“All right, Phil, you convinced me.”
“We’re just about to begin, there is nothing wrong with your pictures, folks. We’re just waiting for them to work out those final details. While we do, let me remind you that immediately following the game, Fox will be broadcasting the opening concert at The Oasis Theater, the beautiful showroom they have here at Prism, and as mentioned earlier, Prism has confirmed our entertainment tonight will feature Linda Bowen and Angelique Caulfield. I think we’ll…wait, there he is, folks. Our first contestant, Ceriac Boo Lascaux. Listen to that ovation, Richie.”
“It’s a loud one. Boo Lascaux, 34 years old, from New Orleans, Louisiana. The winner of the South Territorials. He’s got on that black arrowhead, Phil. Isn’t that the one he said he’d wear if he thought it was going to be a bad day?”
“That’s right.”
“I think he’s working on their heads, Phil.”
“It could be. Lascaux drew the Diamond position, and will make the first bid tonight. You have to like this guy, Richie.”
“I do, but I had a bet down on Chang to get that first bid.”
“Boo is not the favorite of the bettors, finally going off at, what was it, Richie?”
“Conventional wisdom said four to one. Not the long shot, but he’s close.”
“And here’s player number two, Nick Kerensky, walking out of nowhere into the sets of 2.9 billion viewers.”
“How do they do that, Phil? It looks like they’re coming through a steel wall. I want one of those for my bedroom.”
“The Wall of Sleep. It’s remarkable, like everything connected with this tournament.”
“Nick Kerensky, born in Nyandoma, Mother Russia. He’s 38 years old, he took the East Territorials, and Phil, he’s got to be the favorite with the ladies. Maybe that’s what got him off at two to one. Look at that guy’s smile. He’s confident. He came to play. He’s ready. Look at that chin! He’s got it all. That’s confident.”
“I hear you can buy a chin like that if you want one, Richie.”
“No, Betty likes me just the way I am. But she told me to get an autographed picture of this guy.”
“Mary asked me to get one, too, so you’re not alone. Kerensky drew the Rectangle position for this first match and will therefore play to Lascaux’s left.”
“And these guys don’t like each other. We could see a little shoving before it’s over.”
“And here’s our third player, Sarah Easton, and she’s got that silver coin around her neck. She came ready to play, too. Listen to that applause, Richie. This little lady has got a lot of hearts out there, too. Tell our viewers a little about her.”
“Sarah Easton is from Oneonta, New York. She’s 33 years old and swept the Midwest Territorials, but just barely. That last match in St. Louis was a cliffhanger. She’s our dark horse, Phil, going off at five to one. We’ll have to see, but I think she’s outgunned in there.”
“Not over ’til the fat lady sings, and this songbird has got a few moves up her sleeve that I think may surprise everyone. She lays back in the weeds then strikes. She’s got a bluff that can’t be beat.
And finally, here he is, the quiet one, Ronnie Young Chang, the winner of the West Territorials. And look at him, Richie. He’s as cool as this day has been long. No expression. Give him the tiles and let him play. He’ll be in the Circle position, I’m sorry, I forgot to point out Sarah Easton is playing Triangle in this first match of the four.”
“Ronnie is from San Francisco, California. He’s 55 years old, the papa of the group, but those odds. You would have been happy to get him at two to one a couple days ago, but he went off at even money today, Phil. This is the man to beat. I think we’re looking at the champion.”
“We’ll be looking at all of them, each of these champions, as round one of this one hundred million dollar, winner-take-all, World Standoff! Tournament begins in just a few minutes here on Fox. Stay tuned.”
Chapter Eight
Spotswood and Denny, accompanied by a pair of plain-clothed guards, made their way down the wide hallway to the main door of Master Control which was manned by two more armed, uniformed specialists with a third seated behind a podium off to one side who not only asked to see all of their badges, then scanned them, then asked for Spotswood’s primary and secondary code words.
“Mustang and Kenya.”
“Are you expected?”
“No. Just thought I’d drop by to say hello and give the operation a look.”
“We have a guest list,” he replied, checking his computer. “And you’re not on it.”
“Cliff?” Denny teased. “I promise I won’t tell Eyes.”
The man chuckled. “Ahhh…who did you want to say hello to, Mr. Spotswood?”
“Geno.”
“Hang on a sec,” he advised as he stood then went inside. Returning a minute later, he resumed his seat then frowned. “Mr. Polata said he’s busy and that you should go fuck yourself.”
Spotswood was stunned, at least until Cliff grinned and added, “Just kidding. But he did say that’d get a rise out of you. Go on in.”
Which he did, involuntarily stopping as his eyes swept the room.
Easily 150 feet in length and half that in depth, it sparkled like a mad electrician’s version of a futuristic Christmas tree. Close to the floor-to-ceiling glass wall looking into the stadium were banks of control consoles to the left and right, 18 or 20 technicians already seated before them and tinkering with the countless knobs, slides, switches, dials, speakers and video monitors at their disposal. The air in the space was quite chilly, bordering on downright cold, accentuated by an unusual quietness blanketed by a low but audible hum. At the left-center was a thick glass cube containing even more apparatus manned by Geno Polata.
