Delos 1 - Westworld
Page 6
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Martin’s face, equally aghast.
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Blane, spinning in a dervish dance, finally shakes the snake loose. Both men fire, blasting it. They look at Blane’s arm.
BLANE: Goddamn it!
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His forearm with two puncture marks.
MARTIN: Do you suppose it’s real?
BLANE: Hell no.
He goes over to the snake.
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The snake, dead. Through the bullet holes we can see the silver of machinery. Blane reaches down, opens the mouth. Metal teeth.
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Blane, angry now that his terror has worn off.
BLANE: That’s not supposed to happen.
MARTIN: Maybe it is. Maybe it’s part of the thing.
BLANE: The hell . . . stupid damned machine. (kicks snake) That’s not supposed to happen!
MARTIN (staring at snake): Well then, it’s clear.
BLANE: What is?
MARTIN: Our case. I mean, they are clearly liable for damages . . . The only question I would have is one of jurisdiction, which would influence where we brought the action, whether here or back in America. We probably ought to find out where the corporation is based, since that is potentially relevant. And of course, the extent of your damages.
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Central control room. The Supervisor is at a control console. The atmosphere is tense.
SUPERVISOR: When did it happen?
TECHNICIAN: About twenty minutes ago.
SUPERVISOR: The rattlesnake struck a guest?
TECHNICIAN: He was shooting and missed.
SUPERVISOR: Even so, the snakes are programmed never to hit on a strike. Was the guest injured?
TECHNICIAN: Minor puncture wounds.
SUPERVISOR: I don’t like it. It’s inexcusable to injure a guest. Pick up that snake for a total post at once. And check all the snake central mechanisms tonight during the repair period.
The Supervisor goes to a wall phone, dials. He frowns, dials again. The Aide watches. Finally the Supervisor hangs up in disgust.
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The Supervisor, in an electric cart, whizzing down a very long concrete tunnel. His face is grim.
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His view of the tunnel rushing past him.
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The cart going away from us, down the tunnel.
VOICE OVER: In each of our resorts, we have utilized technology . . .
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A conference room unlike any we’ve seen so far. It is plush, with rich carpets, heavy upholstered chairs, wood paneling. A man stands on a sort of stage and speaks. He wears a well-cut suit, and sounds and acts like a salesman, which is what he is. Next to him is a projector screen. Behind him, the drapes on the stage proper are drawn. On the screen, a complex resort groundplan is being projected.
SALESMAN: . . . to re-create past environments in human history. These were carefully chosen after extensive marketing research into communal fantasy. Eventually, we settled on the American West, Medieval Europe and Imperial Rome.
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The listening audience: heavyset men in expensive suits, thoughtful and skeptical. They are investors.
SALESMAN (over): In principle, it was like television or movies— except that you didn’t watch it, you participated in it. We believe that modern man, living in a civilized world . . .
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The Salesman.
SALESMAN: . . . needs to escape into fantasy—and in fact will pay willingly for the privilege . . . Thus, we created the greatest amusement park in history, with the help of our highly advanced robotic technology . . .
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The hillside area where Martin and Blane were sitting earlier. A little electric cart, like a futuristic golf cart, comes rumbling over a hill and stops. Two men in coveralls get out, walk to the snake. One man bends over to pick up the snake; there is a sputtering of sparks, and he yanks his hand away in alarm.
The other man goes back to the cart and returns with a pair of insulated tongs. With these, he picks up the writhing, sputtering snake, and drops it into a box. The cart drives off.
SALESMAN (voice over): But what of the future?
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The investor audience. The Supervisor, immediately noticeable in his white coat, enters the back of the room, pauses, and then goes to whisper into the ear of one of the men in the back.
SALESMAN (voice over): This is the theme of our fourth world, still under construction: Future World. Here we have used technology to create thrills that never have been, thrills of the future.
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The Salesman and the slide screen.
SALESMAN: Visitors will stay in an ultramodern resort complex here. The surrounding environment will be safe. There will be restaurants, casinos, and bordellos for both sexes, technologically advanced of course.
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The Supervisor whispering to the man in the back, who nods.
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SALESMAN: Outside the resort, the environment offers unpredictable weather—rains of plastic pellets, artificial quicksand, flashfloods of stinging acid—and exotic beasts roaming the countryside.
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The Supervisor conferring in whispers with one of the men in the back row.
SALESMAN (voice over): Now I mentioned exotic bordellos earlier, let me show you what I mean . . .
The Supervisor gets his instructions, nods, leaves.
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The Salesman, as a woman and a man are wheeled out onstage. They are both naked except for identical loincloths. Both are extraordinary looking, like the product of a black-white-Oriental union, and fiercely beautiful.
