The Astounding Science Fiction Anthology

by John W. Campbell Jr.

  She was shocked. “And you and Mr. Laviada sign my checks every week! It’s Ruth.”

  “Ruth. Ruth.” I rolled it around the piercing bubbles, and it sounded all right.

  She nodded. “And your name is Edward, and Mr. Laviada’s is Migwell. Isn’t it?” And she smiled at him.

  “MiGELL,” he smiled back. “An old Spanish custom. Usually shortened to Mike.”

  “If you’ll hand me another bottle,” I offered, “shorten Edward to Ed.” She handed it over.

  By the time we got to the fourth bottle we were as thick as bugs in a rug. It seems that she was twenty-four, free, white, and single, and loved champagne.

  “But,” she burbled fretfully, “I wish I knew what you were doing in there all hours of the day and night. I know you’re here at night sometimes because I’ve seen your car out in front.”

  Mike thought that over. “Well,” he said a little unsteadily, “we take pictures.” He blinked one eye. “Might even take pictures of you if we were approached properly.”

  I took over. “We take pictures of models.”

  “Oh, no.”

  “Yes. Models of things and people and what not. Little ones. We make it look like it’s real.” I think she was a trifle disappointed.

  “Well, now I know, and that makes me feel better. I sign all those bills from Rochester and I don’t know what I’m signing for. Except that they must be film or something.”

  “That’s just what it is; film and things like that.”

  “Well, it bothered me—No, there’s two more behind the fan.”

  Only two more. She had a capacity. I asked her how she would like a vacation. She hadn’t thought about a vacation just yet.

  I told her she’d better start thinking about it. “We’re leaving day after tomorrow for Los Angeles, Hollywood.”

  “The day after tomorrow? Why—”

  I reassured her. “You’ll get paid just the same. But there’s no telling how long we’ll be gone, and there doesn’t seem to be much use in your sitting around here with nothing to do.”

  From Mike, “Let’s have that bottle,” and I handed it to him. I went on.

  “You’ll get your checks just the same. If you want, we’ll pay you in advance so—”

  I was getting full of champagne, and so were we all. Mike was humming softly to himself, happy as a taco. The blonde, Ruth, was having a little trouble with my left eye. I knew just how she felt, because I was having a little trouble watching where she overlapped the swivel chair. Blue eyes, sooo tall, fuzzy hair. Hm-m-m. All work and no play—She handed me the last bottle.

  Demurely she hid a tiny hiccup. “I’m going to save all the corks—No I won’t either. My father would want to know what I’m thinking of, drinking with my bosses.”

  I said it wasn’t a good idea to annoy your father. Mike said why fool with bad ideas, when he had a good one. We were interested. Nothing like a good idea to liven things up.

  Mike was expansive as the very devil. “Going to Los Angeles.”

  We nodded solemnly.

  “Going to Los Angeles to work.”

  Another nod.

  “Going to work in Los Angeles. What will we do for pretty blonde girl to write letters?”

  Awful. No pretty blonde to write letters and drink champagne. Sad case.

  “Gotta hire somebody to write letters anyway. Might not be blonde. No blondes in Hollywood. No good ones, anyway. So—”

  I saw the wonderful idea, and finished for him. “So we take pretty blonde to Los Angeles to write letters!”

  What an idea that was! One bottle sooner and its brilliancy would have been dimmed. Ruth bubbled like a fresh bottle and Mike and I sat there, smirking like mad.

  “But I can’t! I couldn’t leave day after tomorrow just like that—!”

  Mike was magnificent. “Who said day after tomorrow? Changed our minds. Leave right now.”

  She was appalled. “Right now! Just like that?”

  “Right now. Just like that.” I was firm.

  “But-”

  “No buts. Right now. Just like that.”

  “Nothing to wear—”

  “Buy clothes any place. Best ones in Los Angeles.”

  “But my hair—”

  Mike suggested a haircut in Hollywood, maybe?

  I pounded the table. It felt solid. “Call the airport. Three tickets.”

  She called the airport. She intimidated easy.