An entire chapter in Wheels Up had focused on the man, a stagehand who upon a dare from a performer, started up his own sound company after the act overheard some of his criticisms of the system being used at a concert. In 12 years Polata’d built his company, Stage Sound Specialties, into the premier sound and light leasing firm in the country, providing system design, equipment, logistics and technicians for a multitude of headliners, not the least being The Alliance for the last three tours. Spotswood met him during the two weeks he’d spent with the band researching the book, spending a good deal of time picking up the ins and outs of the trade, then translating it into a play by play of the immensely complex set of preparations and safety nets that went into bringing singer’s voice A to listeners’ ears B.
He rapped on the door of the cubicle but no response, so he hit it harder. Turning, Polata grinned from the center of the three seats, hit a switch to unlock the door and motioned him in.
“My buddy, my publicist!” the man said, putting his arm around Spotswood’s shoulder. “How have you been? Haven’t seen you since you became famous!”
“Been over a year.”
“You know, it was just this morning. I was sitting in Benny’s having breakfast and this guy comes up to me and says hello, recognized me from the photos in the book.”
“I thought you were going to get out of the rock and roll rat race.”
“So did I. Most of my business was moving to corporate stuff, conventions and the like. Then in April I got a call from our friend Andy. Hadn’t seen him in awhile, figured he was phoning to wish me a happy birthday.” He smiled. “Asks me what I’ve been up to, then did I have seven or eight months of my life to devote to a project he was getting involved in.”
Spotswood chuckled. “Asked? Doesn’t sound like the Andy I know.”
Polata laughed. “Tell me about it. Here I’ve got a three week vacation in Italy coming up to visit some relatives and I’m thinking, ‘So much for that idea.’”
“D’he give you one of those rambling intellectual beatings about the head?”
“Nope. Just a single sentence.” He paused. “How’d you like to design all of the sound and lighting for the WST and the concerts.”
“Said he’d recommended me to Potcheck, and all I had to do was say yes.” He let out a contented sigh. “Shit, you kidding? Where do I sign?”
“Just like that?”
“It was a money is no object proposition. Complete creative control. Thought I’d died and gone to electronic heaven.”
“How’s Patricia and the kids?”
“Just fine. I brought in Carmen right away, great chance for him to finally be working with the old man.”
“So what’ll you dazzle the fans with tonight?”
“I got this new deal. A number of them, actually. You are going to see some really cherry effects, especially tomorrow for the battle. Wasn’t sure if we could get it on line in time, still have a few bubbles to be popped but as of now looks to be five by five. Designed one first for the tournament room, then Frankie liked it so much he wanted a version for the Wisconsin Bar. And then he figured might as well go the whole nine yards and add it to the concerts.”
“The Wisconsin? Got an invitation to go to the after party tomorrow night.”
“If you didn’t have one, I’d make sure you got to go. Disguise you as a technician or something.” He paused. “As if you needed one.” He paused again. “You’re looking exceptionally good, my man. Been working out?”
“You’re the second person to say that today. Must be doin’ something right.”
“Have you seen any of them yet?”
“Christie and Mick this afternoon. You?”
“Just Andy and Dave. Last night, couple of cocktails up in their digs.” He paused. “You know, I never thought in all the times I’ve worked with them that they ever had a single doubt about anything but,” he winked, “I’m thinking maybe this gig has got them a little rattled. You ought’a see the…” he started, then stopped.
“See what?”
“Just some prep they’re doing.”
“When I interviewed them for the broadcast, they seemed like it was going to be just another walk in the park. Maybe a slightly bigger park, but nothing to worry about.”
“Not so much worried, but…ah, maybe I’m the one who’s rattled. I mean,” he continued, gesturing to the board, “I’m moving into an uncharted world of sight and sound.”
Spotswood looked to the ceiling. “Speaking of sound, is it just me or is it unusually quiet in here?”
Polata smiled. “That is not your imagination. You are standing in probably the deadest space in Las Vegas.” He pointed to a monitor headed Local Ambience featuring a number of vertical colored bars then snapped his fingers, making them suddenly bounce higher then just as quickly drop. “Median level in here is running a solid 18 decibels. If you sat here alone for half an hour, 45 minutes, odds are you’d start hallucinating from the acoustic void.”
“There a reason for this?”
Polata nodded. “Yup. The money is no object one. Always wanted to see if I could pull off dead silence since I was in this anechoic chamber they’ve got at a lab in Minnesota. You know, provide myself with a quiet little space where I could work my magic without distraction.” He clapped his hands once and all of the bars turned red as they spiked to the top of the screen.”And tomorrow night, distractions are the last thing I’m gonna need.”
“I’ve seen pictures of those…what’re they called again?”
“Anechoics.”
“Right. But the one I saw,” he continued, gesturing, “are filled with, uh, all kinds of louvers and boxes and shit.”
“Yeah. And?”
“So where are they?”
“In the pictures you saw?”
“C’mon.”