SALESMAN: Here are two prototypes of our most advanced product. You will notice that there is nothing realistic about them. They are unreal, and beautiful.
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An angle past the Salesman and the robots, out to the audience.
SALESMAN: The point here is that we are not trying to reproduce reality, but to exceed it. For instance, notice the external equipment on this robot . . .
He lifts the loincloth, and we see the audience’s reaction.
SALESMAN: . . . which is entirely unrealistic, but effective and stimulating. Internal vibratory mechanisms increase the effect.
He drops the loincloth and moves to the woman.
SALESMAN: Similarly, this female model is a technological triumph, with suction and torsion mechanisms.
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The Supervisor, driving away on his cart down the long concrete tunnel. The cart becomes very small, the whine dies.
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The autopsy room. A giant photomicrograph of electronic circuitry. We hear a buzz and a hiss over. The autopsy room; stark and simple and small; a table with a cluster of electronic equipment around it. The snake mechanism lies on the table. A man with a dissecting microscope peers down at it. Around and behind him, TV screens show images of the mechanism, the electronic circuitry, the computer test patterns. It is really a vision of machines probing machines. People look on and help out—there are, all together, three technicians in the room, and the Supervisor standing in the corner, watching quietly.
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A close shot of the opened snake belly.
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The technicians quietly exchanging technical comments, adjusting machinery, twisting dials, continuing their slow, careful probe of why the snake failed to operate correctly, as we see the Supervisor watching.
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The opened mouth of the snake as it lies on the board, being checked out. It is terrifyingly realistic, even now.
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The conference room we have previously seen, with the six men seated around the table.
SUPERVISOR THREE: Logic circuits on the snake simply failed to respond. There was no sign of mechanical damage or tampering and no clue to the malfunction.
SUPERVISOR TWO:
Central mechanism psychosis?
SUPERVISOR THREE: I am reporting what I found.
SUPERVISOR SIX: I feel we should shut down the resort for a month.
SUPERVISOR TWO: That seems rash.
SUPERVISOR THREE: The snake injured a guest. We can’t allow that to happen. Many elements of the Delos resort are potentially dangerous—that’s part of the appeal. If they should become truly dangerous . . .
SUPERVISOR FOUR: I agree, but we can announce the resort is overbooked, and not allow further new guests to arrive. I think we can take care of the ones already here.
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The banquet hall. A lavish banquet is in progress. As we pan in and out around the table, we see the King and Queen, the Knight-guest, and the court all enjoying themselves expansively. Then in our cutting, we begin to go back and forth between the Knight-guest and the Black Knight, immediately recognizable by his black clothes, black hair, black mustache and evil demeanor. These two are exchanging glances.
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Central conference room.
SUPERVISOR THREE: If we can’t insure the safety of the guests, we are going to be in desperate trouble.
SUPERVISOR FOUR: But we can insure their safety. Everything’s fine.
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Miss Carrie’s Saloon. A fight is in progress. We pick out Blane and Martin, both having a terrific time. They punch people with roundhouse swings; they shoot people from the upstairs balcony; they bop people with bottles. It is absolutely more fun than anything imaginable. We also see the Accountant, who is participating—glasses and all—and making a good show of himself punching out some tough-looking guys. Slowly, as we watch, the elegant Miss Carrie’s bordello is destroyed chair by chair, table by table, chandelier by chandelier, pane of glass by glass, bottle by bottle in an orgy of controlled destruction that finally leaves the place virtually unrecognizable.
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The robot-repair room, previously seen. The Supervisor, head bowed unhappily, walks among the robots being fixed. He stops by the Gunslinger. Two workmen are working on him.
One workman is refilling the robot with packets of artificial blood. Another is lifting off the Gunslinger’s face to expose machinery behind it.
SUPERVISOR: What’s his problem?
WORKMAN: Nothing. He got shot up today and we’re taking the opportunity to replace his visual cortex. Adding the new infra-red units. And we’re increasing audio sensitivity.
The Supervisor nods, goes on. Hold on the Gunslinger’s electronic jumble of a face.
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The face of the Peasant Girl we have previously seen. She is in a room of the castle, with the Knight-guest.
GIRL: You called for me, my lord?
KNIGHT: How long have you been in the palace, Daphne?
GIRL: Since I was three, my lord.
As they talk, the Knight steers her to the bed. They both sit on the edge of the bed.
KNIGHT: Charming . . .
The Knight runs out of medieval chatter, shifts to a more modern idiom.
KNIGHT: I think we ought to get to know each other better, Daphne.
GIRL: Better, my lord?
KNIGHT (leering): I can reward you well.
He leans over to kiss her. She complacently allows it. His hand reaches out for her breast. She squirms away.