  The airport said we could leave for Chicago any time on the hour, and change there for Los Angeles. Mike wanted to know why she was wasting time on the telephone when we could be on our way. Holding up the wheels of progress, emery dust in the gears. One minute to get her hat.

  “Call Pappy from the airport.”

  Her objections were easily brushed away with a few word-pictures of how much fun there was to be had in Hollywood. We left a sign on the door, “Gone to Lunch—Back in December,” and made the airport in time for the four o’clock plane, with no time left to call Pappy. I told the parking attendant to hold the car until he heard from me and we made it up the steps and into the plane just in time. The steps were taken away, the motors snorted, and we were off, with Ruth holding fast her hat in an imaginary breeze.

  There was a two-hour layover in Chicago. They don’t serve liquor at the airport, but an obliging cab driver found us a convenient bar down the road, where Ruth made her call to her father. Cautiously we stayed away from the telephone booth, but from what Ruth told us, he must have read her the riot act. The bartender didn’t have champagne, but gave us the special treatment reserved for those that order it. The cab driver saw that we made the liner two hours later.

  In Los Angeles we registered at the Commodore, cold sober and ashamed of ourselves. The next day Ruth went shopping for clothes for herself, and for us. We gave her the sizes and enough money to soothe her hangover. Mike and I did some telephoning. After breakfast we sat around until the desk clerk announced a Mr. Lee Johnson to see us.

  Lee Johnson was the brisk professional type, the high-bracket salesman. Tall, rather homely, a clipped way of talking. We introduced ourselves as embryo producers. His eyes brightened when we said that. His meat.

  “Not exactly the way you think,” I told him. “We have already eighty per cent or better of the final print.”

  He wanted to know where he came in.

  “We have several thousand feet of Trucolor film. Don’t bother asking where or when we got it. This footage is silent. We’ll need sound and, in places, speech dubbed in.”

  He nodded. “Easy enough. What condition is the master?”

  “Perfect condition. It’s in the hotel vault right now. There are gaps in the story to fill. We’ll need quite a few male and female characters. And all of these will have to do their doubling for cash, and not for screen credit.”

  Johnson raised his eyebrows. “And why? Out here screen credit is bread and butter.”

  “Several reasons. This footage was made—never mind where—with the understanding that film credit would favor no one.”

  “If you’re lucky enough to catch your talent between pictures you might get away with it. But if your footage is worth working with, my boys will want screen credit. And I think they’re entitled to it.”

  I said that was reasonable enough. The technical crews were essential, and I was prepared to pay well. Particularly to keep their mouths closed until the print was ready for final release. Maybe even after that.

  “Before we go any further,” Johnson rose and reached for his hat, “let’s take a look at that print. I don’t know if we can—”

  I knew what he was thinking. Amateurs. Home movies. Feelthy peek-chures, mebbe?

  We got the reels out of the hotel safe and drove to his laboratory, out Sunset. The top was down on his convertible and Mike hoped audibly that Ruth would have sense enough to get sport shirts that didn’t itch.

  “Wife?” Johnson asked carelessly.

  “Secretary,�
� Mike answered just as casually. “We flew in last night and she’s out getting us some light clothes.” Johnson’s estimation of us rose visibly.

  A porter came out of the laboratory to carry the suitcase containing the film reels. It was a long, low building, with the offices at the front and the actual laboratories tapering off at the rear. Johnson took us in the side door and called for someone whose name we didn’t catch. The anonymous one was a projectionist who took the reels and disappeared into the back of the projection room. We sat for a minute in the soft easychairs until the projectionist buzzed ready. Johnson glanced at us and we nodded. He clicked a switch on the arm of his chair and the overhead lights went out. The picture started.

  It ran a hundred and ten minutes as it stood. We both watched Johnson like a cat at a rathole. When the tag end showed white on the screen he signaled with the chair-side buzzer for lights. They came on. He faced us.

  “Where did you get that print?”

  Mike grinned at him. “Can we do business?”

  “Do business?” He was vehement. “You bet your life we can do business. We’ll do the greatest business you ever saw!”

