“He also realised that he could now dispense with Yvonne, if he so wished. This raised implications that would require further thought. Much further thought.
“You will, of course, appreciate that I am giving you a highly condensed account of events. While all this was going on, Georges was still working as a loyal employee of the Professor, who suspected nothing. As yet, indeed, Georges had done little more than any research worker might have in similar circumstances. His performances had been somewhat beyond the call of duty, but could all be explained away if need be.
“The next step would involve some very delicate negotiations and the expenditure of further hard-won francs. Georges now had all the material he needed to prove, beyond a shadow of doubt, that he was handling a very valuable commercial property. There were shrewd businessmen in Paris who would jump at the opportunity. Yet a certain delicacy, for which we must give him full credit, restrained Georges from using his second—er—recording as a sample of the wares his machine could purvey. There was no way of disguising the personalities involved, and Georges was a modest man. ‘Besides,’ he argued, again with great good sense, ‘when the gramophone company wished to make a disque, it does not enregister the performance of some amateur musician. That is a matter for professionals. And so, ma foi, is this.’ Whereupon, after a further call at his bank, he set forth again for Paris.
“He did not go anywhere near the Place Pigalle, because that was full of Americans and prices were accordingly exorbitant. Instead, a few discreet enquiries and some understanding cab-drivers took him to an almost oppressively respectable suburb, where he presently found himself in a pleasant waiting room, by no means as exotic as might have been supposed.
“And there, somewhat embarrassed, Georges explained his mission to a formidable lady whose age one could have no more guessed than her profession. Used though she was to unorthodox requests, this was something she had never encountered in all her considerable experience. But the customer was always right, as long as he had the cash, and so in due course everything was arranged. One of the young ladies and her boy friend, an apache of somewhat overwhelming masculinity, travelled back with Georges to the provinces. At first they were, naturally, somewhat suspicious, but as Georges had already found, no expert can ever resist flattery. Soon they were all on excellent terms. Hercule and Susette promised Georges that they would give him every cause for satisfaction.
“No doubt some of you would be glad to have further details, but you can scarcely expect me to supply them. All I can say is that Georges—or rather his instrument—was kept very busy, and that by the morning little of the recording material was left unused. For it seems that Hercule was indeed appropriately named.…
“When this piquant episode was finished, Georges had very little money left, but he did possess two recordings that were quite beyond price. Once more he set off to Paris, where, with practically no trouble, he came to terms with some businessmen who were so astonished that they gave him a very generous contract before coming to their senses. I am pleased to report this, because so often the scientist emerges second best in his dealings with the world of finance. I’m equally pleased to record that Georges had made provision for Professor Julian in the contract. You may say cynically that it was, after all, the Professor’s invention, and that sooner or later Georges would have had to square him. But I like to think that there was more to it than that.
“The full details of the scheme for exploiting the device are, of course, unknown to me. I gather that Georges had been expansively eloquent—not that much eloquence was needed to convince anyone who had once experienced one or both of his play-backs. The market would be enormous, unlimited. The export trade alone could put France on her feet again and would wipe out her dollar deficit overnight—once certain snags had been overcome. Everything would have to be managed through somewhat clandestine channels, for think of the hub-bub from the hypocritical Anglo-saxons when they discovered just what was being imported into their countries. The Mother’s Union, The Daughters of the American Revolution, The Housewives League, and all the religious organisations would rise as one. The lawyers were looking into the matter very carefully, and as far as could be seen the regulations that still excluded Tropic of Capricorn from the mails of the English-speaking countries could not be applied to this case—for the simple reason that no-one had thought of it. But there would be such a shout for new laws that Parliament and Congress would have to do something, so it was best to keep under cover as long as possible.
“In fact, as one of the directors pointed out, if the recordings were banned, so much the better. They could make much more money on a smaller output, because the price would promptly soar and all the vigilance of the Customs Officials couldn’t block every leak. It would be Prohibition all over again.
