Terrors (44 page)
Amy and Alex exchanged glances.
“I’m not so sure it is,” Amy said. “I don’t like the idea of you or Biff-O or anybody else tampering with my mind. And I’m sure Alex feels the same way.
Alex nodded. “Sure do.”
Cyndora shook her head slowly. “I don’t blame you for feeling that way. I wouldn’t want anybody tampering with my mind either. But this has been used time after time. It works perfectly,
and it doesn’t interfere with your free will or your recollections in any way.”
She smiled winsomely.
Amy said, “Except?”
Cyndora shot a glance at Biff, then said, “Except what? What do you mean?”
“I mean, there has to be an
except
, or you wouldn’t bother with all this.”
“Oh.” Cyndora gave Amy a very sincere look, turned and did the same to Alexander Ulianov. “Well except you can’t remember
what you’re working on. Actually, we usually give people a little cover story. People feel uncomfortable not knowing what they do all day, and if they’re not allowed to know what it is, we give them something else to
think
they’ve been working on.”
She shifted her position uncomfortably. “For instance, we might work out a little cover story for you two, for you and Alex here, that you were working
on, say, a whole new generation of ultra-high-tech food processors. You see? You’d actually believe it yourselves, in your off-duty hours. You could tell that to your friends and they’d believe it. Only, when you got to work each morning, thinking you were going to work on the new food-processor line, why, Biff or I or someone else would be waiting, and we’d just say the key words, and you’d
remember all about the instant-com project.”
Alex Ulianov said, “I wonder how many people are already working this way. Amy, you know Zipper Dornbauer down at the lab? He always says he’s working on an advanced pastry wisk product. But Macrotech doesn’t make pastry wisks. I’ve wondered about that. And
Magda di Gazzioli in advanced projects, says she’s reformulating basic cold Crayola x formulas.
She’s really enthusiastic about the project, always talks about it down at the corner saloon. But Macrotech doesn’t make crayons.”
Amy 2-3-4 al-Khnemu had been paying close attention to Alex’s words. Now she turned angrily back toward Biff and Cyndora. Before she could speak, Biff stood up.
The stupid, somewhat cloddish features on Biff Connaught’s face assumed a more animated character than
they usually showed. (Which, admittedly, was not very animated at that.)
Alexander Ulianov rose from his chair. He seemed for a fleeting moment totally unaware of the presence of Biff and Cyndora, seemed almost unaware of his surroundings. He looked at Amy 2-3-4 Al-Khnemu and said, “Hey, look at the hour! We’d better get to work or we’ll be in bad trouble. Those new infravibratory food-processors
have to hit the market in time for Escoffier’s Birthday!”
Amy 2-3-4 Al-Khnemu looked at her wrist chrono-tempo-meter and gasped. “You’re right! Let’s go!” She looked around and raised one hand to her face in surprise. “Captain Connaught! Dr. Vexmann! What –”
“Don’t worry about anything, little lady,” Biff grunted. “You and your pal got to get to work on your instant commo gadget.”
“Instant
commo?” Puzzlement spread on Amy’s face. “What are
you talking about? We’re assigned to the new food-processor line.”
Connaught laughed. “Right. But listen to this.” He grinned, then whispered softly, “Vera Hruba Ralston.”
Amy 2-3-4 Al-Khnemu and Alexander Ulianov both looked stunned. But the shock lasted only for a moment. Each of them seemed to stagger, to regain control, and then Ulianov
said, “Hey, look at the hour! We’d better get to work or we’ll be in bad trouble! Those new instantaneous communicators have to hit the market in time for Marconi’s Birthday!”
Amy 2-3-4 Al-Khnemu looked at her wrist chrono-tempo-meter and gasped. “You’re right! Let’s go!” She looked around and raised one hand to her face in surprise. “Captain Connaught! Dr. Vexmann! What –”
Don’t worry about
anything, little lady,” Biff grunted. “You and your pal got to get to work on your new food processor.”
“Food processor?” Puzzlement spread on Amy’s face. “What are you talking about? We’re assigned to the new instantaneous communicator line.”
Connaught laughed. “That’s right. I made a little mistake. Well, you two superbrains go about your superscientific work, hey? It’s too much for me, I’m
just a simple old cop trying to make a living. Ain’t that right, Dr. Vexmann?”
Cyndora said, “That’s right, Biff-O.”