  The projection man came down. “Hey, that’s all right. Where’d you get it?”

  Mike looked at me. I said, “This isn’t to go any further.”

  Johnson looked at his man, who shrugged. “None of my business.”

  I dangled the hook. “That wasn’t made here. Never mind where.”

  Johnson rose and struck, hook, line and sinker. “Europe! Hm-m-m. Germany. No, France. Russia, maybe, Einstein, or Eisenstein, or whatever his name is?”

  I shook my head. “That doesn’t matter. The leads are all dead, or out of commission, but their heirs… well, you get what I mean.”

  Johnson saw what I meant. “Absolutely right. No point taking any chances. Where’s the rest—?”

  “Who knows? We were lucky to salvage that much. Can do?”

  “Can do.” He thought for a minute. “Get Bernstein in here. Better get Kessler and Marrs, too.” The projectionist left. In a few minutes Kessler, a heavy-set man, and Marrs, a young, nervous chain-smoker, came in with Bernstein, the sound man. We were introduced all around and Johnson asked if we minded sitting through another showing.

  “Nope. We like it better than you do.”

  Not quite. Kessler and Marrs and Bernstein, the minute the film was over, bombarded us with startled questions. We gave them the same answers we’d given Johnson. But we were pleased with the reception, and said so.

  Kessler grunted. “I’d like to know who was behind that camera. Best I’ve seen, by Cripes, since ‘Ben Hur.’ Better than ‘Ben Hur.’ The boy’s good.

  I grunted right back at him. “That’s the only thing I can tell you. The photography was done by the boys you’re talking to right now. Thanks for the kind word.”

  All four of them stared.

  Mike said, “That’s right.”

  “Hey, hey!” from Marrs. They all looked at us with new respect. It felt good.

  Johnson broke into the silence when it became awkward. “What’s next on the score card?”

  We got down to cases. Mike, as usual, was content to sit there with his eyes half closed, taking it all in, letting me do all the talking.

  “We want sound dubbed in all the way through.”

  “Pleasure,” said Bernstein.

  “At least a dozen, maybe more, of speaking actors with a close resemblance to the leads you’ve seen.”

  Johnson was confident. “Easy. Central Casting has everybody’s picture since the Year One.”

  “I know. We’ve already checked that. No trouble there. They’ll have to take the cash and let the credit go, for reasons I’ve already explained to Mr. Johnson.”

  A moan from Marrs. “I bet I get that job.”

  Johnson was snappish. “You do. What else?” to me.

  I didn’t know. “Except that we have no plans for distribution as yet. That will have to be worked out.”

  “Like falling off a log.” Johnson was happy about that. “One look at the rushes and United Artists would spit in Shakespeare’s eye.”

  Marrs came in. “What about the other shots? Got a writer lined up?”

  “We’ve got what will pass for the shooting script, or would have in a week or so. Want to go over it with us?”

  He’d like that.

  “How much time have we got?” interposed Kessler. “This is going to be a job. When do we want it?” Already it was “we.”

  “Yesterday is when we want it,” snapped Johnson, and he rose. “Any ideas about music? No? We’ll try for Werner Janssen and his boys. Bernstein, you’re responsible for that print from now on. Kessler, get your crew in and have a look at it. Marrs, you’ll go with Mr. Lefko and Mr. Laviada through the files at Central Casting at their convenience. Keep in touch with them at the Commodore. Now, if you’ll step into my office, we’ll discuss the financial arrangements—”

  As easy as all that.

  Oh, I don’t say that it was easy work or anything like that, because in the next few months we were playing Busy Bee. What with running down the only one registered at Central Casting who looked like Alexander himself, he turned out to be a young Armenian who had given up hope of ever being called from the extra lists and had gone home to Santee—casting and rehearsing the rest of the actors and swearing at the costumers and the boys who built the sets, we were kept hopping. Even Ruth, who had reconciled her father with soothing letters, for once earned her salary. We took turns shooting dictation at her until we had a script that satisfied Mike and myself and young Marrs, who turned out to be clever as a fox on dialogue.