“You will scarcely be surprised to hear that by this time Georges had somewhat lost interest in the gastronomical angle. It was an interesting but definitely minor possibility of the invention. Indeed, this had been tacitly admitted by the directors as they drew up the articles of association, for they had included the pleasures of the cuisine among ‘subsidiary rights’.
“Georges returned home with his head in the clouds, and a substantial check in his pocket. A charming fancy had struck his imagination. He thought of all the trouble to which the gramophone companies had gone so that the world might have the complete recordings of the Forty-eight Preludes and Fugues or the Nine Symphonies. Well, his new company would put out a complete and definite set of recordings, performed by experts versed in the most esoteric knowledge of East and West. How many opus numbers would be required? That, of course, had been a subject of profound debate for some thousands of years. The Hindu text-books, Georges had heard, got well into three figures. It would be a most interesting research, combining profit with pleasure in an unexampled manner.… He had already begun some preliminary studies, using treatises which even in Paris were none too easy to obtain.
“If you think that while all this was going on, Georges had neglected his usual interests, you are all too right. He was working literally night and day, for he had not yet revealed his plans to the Professor and almost everything had to be done when the lab was closed. And one of the interests he had had to neglect was Yvonne.
“Her curiosity had already been aroused, as any girl’s would have been. But now she was more than intrigued—she was distracted. For Georges had become so remote and cold. He was no longer in love with her.
“It was a result that might have been anticipated. Publicans have to guard against the danger of sampling their own wares too often—I’m sure you don’t, Drew—and Georges had fallen into this seductive trap. He had been through that recording too many times, with somewhat debilitating results. Moreover, poor Yvonne was not to be compared with the experienced and talented Susette. It was the old story of the professional versus the amateur.
“All that Yvonne knew was that Georges was in love with someone else. That was true enough. She suspected that he had been unfaithful to her. And that raises profound philosophical questions we can hardly go into here.
“This being France, in case you had forgotten, the outcome was inevitable. Poor Georges! He was working late one night at the lab, as usual, when Yvonne finished him off with one of those ridiculous ornamental pistols which are de rigeur for such occasions. Let us drink to his memory.”
“That’s the trouble with all your stories,” said John Beynon. “You tell us about wonderful inventions, and then at the end it turns out that the discoverer was killed, so no-one can do anything about it. For I suppose, as usual, the apparatus was destroyed?”
“But no,” replied Purvis. “Apart from Georges, this is one of the stories that has a happy ending. There was no trouble at all about Yvonne, of course. Georges’ grieving sponsors arrived on the scene with great speed and prevented any adverse publicity. Being men of sentiment as well as men of business, they realised that they would have to secure Yvonne’s
freedom. They promptly did this by playing the recording to le Maire and le Préfet, thus convincing them that the poor girl had experienced irresistible provocation. A few shares in the new company clinched the deal, with expressions of the utmost cordiality on both sides. Yvonne even got her gun back.”
“Then when—” began someone else.
“Ah, these things take time. There’s the question of mass production, you know. It’s quite possible that distribution has already commenced through private—very private—channels. Some of those dubious little shops and notice boards around Leicester Square may soon start giving hints.”
“Of course,” said the New England voice disrespectfully, “you wouldn’t know the name of the company.”
You can’t help admiring Purvis at times like this. He scarcely hesitated.
“Le Société Anonyme d’Aphrodite,” he replied. “And I’ve just remembered something that will cheer you up. They hope to get round your sticky mails regulations and establish themselves before the inevitable congressional enquiry starts. They’re opening up a branch in Nevada: apparently you can still get away with anything there.” He raised his glass.
“To Georges Dupin,” he said solemnly. “Martyr to science. Remember him when the fireworks start. And one other thing—”
“Yes?” we all asked.
“Better start saving now. And sell your TV sets before the bottom drops out of the market.”