Amy and Alex left the office and headed for their lab. Almost before the door had hissed shut behind them, Biff Connaught’s office sounded with the mingled laughter of a man and a woman.
While these events were transpiring in the offices and laboratories of the Macrotech Associates
Ell Tee Dee complex in
Dinganzicht
, and while the little shuttle
Clare Winger Harris
was bearing studio head Tarquin Armbruster IV and production chief Golda Abromowitz toward the triple sun Fornax 1382, events were continuing to move with
Starrett
.
In the city of New Chicago, for example, trade was brisk at Olde Doctor Christmas’s Booke and Brownie Shoppe. The proprietor, Will Lux, was having
one his best seasons ever.
In the Starrettian metropolis of Bombay VII on the western shore of the Muschelkalk Sea, Ponemperuna’s Pet Emporium had just closed for the day. Business in the pet trade was also excellent, and the Ponnemperuna family, Mohandis, Jitendra, and their beloved daughter Chitarhi, were preparing to sit down to a savoury dinner of dhal, curry, and ancient Bombay style bread.
In the state of Florid also, it was spring training season for the baseball clubs from “up north” (whatever that term might mean in a tincan world like
Starrett
). The New St. Louis Browns were training in the village of Bahia Mar, and the sensation of the camp was a fabulously talented kid catcher. The kid was knocking the cover off the ball, he had a rifle for an arm, and the way he moved behind
the plate, you’d think he had oiled machines for knees.
What was most remarkable about him was this. He wore his catcher’s mask all the time. Behind the plate, up at bat, in the locker room—everywhere! Nobody on the club had seen his face, and it was rumored that he had been hideously scarred in an accident, so nobody tried to peek. Who cared, as long as he could perform the way he did?
He wouldn’t
even give his name, but since they needed to call him
something
, he asked for a roster of long-retired New St. Louis Browns players. And since he was a catcher, the kid took the name of a mugg who had once played in a single game for the club. “Joe Nieman Junior, that’s my name,” he told the manager. “You can just call me Joe.”
The manager said, “Keep playing like that and I’ll call you anything
you like.”
And in Hollywood-between-the-Stars, they were still working on
The Dunwich Horror
, pending the return of Tarquin Armbruster IV and Golda Abromowitz with some new technology for the sequences involving the Whateley monsters.
One of the nice things about
Starrett
was its size—this was a
big
tincan world. Out at the Colossal Galactic property they had built a complete New England village
to provide scenery and backgrounds and sets for
The Dunwich Horror
. There were already rolling hillsides and green farmlands; it was a perfect place to make the flik.
Marvin van Buren MacTavish had left behind a final (or nearly final) script when he went with Tarquin Armbruster IV and Gold Abromowitz to the shuttleport. He saw them off on the
Clare Winger Harris
, then returned to “Dunwich” at
Colossal Galactic.
Golda Abromowitz had appointed a director and the director had hired a special effects crew, a camera crew, a set-decoration crew, a costumer, and all the rest of the people necessary for the production.
Gaza de Lure II, Nefertiti Logan, Rock Quartz, Roscoe Inelegante, and Karlos Karch were all rehearsed in their roles, and shooting had actually begun, under the careful supervision
and control of the director Golda Abromowitz had left in charge. That was Josephine Anne Jones, whose directorial credits included such successes as
Pirates of the Plains, The Haunted Garage
, and one X-rated hit (she did this one under a pseudonym, and you will
please
not tell anyone!),
The Garden of Shamballah
.
She had even worked from a Martin MacTavish script before, Marty’s early effort
Betelgeuse Beach Party
, a flik billed as “the universe’s first outer-space surfer spectacular.” The flik made money for years, selling over and over and over again wherever
Starrett
happened to visit.
At the very moment that Tarquin Armbruster IV and Golda Abromowitz, travelling in the
Clare Winger Harris
, hove into sight of Fornax 1382 and exclaimed with pleasure at the lighting effects that
the triple glare of Lemon, Lime, and Cherry produced inside their shuttle
ship … at this very moment the day’s shooting was about to begin on the set of
The Dunwich Horror
.
The scene they were shooting at Colossal Galactic that day was #237k on the master scene list. Josephine Anne Jones was present, dressed in puttees, cravat, beret, and long cigarette holder. (She was a traditionalist; she
even wore a monocle tied to the end of a ribbon, but never screwed it into her eye in public; she hadn’t mastered that trick and it embarrassed her to make the effort and fail.)
