. I slipped a cog, I guess.”

  “Never mind! Just get the new pickup mechanism over here for Thomas. And the Peltier tape. And don’t have a wreck. It’s two o’clock, and tonight’s opening, and we’re still short our leading man. And there’s no time to get anything else flown in from Smithfield.”

  “In some ways, nothing’s changed, has it, Jade?” he grunted, thinking of the eternal backstage hysteria that lasted until the lights went low and beauty and calm order somehow emerged miraculously out of the prevailing chaos.

  “Don’t philosophize, just get here!” she snapped, and hung up.

  The clerk had the cartons ready for him as he emerged. “Look, chum, better take care of that Peltier tape,” the clerk advised. “It’s the last one in the place. I’ve got more on order, but they won’t be here for a couple of days.”

  Thornier stared at the smaller package thoughtfully. The last Peltier?

  The plan, he remembered the plan. This would make it easy. Of course, the plan was only a fantasy, a vengeful dream. He couldn’t go through with it. To wreck the show would be a stab at Jade—

  He heard his own voice like a stranger’s, saying; “Miss Ferne also asked me to pick up a Wilson Granger tape, and a couple of three-inch splices.”

  The clerk looked surprised. “Granger? He’s not in ‘The Anarch,’ is he?”

  Thornier shook his head. “No—guess she wants it for a trial casting. Next show, maybe.”

  The clerk shrugged and went to get the tape and the splices. Thornier stood clenching and unclenching his fists. He wasn’t going to go through with it, of course. Only a silly fantasy.

  “I’ll have to make a separate ticket on these,” said the clerk, returning.

  He signed the delivery slips in a daze, then headed for the truck. He drove three blocks from the depot, then parked in a loading zone. He opened the tape cartons carefully with his penknife, peeling back the glued flaps so that they could be sealed again. He removed the two rolls of pattern perforated tape from their small metal canisters, carefully plucked off the masking-tape seals and stuck them temporarily to the dashboard. He unrolled the first half-yard of the Peltier tape; it was unperforated, and printed with identifying codes and manufacturer’s data. Fortunately, it was not a brand-new tape; it had been used before, and he could see the wear-marks. A splice would not arouse suspicion.

  He cut off the identifying tongue with his knife, laid it aside. Then he did the same to the Granger tape.

  Granger was fat, jovial, fiftyish. His mannequin played comic supporting roles.

  Peltier was young, gaunt, gloomy—the intellectual villain, the dedicated fanatic. A fair choice for the part of Andreyev.

  Thornier’s hands seemed to move of their own volition, playing reflexively in long-rehearsed roles. He cut the tapes. He took out one of the hot-splice packs and jerked the tab that started the chemical action. He clocked off fifteen seconds by his watch, then opened the pack and fitted into it the cut ends of the Granger tape and the Peltier identifying tongue, butted them carefully end to end, and closed the pack. When it stopped smoking, he opened it to inspect the splice. A neat patch, scarcely visible on the slick plastic tape. Granger’s analogue, labeled as Peltier’s. And the body of the mannequin was Peltier’s. He resealed it in its canister.

  He wadded the Peltier tape and the Granger label and the extra delivery receipt copy into the other box. Then he pulled the truck out of the loading zone and drove through the heavy traffic like a racing jockey, trusting the anti-crash radar to see him safely through. As he crossed the bridge, he threw the Peltier tape out the window into the river. And then there was no retreat from what he had done.

  Jade and Feria sat in the orchestra, watching the final act of the run-through with a dud Andreyev. When Thorny slipped in beside them, Jade wiped mock sweat from her brow.

  “Thank God you’re back!” she whispered as he displayed the delayed packages. “Sneak backstage and run them up to Rick in the booth, will you? Thorny, I’m out of my mind!”

  “Sorry, Miss Ferne.” Fearing that his guilty nervousness hung about him like a ragged cloak, he slipped quickly backstage and delivered the cartons to Thomas in the booth. The technician hovered over the Maestro as the play went on, and he gave Thornier only a quick nod and a wave.

  Thorny retreated into misty old corridors and unused dressing rooms, now heaped with junk and remnants of other days. He had to get a grip on himself, had to quit quaking inside. He wandered alone in the deserted sections of the building, opening old doors to peer into dark cubicles where great stars had preened in other days, other nights. Now full of trunks and cracked mirrors and tarpaulins and junked mannequins. Faint odors lingered—nervous smells—perspiration, make-up, dim perfume that pervaded the walls. Mildew and dust—the aroma of time. His footsteps sounded hollowly through the unpeopled rooms, while muffled sounds from the play came faintly through the walls—the hysterical pleading of Marka, the hars
h laughter of Piotr, the marching boots of the revolutionist guards, a burst of music toward the end of the scene.

