“What about Mae West?” he joked.
“That hag!” Rita’s luscious lips pulled back in a snarl, revealing slightly pointed teeth. “Her and her deepfreeze. As if anybody’d revive her in a hundred years.”
Patting her in a fatherly way, Finger said, “I’m going to get dressed. I’ll call you in an hour or so. We can have breakfast up on the bridge.”
“Okay.” She turned over and pulled up the covers.
“I want to talk to you about Ron Gabriel. He’s going to be the head writer on the show, up in Canada.”
“He’s the Cagney that was in here last night?”
“Right. He can be troublesome…”
She smiled at him; there was no innocent little girl in her face. “I can handle him and a dozen more like him, any time.” Her tongue flicked across her sharp little teeth “Any time,” she repeated.
It was bracing up on the bridge. The sea breeze stirred Finger, invigorated him. Up ahead he could see the smog bank that marked the beginning of Los Angeles’ territorial waters and the oil rigs that kept the city supplied with fuel.
He paced the open deck of the flying bridge, glancing inside now and then to see how the ship was being handled. A solitary officer slouched lazily in a soft chair, toking happily, while the automated radar, sonar, robot pilot and computer steered the Adventurer toward its smogshrouded pier.
It always unnerved Finger just the slightest bit to realize that the ship’s crew was more machine than human. And with the exception of the captain, who was a boozer, most of the crewmen were heads.
Finger turned his back on the lazing officer and stepped to the rail. Leaning over it slightly, he could see the white foam of the ship’s wake cutting through the oily waters. He looked up at his last glimpse of blue sky. Gripping the rail with both hands, he was suddenly on the deck of a whaling vessel out of New Bedford, an iron captain running a wooden ship.
Thar she blows! he heard in his mind’s inner ear. And with the eye of imagination he saw a wild and stormy ocean, with the spout of a gigantic whale off near the whitecapped horizon.
After him, me hearties! Finger shouted silently. A fivedollar gold piece to the boat that harpoons him!
He grunted to himself. Maybe a whaling show would make a good series. The econuts would object to it, but they object to everything anyway. Special effects would be expensive: have to make a dummy whale. Nobody’s seen a whale since the last Japanese expedition came back empty. Even the dolphins are getting scarce.
A frown of concentration settled on his face. The government would probably help with a series like that. They’re always looking for outdoor stuff, so people will stay home and watch their three-dees instead of messing up the National Parks. And it could be a spectacular show—storms, shipwrecks, all that stuff. Got to be careful of the violence, though; get those parents and teachers on your neck and the sponsors disappear. Maybe a comedy show, with a crew that never catches a whale. A bunch of schmucks.
No. Finger shook his head. A serious show. Iron men in wooden ships. Give the viewers some heroes to admire. He squared his shoulders and faced straight into the wind. Maybe I could do a sneak part in it, like Hitchcock used to do.
He drew himself up to his full height. Hell, he told himself, I could be the whaling ship’s captain. Why not? I’ve got the look for it now.
Why not do a whaling show instead of this science fiction thing with Gabriel?
Because, his business sense told him, it would be too realistic. Historicals are dead. Nobody watched them. The Hallmark Hall of Fame killed them years ago and nobody’s had the guts to try them again. Too dull. And too realistic.
Still, he thought, it’ll be good to have something like this in reserve. Doesn’t have to be realistic or even historical. Maybe a science fiction whaler, on another planet. Yeah! With a different monster every week! He smiled; felt almost giddy. Bernie, he told himself, you’re a genius. He made a mental note to look into the possibility of taking acting lessons. In secret. Like that football player far the Jets had done.
And then the real idea hit him. It came in a flash, the whole of it, so completely detailed that he saw the columns of figures adding up to a fortune, nine digits worth. It was blinding. Terrifying. He sagged against the rail.
“That’s it,” he whispered to himself. “That’ll do it! But it’s got to be done in secret.” He squeezed his eyes shut and locked the secret deep within his convoluted brain.
“You looking for me?”
Fnger whirled, startled, and saw Brenda Impanema standing at the hatch that led inside to the bridge. She was out of costume now, wearing a comfortable kaftan that billowed in the breeze against her lean figure.
“I got a phone message from the computer that said you wanted to see me,” Brenda said.
Gathering himself together, Finger grumbled, “That was last night”
“Gabriel’s two goons wouldn’t let me out of the bar until you two had finished your business talk,” she said. “By the time I got to my stateroom and saw the message, I figured you were asleep… or at least in bed.”
From someone else, Finger would have taken that for insolence. But from Brenda—he smiled.
“You were right. Smart girl.” Then he looked sharply at her. She seemed weary, red eyed. “You didn’t sleep good?”
“Not very.”
“Who were you with?”
“Nobody,” she said.
Finger considered the pros and cons for a moment. His ultimate, secret new idea glowed within him like a warming beacon. “Gabriel and I came to an agreement last night. We’re going to do the show up in Canada. Les will check on the available studios up there. The talent office will start looking for a suitable male lead this morning.”
“What about the female lead?”
“Rita Yearling.”
Brenda’s mouth went tight.
“Nobody’s going to find out about her previous life. That’s why I’ve got a publicity department, to keep things quiet.”
“Sure,” Brenda said.
“So you don’t like her,” Finger said. “That’s too bad.”
Brenda looked away from him and let the salt wind blow at her hair. “No problem for me. I’m not going to have to work with her.”
Taking a step closer to her, Finger said, “I still want you to go to Canada and keep an eye on things for me.”
“You mean service Ron Gabriel.”
“No. He’s seen Rita and he’s gone crazy over her. She’ll keep him busy enough.”
“You don’t know Ron.” Still looking away from Finger, she said, “I don’t want to go.”
“You’re going!”
“I don’t want to!”
“You’ll do what I tell you. That’s all there is to it.”
“Thanks.”
“I wouldn’t send you up there if Gabriel was going to make things tough for you. You know that.”
“Like hell.”
She still wouldn’t look at him. Feeling hurt, Finger said. “It’s for the good of the show. There’ll be a promotion in it for you.”
“Wonderful,” Brenda said. “But I’d rather jump over the rail.
He could feel his face getting red with anger. “So jump already!” he snapped and stamped off to the hatch.
8: THE TEAM
It was spring in Southern California. The rains had finally stopped and for a few weeks everything was green and flowering. As long as it was domed over or otherwise protected from the smog.