Martin van Buren MacTavish was also present, script-book in hand. He had not been pleased with his relationship with Josephine Anne Jones during
Betelgeuse Beach Party
and he was not happy to have her as director for
The Dunwich Horror
.
They were shooting indoors. The scene took place inside the Miskatonic University library. Karlos Karch, as Wilbur Whateley, was decked out in fright-wig, putty nose, plenty of paint and distorters for his face, and even temporarily modified hands. He wore a slouch hat pulled down over his forehead. It was a triumph of costume and camera angle: it would give the illusion that
Wilbur’s face was hidden from view while actually affording the audience a thorough examination of Wilbur’s frightening and distorted features.
And Wilbur, naturally, wore his customary ankle-length overcoat.
Gaza de Lure II, as Sally Sawyer, had been written into a new task, that of managing librarian for Miskatonic University.
Gaza was a throwback to an old earth type of beauty. She was slim
and fragile looking. She couldn’t have weighed more than four kilograms and she was barely 1.6 meters tall. She had softly flowing pale blonde hair and eyes of a deep yet brilliant emerald hue that were famous on a gross of planets.
One holoflik historian had traced through prints of ancient fliks and stills from even more ancient ones, and had found an amazing prototype or avatar for Gaza, an
antique toodee film actress named Veronica Lake. If you can’t find a holo of Gaza de Lure II, see if you can turn up a toodee print of Veronica Lake or one of her films [that’s what they were called, “films,” or sometimes (I don’t know why) “moompichas”] and you’ll see what this is all about. Be prepared to fall in love.
Well, there they were on the library set. Wilbur Whateley (Karlos Karch)
shambled up to the checkout desk.
Sally Sawyer (Gaza de Lure II) greeted him. Her face showed an amalgam of horror, fear, and disgust.
Wilbur, in his strange, guttural tones, spoke to Sally. “There is a book I must have. It is a very rare, very old book.”
Although Karlos in his natural speech was a most articulate and pleasant-spoken man, he adopted a very different voice as Wilbur Whateley.
It was a combination gasp, hiss, and throaty groan.
“The author of this book is a mad Arab named Abdul. Abdul al-Hazred.”
The multisense receptors on the flik camera picked up a foetid odor of ancient alienness as Wilbur spoke.
“I know the book you mean, sir,” Sally said. “I’m afraid it can’t be taken out of the library. If you would like to use it here, we have a special room with armed guards,
heavy locks, and thickly armored walls, where you may be permitted to use the book for a limited period of tiktox.”
“That will do,” Wilbur hissed. “That will have to do. Please show me to the locked chamber. Please fetch the book for me at once.”
The camera showed Wilbur’s hairy, distorted hands writhing as with a life of their own.
Josephine Anne Jones yelled, “Cut!”
The set-lights dimmed
back, the camera ground to a halt. “That looks pretty good.” Josephine gestured to the camera op. “Let’s take a quick peek at what we’ve got.”
Even before she could see the rush, Marty MacTavish was standing before her, jumping up and down. “It isn’t right,” MacTavish yelled, “you changed the dialog! You’re wrecking my script again, just like you did on
Betelgeuse Beach Party!
”
“I’m in charge
here,” Josephine Anne Jones said. “Keep quiet or I’ll bar you from the set MacTavish.”
“You can’t do this to me! I’ll talk to Golda about this! I’ll talk to Tarquin! I’ll blow the lid off
The Garden of
–”
“Shut up,” Josephine hissed. “Mention that topic once more and I swear, I’ll let a contract and have you killed. I mean it, MacTavish. I’ll do what I say.”
Marty backed away a step. He burst
into a cold sweat. “You would, too, wouldn’t you?”
Josephine Anne Jones merely nodded. She stood up and said, “Okay, everybody. Tea break, then 237b. Nobody leave the set, please.”
After tea they started on 237b. That was the scene of Wilbur trying to smuggle the book out of the Miskatonic University library by concealing
it under his overcoat. Being Wilbur Whateley, he’d have his hands free
because he could hang onto the book with some of those tentacles and other bizarre appendages he possessed.
Josephine Anne Jones settled in her director’s chair, ordered the actors to their places, and uttered the time-honored cry: “Lights! Camera! Action!”