  He turned abruptly and started back toward the stage. It was no good, hiding away like this. He must behave normally, must do what he usually did. The falsified Peltier tape would not wreak its havoc until after the first run-through, when Thomas fed it into the Maestro, reset the machine, and prepared to start the second trial run. Until then, he must remain casually himself, and afterwards—?

  Afterwards, things would have to go as he had planned.

  Afterwards, Jade would have to come to him, as he believed she would. If she didn’t, then he had bungled, he had clumsily wrecked, and to no avail.

  He slipped through the power-room where converters hummed softly, supplying power to the stage. He stood close to the entrance, watching the beginnings of scene iii, of the third act. Andreyev—the Peltier doll—was on alone, pacing grimly in his apartment while the low grumble of a street mob and the distant rattle of machine-gun fire issued from the Maestro-managed sound effect system. After a moment’s watching, he saw that Andreyev’s movements were not “grim” but merely methodical and lifeless. The tapeless mannequin, going through the required motions, robotlike, without interpretation of meaning. He heard a brief burst of laughter from someone in the production row, and after watching the zombie-like rendering of Andreyev in a suspenseful scene, he, too, found himself grinning faintly.

  The pacing mannequin looked toward him suddenly with a dead-pan face. It raised both fists toward its face.

  “Help,” it said in a conversational monotone. “Ivan, where are you? Where? Surely they’ve come; they must come.” It spoke quietly, without inflection. It ground its fists casually against its temples, paced mechanically again.

  A few feet away, two mannequins that had been standing frozen in the off-stage lineup, clicked suddenly to life. As ghostly calm as display window dummies, they galvanized suddenly at a signal pulse command from the Maestro. Muscles—plastic sacs filled with oil-suspended magnetic powder and wrapped with elastic coils of wire, like flexible solenoids—tightened and strained beneath the airfoam flesh, working spasmodically to the pulsing rhythms of the polychromatic u.h.f. commands of the Maestro. Expressions of fear and urgency leaped to their faces. They crouched, tensed, looked around, then burst on stage, panting wildly.

  “Comrade, she’s come, she’s come!” one of them screamed. “She’s come with him, with Boris!”

  “What? She has him prisoner?” came the casual reply. “No, no, comrade. We’ve been betrayed. She’s with him. She’s a traitor, she’s sold out to them.”

  There was no feeling in the uninterpreted Andreyev’s responses, even when he shot the bearer of bad tidings through the heart.

  Thornier grew fascinated with watching as the scene progressed. The mannequins moved gracefully, their movements sinuous and more evenly flowing than human, they seemed boneless. The ratio of mass-to-muscle power of their members was carefully chosen to yield the flow of a dance with their every movement. Not clanking mechanical robots, not stumbling puppets, the dolls sustained patterns of movement and expression that would have quickly brought fatigue to a human actor, and the Maestro coordinated the events on stage in a way that would be impossible to a group of humans, each an individual and thinking independently.

  It was as always. First, he looked with a shudder at the Machine moving in the stead of flesh and blood, at Mechanism sitting in the seat of artistry. But gradually his chill melted away, and the play caught him, and the actors were no longer machines. He lived in the role of Andreyev, and breathed the lines off-stage, and he knew the rest of them: Meta and Pettier, Sam Dion and Peter Repplewaite. He tensed with them, gritted his teeth in anticipation of difficult lines, cursed softly at the dud Andreyev, and forgot to listen for the faint crackle of sparks as the mannequins’ feet stepped across the copper-studded floor, drinking energy in random bites to keep their storage packs near full charge.

  Thus entranced, he scarcely noticed the purring and brushing and swishing sounds that came from behind him, and grew louder. He heard a quiet mutter of voices nearby, but only frowned at the distraction, kept his attention rooted to the stage.

  Then a thin spray of water tickled his ankles. Something soggy and spongelike slapped against his foot. He whirled.

  A gleaming metal spider, three feet high came at him slowly on six legs, with two grasping claws extended. It clicked its way toward him across the floor, throwing out a thin spray of liquid which it promptly sucked up with the spongelike proboscis. With one grasping claw, it lifted a ten-gallon can near his leg, sprayed under it, swabbed, and set the can down again.

  Thornier came unfrozen with a howl, leaped over the thing, hit the wet-soapy deck off balance. He skidded and sprawled. The spider scrubbed at the floor toward the edge of the stage, then reversed directions and came back toward him.