Armaments Race
As I’ve remarked on previous occasions, no-one has ever succeeded in pinning-down Harry Purvis, prize raconteur of the “White Hart,” for any length of time. Of his scientific knowledge there can be no doubt—but where did he pick it up? And what justification is there for the terms of familiarity with which he speaks of so many Fellows of the Royal Society? There are, it must be admitted, many who do not believe a single word he says. That, I feel, is going a little too far, as I recently remarked somewhat forcibly to Bill Temple.
“You’re always gunning for Harry,” I said, “but you must admit that he provides entertainment. And that’s more than most of us can say.”
“If you’re being personal,” retorted Bill, still rankling over the fact that some perfectly serious stories had just been returned by an American editor on the grounds that they hadn’t made him laugh, “step outside and say that again.” He glanced through the window, noticed that it was still snowing hard, and hastily added, “not today, then, but maybe sometime in the summer, if we’re both here on the Wednesday that catches it. Have another of your favourite shots of straight pineapple juice?”
“Thanks,” I said. “One day I’ll ask for a gin with it, just to shake you. I think I must be the only guy in the White Hart who can take it or leave it—and leaves it.”
This was as far as the conversation got, because the subject of the discussion then arrived. Normally, this would merely have added fuel to the controversy, but as Harry had a stranger with him we decided to be polite little boys.
“Hello, folks,” said Harry. “Meet my friend Solly Blumberg. Best special effects man in Hollywood.”
“Let’s be accurate, Harry,” said Mr. Blumberg sadly, in a voice that should have belonged to a whipped spaniel. “Not in Hollywood. Out of Hollywood.”
Harry waved the correction aside.
“All the better for you. Sol’s come over here to apply his talents to the British film industry.”
“There is a British film industry?” said Solly anxiously. “No-one seemed very sure round the studio.”
“Sure there is. It’s in a very flourishing condition, too. The Government piles on an entertainment tax that drives it to bankruptcy, then keeps it alive with whacking big grants. That’s the way we do things in this country. Hey, Drew, where’s the Visitor’s Book? And a double for both of us. Solly’s had a terrible time—he needs a bit of building up.”
I cannot say that, apart from his hang-dog look, Mr. Blumberg had the appearance of a man who had suffered extreme hardships. He was neatly dressed in a Hart, Schaffner and Marx suit, and the points of his shirt collar buttoned down somewhere around the middle of his chest. That was thoughtful of them as they thus concealed something, but not enough, of his tie. I wondered what the trouble was. Not Un-American activities again, I prayed: that would trigger off our pet communist, who at the moment was peaceably studying a chess-board in the corner.
We all made sympathetic noises and John said rather pointedly: “Maybe it’ll help to get it off your chest. It will be such a change to hear someone else talking around here.”
“Don’t be so modest, John,” cut in Harry promptly. “I’m not tired of hearing you yet. But I doubt if Solly feels much like going through it again. Do you, old man?”
“No,” said Mr. Blumberg. “You tell them.”
(“I knew it would come to that,” sighed John in my ear.)
“Where shall I begin?” asked Harry. “The time Lillian Ross came to interview you?”
“Anywhere but there,” shuddered Solly. “It really started when we were making the first ‘Captain Zoom’ serial.”
“‘Captain Zoom’?” said someone ominously. “Those are two very rude words in this place. Don’t say you were responsible for that unspeakable rubbish!”
“Now boys!” put in Harry in his best oil-on-troubled-waters voice. “Don’t be too harsh. We can’t apply our own high standards of criticism to everything. And people have got to earn a living. Besides, millions of kids like Captain Zoom. Surely you wouldn’t want to break their little hearts—and so near Xmas, too!”
“If they really liked Captain Zoom, I’d rather break their little necks.”
“Such unseasonable sentiments! I really must apologise for some of my compatriots, Solly. Let’s see, what was the name of the first serial?”
“‘Captain Zoom and the Menace from Mars.’”
