It’s the best movie Hollywood ever made. It has everything: golden temple, elephants, cavalry charges, real heroes. They don’t make movies like that any more. Can’t.
—They must have it on the Late Show every week—
No, it’s been months since they showed it. I check TV Guide every week to make sure.
Charlie looks a little surprised, startled. Just like Higgenbottom when Cary Grant dropped that kilted Scottie corporal out the window.
I’ll bet I’ve seen that movie thirty times, at least. I know every line of it, just about. They cut it terribly on television. Next time there’s a Cary Grant film festival in New York I’m going down to see it. All of it. Without cuts.
Charlie says nothing.
We inch along, crawling down the Drive as slowly as the waterboy himself. I can see him, old Sam Jaffe all blacked over, heavy goatskin waterbag pulling one shoulder down, twisting his whole skinny body. White turban, white breechcloth. Staggering down the grassy walk alongside the Drive, keeping pace with us. If they made the movie now, they’d have to use a real Negro for the part. Or an Indian. For the guru’s part, too. No Eduardo Cianelli.
We turn off at the lab. There are guards at the gates and more guards standing around in the parking lot. The lab building is white and square and looming, like Army headquarters—an oasis of science and civilization in the midst of the Cambridge slum jungles.
Even in uniform the guards look sloppy. They ought to take more pride in themselves. We drive past them slowly, like the colonel reviewing the regiment. The regimental band is playing Bonnie Charlie. The wind is coming down crisply off the mountains, making all the pennants flutter.
—Stockholders’ meeting today. They’re worried about some of these student protesters kicking up a rumpus.—
McLaglen would straighten them out. That’s what they need, a tough sergeant major.
This time Charlie really looks sour.
—McLaglen! You’d better come back into the real world. It’s going to be a long day.—
For you, I say to myself. Accountant, paper shuffler. Money juggler. The stockholders will be after you. Not me. They don’t care what I do, as long as it makes money. They don’t care who it kills, as long as it works right and puts numbers in the right columns of your balance sheets.
The air-conditioning in my office howls like a wind tunnel. It’s too cold. Be nice to have one of those big lazy fans up on the ceiling.
—Got a minute?—
Come on in, Elmer. What’s the matter, something go wrong downstairs?
—Naw, the lab’s fine. Everything almost set up for the final series. Just got to calibrate the spectrometer.—
But something’s bothering you.
—I was wondering if I could have some time off to attend the stockholders’ meeting—
Today? I didn’t know you were a stockholder.
—Five shares.—
He’s black. He’s always seemed like a good lab technician, a reasonable man. But could he be one of them?
—I never been to a stockholders’ meeting.—
Oh sure. You can go. But… we’re not allowed to talk about PMD. Understand?
—Yeah, I know.—
Not that it’s anything we’re ashamed of—military security.
—Yeah, I know.—
Good military form. Good regimental attitude. We’ve got to stand together against the darkness.
Elmer nods as he leaves, but I don’t think he really understands. When the time comes, when the Thugees rise in rebellion, which side will he join?
I wonder how I’d look in uniform? With one of those stiff collars and a sergeant’s stripes on my sleeves. I’m about as tall as Grant, almost. Don’t have his shoulders, though. And this flabby middle—ought to exercise more.
Through my office window I can see the world’s ugliest water tower, one of Cambridge’s distinguishing landmarks. Mountains, that’s what should be out there. The solid rock walls of the Himalayas. And the temple of gold is tucked in them somewhere. Pure gold! Din was telling the truth. It’s all gold. And I’m stuck here, like Cary Grant in the stockade. Get me out of here, Din. Get me out.
—Please, sahib, don’t take away bugle. Bugle only joy for poor bhisti.—
He only wants to be one of us. Wants to be a soldier, like the rest of us. A bugler. McLaglen would laugh at him. Fairbanks would be sympathetic. Let him keep the bugle. He’s going to need it.
—Tonight, when everyone sleeping. I go back to temple.—
Not now, Din. Not now. Got some soldiering to do. Down in the lab. Test out the new batch of PMD. A soldier’s got to do his duty.
The phone. Don’t answer it. It’s only some civilian who wants to make trouble. Leave it ringing and get down to the lab. Wife, sister, mother, they’re all alike. Yes, I’m a man, but I’m a soldier first. You don’t want a man, you want a coward who’d run out on his friends. Well, that’s not me and never was… No, wait—that’s Fairbanks’ speech. He’s Ballantine. And who was the girl? Olivia de Haviland or her sister?
The halls are crawling with stockholders. Fat and old. Civilians. Visiting the frontier, inspecting the troops. We’re the only thing standing between you and the darkness, but you don’t know it. Or if you do, you wouldn’t dare admit it.
The lab’s always cold as ice. Got to keep it chilled down. If even a whiff of PMD gets out…
Elmer, hey, why isn’t the spectrometer ready to go?
—You said I could go to the stockholders’ meeting.—
Yes, but we’ve still got work to do. When does the meeting start?
—Ten sharp.—
Well, we’ve still got lots of time…
—It’s ten of ten.—
What? Can’t be… Is that clock right?
—Yep.—
He wouldn’t have tampered with the clock; stop being so suspicious. O.K., go on to the meeting. I’ll set it up myself.
—O.K., thanks.—
But I’m not by myself, of course. Good old grinnin’ gruntin’ Gunga Din. You lazarushin leather Gunga Din. He’s not much help, naturally. What does an actor know about biochemistry? But he talks, and I talk, and the work gets done.
—Satisfactory, sahib?—
Very regimental, Din. Very regimental.
He glows with pride. White teeth against black skin. He’ll die for us. They’ll kill him, up there atop the temple of gold. The Thugees, the wild ones. The cult of death, worshippers of heathen idols. Kali, the goddess of blood.
Up to the roof for lunch. The stockholders are using the cafeteria. Let them. It’s better up here, alone. Get the sun into your skin. Let the heat sink in and the glare dazzle your eyes.
My god, there they are! The heathens, the Thugees. Swarms of them grumbling outside the gate. Dirty, unkempt. Stranglers and murderers. Already our graves are dug. Their leader, he’s too young to be Cianelli. And he’s bearded; the guru should be clean-shaven. The guards look scared.
He’s got a bullhorn. He’s black enough to be the guru, all right. What’s he telling the crowd? I know what he’s saying, even though he tries to disguise the words. Cianelli didn’t hide it, he said it straight out: Kill lest you be killed yourselves. Kill for the love of killing. Kill for the love of Kali. Kill! Kill! Kill!
They howl and rush the gate. The guards are bowled over. Not a chance for them. The swarming heathen boil across the parking lot and right into the lab building itself. They’re all over the place. Savages. I can smell smoke. Glass is shattering somewhere down there. People screaming.
One of the guards comes puffing up here. Uniform torn and sweaty, face red.
—Hey, Doc, better get down the emergency stairs right away. It ain’t safe up here. They’re burning your lab.—
I’m a soldier of Her Majesty the Queen. I don’t bow before no heathen!