GIRL: My lord . . .
KNIGHT: Daphne . . .
He grabs at her more roughly. And she slaps him on the face.
GIRL: My lord forgets himself.
The Knight is stunned, in more ways than one.
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Central control room, alive with activity.
TECHNICIAN: Problem with the girl. Program breakdown.
The Supervisor is in the room, walks over almost casually.
SUPERVISOR: What’s the trouble?
TECHNICIAN (punching buttons): One of the castle machines isn’t responding. Refusing a guest seduction.
SUPERVISOR: Refusing?
TECHNICIAN (correcting himself): Not responding to inputs.
SUPERVISOR: Get her out of there and report it to central repair.
The Supervisor makes a note.
TECHNICIAN: Yes, sir.
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The Knight’s room as the girl leaves, slamming the heavy door behind her. The Knight sits back on the bed, frowning in confusion. He lies back in the bed and—
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Robot-repair room. The naked feet of the Peasant Girl, on her back on a repair table. A half-dozen men in white cluster over her. The Supervisor is among them. They talk quietly, probing. Angle up at the cluster of men. Above them are a bank of lights, like operating-room lights. In fact, the whole situation is reminiscent of a surgical procedure.
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The girl opened up. Her machinery exposed, gleaming beneath the flesh of her outer covering.
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The Supervisor, as he turns away from the table, and walks off with an aide.
AIDE: They find the trouble?
SUPERVISOR: No apparent trouble.
AIDE: But she didn’t follow programming. She didn’t permit a guest seduction, and she’s a sex model.
SUPERVISOR: She certainly is.
They walk a moment in silence.
AIDE: Are they going to shut down, sir?
SUPERVISOR: No. The directors feel that shut-down now would hurt tourist confidence.
AIDE: Oh.
SUPERVISOR (almost to himself): I don’t like it.
The Aide nods dutifully. He glances up at a wall clock.
AIDE: Almost dawn now.
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Miss Carrie’s Saloon at dawn is demolished. Dead and exhausted bodies are slumped everywhere. Among them are Blane and Martin, snoring soundly. Martin wakes slowly, looks around.
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The Roman villa at dawn. In the yellowish light, the Middle-Aged Woman wakes on a couch. Two men lie alongside her. She looks at them, sleeping, and she giggles like a teenager, putting her hand to her mouth.
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The Knight’s room at dawn. The husband of the Middle-Aged Woman we have just seen, he is up and struggling to pull his tight-fitting clothes over his pauchy frame. It is comical. But finally he is dressed, and looks almost knightly. His massive stomach growls; he pats it, and sets off in search of:
KNIGHT: Breakfast.
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Martin struggling to his feet in Miss Carrie’s Saloon. He has a bad hangover. He reaches across the bar (supporting himself, too) and pours himself a shot, knocks it back, coughs, looks around. At his feet, Blane yawns, wakes slowly as Martin surveys the wreckage of the saloon, and the burgeoning day’s activity outside.
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The western street. The Gunslinger is seated in a chair on the boardwalk, squinting in the morning sun, indolently smoking a cigarette. From time to time he glances toward the saloon.
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The Knight walks down the castle corridor; his stomach growls again.
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The Knight walks down the steps of the banquet hall. There is still some food on the banquet-hall table from the previous night. He goes over and picks around, hungry. He is interrupted by the Black Knight.
BLACK KNIGHT: Hold, varlet!
KNIGHT: You talking to me?
BLACK KNIGHT: None other.
KNIGHT: Look, I’m hungry and—
The Black Knight sweeps the table in front of the Knight-guest with his sword, knocking aside goblets and plates. The two knights stare at each other.
BLACK KNIGHT: Prepare for thy doom, thou scurrilous knave.
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People looking up at the screen in central control, monitoring the progress of events. Rather bored here. One technician munches on bacon as he watches.
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The banquet hall.
BLACK KNIGHT: Have you no spine, varlet?
KNIGHT: Well, uh . . .
The Knight’s stomach growls aga
in. Then the Black Knight looks up, and sees the Queen coming down the steps partway, and stopping.
BLACK KNIGHT: Ah-hah!
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Central control as one technician intones monotonously:
TECHNICIAN: Full monitor . . . okay . . . let ’em go.
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The banquet hall as the Black Knight swings viciously with his sword, and the Knight ducks back, and plucks a handy sword from off the wall. The two men immediately begin a brutal fight, under the watchful eyes of the Queen.
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The control room as one technician says:
TECHNICIAN: Up gain five-three, we’re losing a little tolerance . . . bring me up . . . fine, good . . .
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A montage of several very loose shots of the medieval battle in progress.