  What I really meant is that it was easy, and immensely gratifying, to crack the shell of the tough boys who had seen epics and turkeys come and go. They were really impressed by what we had done. Kessler was disappointed when we refused to be bothered with photographing the rest of the film. We just batted our eyes and said that we were too busy, that we were perfectly confident that he would do as well as we could. He outdid himself, and us. I don’t know what we would have done if he had asked us for any concrete advice. I suppose, when I think it all over, that the boys we met and worked with were so tired of working with the usual mine-run Grade B’s, that they were glad to meet someone that knew the difference between glycerin tears and reality and didn’t care if it cost two dollars extra. They had us placed as a couple of city slickers with plenty on the ball. I hope.

  Finally it was all over with. We all sat in the projection room; Mike and I, Marrs and Johnson, Kessler and Bernstein, and all the lesser technicians that had split up the really enormous amount of work that had been done watched the finished product. It was terrific. Everyone had done his work well. When Alexander came on the screen, he was Alexander the Great. (The Armenian kid got a good bonus for that.) All that blazing color, all that wealth and magnificence and glamor seemed to flare right out of the screen and sear across your mind. Even Mike and I, who had seen the original, were on the edge of our seats.

  The sheer realism and magnitude of the battle scenes, I think, really made the picture. Gore, of course, is glorious when it’s all make-believe and the dead get up to go to lunch. But when Bill Mauldin sees a picture and sells a breathless article on the similarity of infantrymen of all ages—well, Mauldin knows what war is like. So did the infantrymen throughout the world who wrote letters comparing Alexander’s Arbela to Anzio and the Argonne. The weary peasant, not stolid at all, trudging and trudging into mile after mile of those dust-laden plains and ending as a stinking, naked, ripped corpse peeping under a mound of flies isn’t any different when he carries a sarissa instead of a rifle. That we’d tried to make obvious, and we succeeded.

  When the lights came up in the projection room we knew we had a winner. Individually we shook hands all around, proud as a bunch of penguins, and with chests out as far. The rest of the men filed out and we retired to Johnson’s office. He poured a drink all around and got
down to business.

  “How about releases?”

  I asked him what he thought.

  “Write your own ticket,” he shrugged. “I don’t know whether or not you know it, but the word has already gone around that you’ve got something.”

  I told him we’d had calls at the hotel from various sources, and named them.

  “See what I mean? I know those babies. Kiss them out if you want to keep your shirt. And while I’m at it, you owe us quite a bit. I suppose you’ve got it.”

  “We’ve got it.”

  “I was afraid you would. If you didn’t, I’d be the one that would have your shirt.” He grinned, but we all knew he meant it. “All right, that’s settled. Let’s talk about release.

  “There are two or three outfits around town that will want a crack at it. My boys will have the word spread around in no time; there’s no point in trying to keep them quiet any longer. I know—they’ll have sense enough not to talk about the things you want off the record. I’ll see to that. But you’re top dog right now. You got loose cash, you’ve got the biggest potential gross I’ve ever seen, and you don’t have to take the first offer. That’s important, in this game.”

  “How would you like to handle it yourself?”

  “I’d like to try. The outfit I’m thinking of needs a feature right now, and they don’t know I know it. They’ll pay and pay. What’s in it for me?”

  “That,” I said, “we can talk about later. And I think I know just what you’re thinking. We’ll take the usual terms and we don’t care if you hold up whoever you deal with. What we don’t know won’t hurt us.” That’s what he was thinking, all right. That’s a cutthroat game out there.

  “Good. Kessler, get your setup ready for duplication.”

  “Always ready.”

  “Marrs, start the ball rolling on publicity… what do you want to do about that?” to us.

  Mike and I had talked about that before. “As far as we’re concerned,” I said slowly, “do as you think best. Personal publicity, O.K. We won’t look for it, but we won’t dodge it. As far as that goes, we’re the local yokels making good. Soft pedal any questions about where the picture was made, without being too obvious. You’re going to have trouble when you talk about the nonexistent actors, but you ought to be able to figure out something.”