  Groaning, he pulled himself together, on hands and knees. D’Uccia’s cackling laughter spilled over him. He glanced up. The chubby manager and the servo salesman stood over him, the salesman grinning, D’Uccia chortling.

  “Datsa ma boy, datsa ma boy! Always, he watcha the show, then he don’t swip-op around, then he wantsa day off. Thatsa ma boy, for sure.” D’Uccia reached down to pat the metal spider’s chassis. “Hey, ragazzo,” he said again to Thornier, “want you should meet my new boy here. This one, he don’t watcha the show like you.”

  He got to his feet, ghost-white and muttering. D’Uccia took closer note of his face, and his grin went sick. He inched back a step. Thornier glared at him briefly, then whirled to stalk away. He whirled into near collision with the Mela Stone mannequin, recovered, and started to pass in back of it.

  Then he froze.

  The Mela Stone mannequin was on stage, in the final scene. And this one looked older, and a little haggard. It wore an expression of shocked surprise as it looked him up and down. One hand darted to its mouth.

  “Thorny—!” A frightened whisper.

  “Mesa!” Despite the play, he shouted it, opening his arms to her. “Mela, how wonderful!”

  And then, he noticed she winced away from his sodden coveralls. And she wasn’t glad to see him at all.

  “Thorny, how nice,” she managed to murmur, extending her hand gingerly. The hand flashed with jewelry.

  He took it for an empty second, stared at her, then walked hurriedly away, knots twisting up inside him. Now he could play it through. Now he could go on with it, and even enjoy executing his plan against all of them.

  Mela had come to watch opening night for her doll in “The Anarch,” as if its performance were her own. I’ll arrange, he thought, for it not to be a dull show.

  “No, no, noo!” came the monotone protest of the dud Andreyev, in the next-to-the-last scene. The bark of Marka’s gun, and the Peltier mannequin crumpled to the stage; and except for a brief triumphant denouement, the play was over.

  At the sound of the gunshot, Thornier paused to smile tightly over his shoulder, eyes burning from his hawklike face. Then he vanished into the wings.

  She got away from them as soon as she could, and she wandered around backstage until she found him in the storage room of the costuming section. Alone, he was sorting through the contents of an old locker and muttering nostalgically to himself. She smiled and closed the door with a thud. Startled, he dropped an old collapsible top-hat and a box of blank cartridges back into the trunk. His hand dived into his pocket as he straightened.

  “Jade! I didn’t expect—”

  “Me to come?” She flopped on a dusty old chaise lounge with a weary sigh and fanned herself with a program, closing her eyes. She kicked off her shoes and muttered: “Infuriating bunch. I hate ’em!”—made a retching face, and relaxed into little-girlhood. A little girl who had trouped with Thornier and the rest of them—the actress Jade Ferne, who had begged for bit parts and haunted the agencies and won the roles through endless rehearsals and shuddered with fright before opening
curtain like the rest of them. Now she was a pert little woman with shrewd eyes, streaks of gray at the temples, and hard lines around her mouth. As she let the executive cloak slip away, the shrewdness and the hard lines melted into weariness.

  “Fifteen minutes to get my sanity back, Thorny,” she muttered, glancing at her watch as if to time it.

  He sat on the trunk and tried to relax. She hadn’t seemed to notice his uneasiness, or else she was just too tired to attach any significance to it. If she found him out, she’d have him flayed and pitched out of the building on his ear, and maybe call the police. She came in a small package, but so did an incendiary grenade. It won’t hurt you, Jade, what I’m doing, he told himself. It’ll cause a big splash, and you won’t like it, but it won’t hurt you, nor even wreck the show.

  He was doing it for show business, the old kind, the kind they’d both known and loved. And in that sense, he told himself further, he was doing it as much for her as he was for himself.

  “How was the run-through, Jade?” he asked casually. “Except for Andreyev, I mean.”

  “Superb, simply superb,” she said mechanically.

  “I mean really.”

  She opened her eyes, made a sick mouth. “Like always, Thorny, like always. Nauseating, overplayed, perfectly directed for a gum-chewing bag-rattling crowd. A crowd that wants it overplayed so that it won’t have to think about what’s going on. A crowd that doesn’t want to reach out for a feeling or a meaning. It wants to be clubbed on the head with the meaning, so it doesn’t have to reach. I’m sick of it.”

  He looked briefly surprised. “That figures,” he grunted wryly.

  She hooked her bare heels on the edge of the lounge, hugged her shins, rested her chin on her knees, and blinked at him. “Hate me for producing the stuff, Thorny?”

  He thought about it for a moment, shook his head. “I get sore at the setup sometimes, but I don’t blame you for it.”