“Ah yes, that’s right. Incidentally, I wonder why we always are menaced by Mars? I suppose that man Wells started it. One day we may have a big interplanetary libel action on our hands—unless we can prove that the Martians have been equally rude about us.
“I’m very glad to say that I never saw ‘Menace From Mars.’ (“I did,” moaned somebody in the background. “I’m still trying to forget it.”)—but we are not concerned with the story, such as it was. That was written by three men in a bar on Wilshire Boulevard. No-one is sure whether the Menace came out the way it did because the script writers were drunk, or whether they had to keep drunk in order to face the Menace. If that’s confusing, don’t bother. All that Solly was concerned with were the special effects that the director demanded.
“First of all, he had to build Mars. To do this he spent half an hour with ‘The Conquest of Space,’ and then emerged with a sketch which the carpenters turned into an over-ripe orange floating in nothingness, with an improbable number of stars around it. That was easy. The Martian cities weren’t so simple. You try and think of completely alien architecture that still makes sense. I doubt if it’s possible—if it will work at all, someone’s already used it here on Earth. What the studio finally built was vaguely Byzantine with touches of Frank Lloyd Wright. The fact that none of the doors led anywhere didn’t really matter, as long as there was enough room on the sets for the swordplay and general acrobatics that the script demanded.
“Yes—swordplay. Here was a civilisation which had atomic power, death-rays, spaceships, television and such-like modern conveniences, but when it came to a fight between Captain Zoom and the evil Emperor Klugg, the clock went back a couple of centuries. A lot of soldiers stood round holding deadly-looking ray-guns, but they never did anything with them. Well, hardly ever. Sometimes a shower of sparks would chase Captain Zoom and singe his pants, but that was all. I suppose that as the rays couldn’t very well move faster than light, he could always outrun them.
“Still, those ornamental ray-guns gave everyone quite a few headaches. It’s funny how Hollywood will spend endless trouble on some minute detail in a film whi
ch is complete rubbish. The director of Captain Zoom had a thing about ray-guns. Solly designed the Mark I, that looked like a cross between a bazooka and a blunder-bus. He was quite satisfied with it, and so was the director—for about a day. And then the great man came raging into the studio carrying a revolting creation of purple plastic with knobs and lenses and levers.
“‘Lookit this, Solly!’ he puffed. ‘Junior got it down at the Supermarket—they’re being given away with packets of Crunch. Collect ten lids, and you get one. Hell, they’re better than ours! And they work!’
“He pressed a lever, and a thin stream of water shot across the set and disappeared behind Captain Zoom’s spaceship, where it promptly extinguished a cigaret that had no right to be burning there. An angry stage-hand emerged through the airlock, saw who it was had drenched him, and swiftly retreated, muttering things about his Union.
“Solly examined the ray-gun with annoyance and yet with an expert’s discrimination. Yes, it was certainly much more impressive than anything he’d put out. He retired into his office and promised to see what he could do about it.
“The Mark II had everything built into it, including a television screen. If Captain Zoom was suddenly confronted by a charging hickoderm, all he had to do was to switch on the set, wait for the tubes to warm up, check the channel selector, adjust the fine tuning, touch up the focus, twiddle with the Line and Frame holds—and then press the trigger. He was, fortunately, a man of unbelievably swift reactions.
“The director was impressed, and the Mark II went into production. A slightly different model, the Mark IIa, was built for the Emperor Klugg’s diabolical cohorts. It would never do, of course, if both sides had the same weapon. I told you that Pandemic Productions were sticklers for accuracy.
“All went well until the first rushes, and even beyond. While the cast was acting, if you can use that word, they had to point the guns and press the triggers as if something was really happening. The sparks and flashes, however, were put on the negative later by two little men in a darkroom about as well guarded as Fort Knox. They did a good job, but after a while the producer again felt twinges in his overdeveloped artistic conscience.
Tales from the White Hart (Arthur C. Clarke Collection: Short Stories) Page 4