“Have a seat,” Polata said, touching the seat to the right of his. Spotswood did as the engineer sat beside him and pointed to a device labeled AucVac. “This nifty appliance is the key to the sounds of silence.” He paused. “So far it only works in a space this size, or maybe slightly larger. Anyway, what it does is…what I came up with a method to essentially suck all of the noise out of the air before anyone hears it. Well, that and a masking protocol that sort of sweeps up the waves that get missed by the main capacitor. Lemme know if I start getting too technical on you.”
“I get the general idea, I think.”
“Then I’ll spare you further details. But I can control a whole lotta stuff from this little room of mine.”
Beside the AucVac was a larger, oblong block containing a primary monitor, four subsidiaries place around it to form a cross, a main power switch and five dials with red and green buttons below each. At the top-center was a small legend reading ULTRATRON. Spotswood surmised this was the mysterious gadget he’d heard of or read about referred to as The Ultra or The Ultra T that according to rumors was the juice behind what some unnamed sources reckoned would be the biggest advance in live performance technology since wireless mics. Trouble was, none of those same sources knew precisely how it worked or what it did. “What’s that thing?”
“The Ultra? We’ll find out tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow? What about tonight’s show?”
Polata scratched his nose. “I will provide no shine before its time.”
“Little late in the day to be in the testing process, isn’t it?”
“Nope. I never planned to trot it out before the street fight,” he grinned. “Gotta save the heavy ordinance for the big battle, eh?”
“You don’t have to spare me the details.”
And Polata didn’t. Due to the configuration of the Oasis Theater containing its revolving stage tracked by the prime seats but changing from front to side to back to side then repeating for most of the others, not to mention the fact that there were no dead areas to park a jumbotron or other viewing screens, the issue was: How do you show everyone in a circular arena a magnification of the front view action when that front isn’t usually stationary and there are no surfaces to project it on? “Simple. Encase everything inside a rectangular, magical translucent case up to the rafters that only seems to have a surface.”
The Ultra—at least what the audience would see—wasn’t a two dimensional object like a movie screen. Instead, it was a collection of hundreds of billions of miniscule electronic colored blocks that didn’t exist anywhere but in the eyes of the viewer, slightly changing every ten-thousandth of a second to create a gigantic floating, three dimensional-appearing enlargement of what one would see if sitting dead-center from the stage with the comparatively Lilliputian real performers taking care of business both below and inside it.
Spotswood couldn’t help but smile. “That’s the best you could come up with?”
“I thought it was a pretty good start for a man of my limited abilities,” Polata chuckled. “But the real tricky parts were figuring out how to park a few highlight screens on the edges, how to eliminate the Ultra for folks didn’t want to see the Jolly Green Giants while keeping the highlight surfaces and how to get the Wall of Sleep jazz spliced in without frying people’s brains.”
“What’s the bottom line version?”
“Well, every seat comes with a pair of goggles that’ll block the Ultra but keep the highlighters. Those conflicting optical issues were a real pain in the ass. Then making something that doesn’t seem to be there suddenly appear in a three dimensional environment that doesn’t exist, I’m sure you’d agree, posed a bit of a conundrum.”
“Gimme an example.”
Polata stretched his arms, then his fingers, then cracked a few knuckles. “Okay. Let’s take Alliance’s first number.”
“I’m betting they’re gonna lead with Witchcraft.”
Polata shook his head to indicate that piece of info wouldn’t be forthcoming. “Let’s take Alliance’s first number. Stage is black, empty as a winter desert on a moonless night. We bring up one member, then a second, then three more, then one, then the last and voila! CCBBA has arrived.”
Spotswood counted out the steps on his fingers. Yup, that’s Witchcraft. “You’re going to be doing all this along with t
he sound?”
“No way. Carmen’s taking care of the all the WOS.” He looked into the stadium. “The camera crew’ll handle the video. Zobbo’s got special effects. I’m just going to sit back and tweak a little treb here, a little low end there.”
Spotswood glanced to his right. “How many cameras you running?”
“For the telecast or the film?”
“What’s the difference?”
“’Bout 30.” He paused. “Thirty-three to be more precise.”
“No, I meant… Oh! So they’re actually going to do a theatrical release of the…”
“You didn’t hear it from me.”
“Off the record?”
“Fifteen cameras for the broadcast. That footage combined with…48 total. That’s going to be one heavy duty collection to boil down, though all of the non-broad eyes are running off a sweet little computer program Data Empire developed that…what it does is, it already knows what the best moves are going to be before the talent makes them and coupled with multiple redundancies will capture enough footage to…I mean, it’s gonna be a few clicks more sophisticated than Woodstock.”He grinned. “Old Frankie’s got some very specific ideas on the movie he wants.”
Spotswood motioned for the rest.
“He brought in Richard Maccarone, the guy who directed the last couple Super Bowls? Hired him to knock off a rough, ninety minute highlights presentation to show at the party, then polish it up for a two hour segment on the broadcast tomorrow afternoon. If that works out, I’m guessin’ Dick’ll get to handle the extended version, too.” He tapped the main audio board. “But however the final product comes out, it’s gonna sound really cherry.” He smiled. “Lemme show you something else we’ll be using tomorrow night.” He eased a goose-necked mic closer to his face then flicked a switch. “Carmen?”
“I’m here.”
Weekend at Prism Page 12