"Not bad," said Gladhand.
The scene progressed, and it developed that Phebe had now fallen in love with Rosalind, who was to be, in the actual performance, disguised as a man. Needlessly complicated, Thomas thought. And it just wasn't credible that Rosalind's disguise could be as convincing as the plot demanded.
"Hold it, Rosalind," Gladhand interrupted. "Do that last line again, but look at Phebe when you say it. You were looking out here at us."
Pat nodded and repeated the line, this time her eyes directed at Phebe: "I pray you, do not fall in love with me, for I am falser than vows made in wine."
"That's more like it," the theater manager nodded.
At five o'clock they had run through the scene several times—with Pat looking at her script only once or twice the last time—and had begun work on the first scene of act four. Thomas, sitting with his feet on the back of the seat in front of him, was relieved to hear the five distant notes of the city-hall clock.
"That's plenty for today," Gladhand said, struggling up onto his crutches. "I'm feeling more optimistic about the damned play now than I have in a week. I think you're all beginning to relax."
Most of the lights were extinguished, and the actors broke up into groups and wandered offstage. Thomas tried to intercept Pat, but she was talking and laughing with Alice and didn't see him. Jeff was sliding the plywood flats back into the wings, and Thomas waved to him. "Jeff!" he called. "How does one get dinner around here?"
"One follows the east hall"—Jeff pointed—"all the way to the back. There's a dining room."
"Much obliged."
Thomas followed the stragglers down the hall and wound up sitting at a long wooden table, wedged between Lambert and the woman who'd brought him coffee this morning. Pat, he noticed with a hollow, despairing sensation, was sitting next to Negri, who was performing some trick with his fork and spoon for her amusement.
"You're Rufus?" the woman by Thomas's side asked.
"That's right."
"I'm Skooney," she said. "Here, have some of this stew. Greg, pass the pitcher, Rufus didn't get any beer."
"Thank you," Thomas said automatically, his attention focused on Pat and Negri.
"I'm the gaffer," Skooney explained.
Reluctantly Thomas turned to her. "The what?" He had thought gaffers worked on fishing boats.
"I'm in charge of the lights. Did you know we've got some real electric lights? Gladhand set up a generator out back. There are only two other theaters in the whole L.A. area that have electric lights."
"Well," said Thomas, "I'm glad I'm starting out at the top." He took a deep drink of beer and set to work on the stew, still casting occasional furtive glances down the table.
A little later Spencer wandered through the room and leaned over Thomas's shoulder. "Meet me on the roof when you're finished," he whispered, filling a spare glass with beer. Thomas nodded and Spencer, after exchanging a few rudely humorous insults with Alice, left the room.
Beneath the high, cold splendor of the stars, the winking yellow lights of Los Angeles appeared friendly and protective, like a night-light in a child's bedroom. From the streets below, there echoed from time to time the rattle of a passing cart, or the long-drawn-out call of a mother summoning her children.
Spencer flicked his cigarette out over the street when he heard footsteps on the stairs.
"Is that you, Rufus?"
"Yeah. What a view." The Santa Ana wind was still sighing its warm breath from the east, and Thomas removed his co?t.
"Listen, I was talking to Evelyn today, and I asked her if they'd caught this escaped monk, Thomas."
"What did she say?" Thomas had the sinking feeling of one who's been reminded of a lingering disease.
"She says they're looking for him day and night. They're not even looking for the guys who bombed Pelias as hard as they're looking for you. No charges have been mentioned, though." Spencer lit another cigarette. "Are you sure you haven't forgotten something? Something you saw or heard, maybe?"
Thomas shook his head helplessly. "There's some mistake," he said. "Maybe some other monk named Thomas ran off from some other monastery on the same day I did."
Spencer inhaled deeply on his cigarette, then let the smoke hiss out between his teeth. "They said the Merignac, remember?"
A deep, window-rattling boom shook the roof, and part of a building several blocks away collapsed into the street. Flames began licking up from the rubble.
"The rent on that place just went down, I believe," Spencer said.
Thomas could see, silhouetted by the mounting flames, people appearing on the surrounding roofs, waving their arms and dashing about aimlessly.
"What was that building?" Thomas asked, leaning on the coping and staring at the conflagration.
"Oh, a city office bombed by radicals," Spencer answered, "or a radicals' den bombed by city officers. I just hope the fire doesn't spread too far. Do you hear any bells?"
Thomas listened. "No."
"Neither do I. The fire trucks aren't out yet. If they appear within the next couple of minutes, we'll know it was some administrator's house or office. If it was a troublesome citizen's house they probably won't get there before dawn."
They watched without speaking. Five minutes later they'd been silently joined by five other members of the troupe, but no fire trucks had put in an appearance at the scene of the fire.
"Maybe we ought to organize a group to go help put it out," someone suggested. "If it spreads to the buildings next to it the whole city'll go up."
"No," said Negri. "They've got it under control. When the roof collapsed it killed most of it. See? The whole thing's darker now. The only stuff burning now is what fell in the street."
"We'll have to read about it in the Greeter tomorrow," Thomas said. "Find out what happened." Everyone laughed, and Thomas realized his statement had been taken as a joke.
"Did you see the damned paper this morning?" Jeff asked him. "You know what the headline was? Pelias has been bombed, you know, and the androids are running amok, right? So here's the headline: all-time HIGH FROG COUNT IN SAN GABRIEL VALLEY."
"They're right on top of things," Thomas observed. The fire really was dimmer now, and the actors moved away from the roof edge.
"You bet," Jeff agreed.
"I read that," Spencer said. "Apparently the summer wasn't as hot as it usually is, so the Ravenna swamps didn't dry up this year. The frogs didn't all die, like they usually do—they just sat around and multiplied all year long, so now the valley's choked with 'em. I was thinking that some enterprising businessman should drive up there and pack a few tons of frogs in ice, and run them down to Downey or Norwalk and sell them for food."
"You're a born wheeler-dealer, Spence," said Alice with a laugh.
Thomas spied Pat still standing by the coping, watching the diminishing fire. He walked over and leaned on the wall next to her. She was sniffling and wiping her nose with a handkerchief.
"You aren't catching my cold, are you?" he asked.
She sneezed. "No," she answered.
"Hey," came a jovial voice, and Negri interposed himself between Thomas and Pat. "Running off with my girl, are you Rufus? Come on, Patsy, I want you to meet some people." He put his arm around her shoulders and led her back toward the rest of the group.
For a moment Thomas stared after them, and then strode angrily toward the stairs.
"Rufus." Thomas stopped. Gladhand had climbed the stairs somehow, crutches and all, and now sat in a wicker chair in the far shadows. "Come here a moment," the theater manager said.