“Frankenstein and the Wolfman,” Gabriel explained. “I save that name for shows that’ve been screwed up. It’s my way of telling friends that the show’s a clinker, a grade B horror movie.”
“His friends,” Brenda added, giggling, “and everybody in the industry.”
“Oh.” But Oxnard still looked as if he didn’t really understand.
Laughing at the thought of his modest revenge, Gabriel said, “Lemma grab my bags and take you both to dinner.”
“The restaurants are closed,” Oxnard said. “We checked. They ran out of food about an hour ago.”
Gabriel held up one hand, looking knowledgeable: “Have no fear. I know where the aircrews have their private cafeteria. One of the stewardesses gave me the secret password to get in there.”
Oxnard watched the little guy scamper back through the now-dozing security girl’s magnetic detector portal and head for his bags, by the window. It was still snowing heavily.
“Victor Lawrence Talbot Frankenstein?” he muttered.
Brenda said to him, “It’s the only satisfaction he’s going to get out of this series.”
“He’s getting all that money…”
She rested a hand on his shoulder and said, “It’s not really all that much money, compared to the time and effort he’s put in. And… well, Bill… suppose your new holographic system won the Nobel Prize…”
“They don’t give Nobels for inventions.”
“But just suppose,” Brenda insisted. “And then one of the people who decide on the Prize comes to you and says they’re going to name Gregory Earnest as the inventor. You’ll get the money that goes with the Prize, but he’ll get the recognition.”
“Ohh. Now I see.”
Gabriel came back, lugging his suitcase and typewriter. As they started down the corridor, Oxnard took the typewriter from him.
“Thanks.”
“Nothing to it.”
Brenda said, “Looks like well be here a long time.”
“Good,” said Oxnard. “It’ll give me a chance to ask you some questions about a new idea of mine.”
“What’s that?” Gabriel asked.
Oxnard scratched briefly at his nose. “Oh, it’s just a few wild thoughts I put together… but it might be possible to produce a three-dee show without using any actors. You…”
“What?” Gabriel looked startled. Brenda pursed her lips.
Oxnard nodded as they walked. “After watching how pitiful Dulaq is as an actor, I got to thinking that there’s no fundamental reason why you couldn’t take one holographic picture of him—a still shot—and then use a computer to electronically move his image any way you want to… you know, make him walk, run, stand up, sit down. some of the work they’ve been doing at the VA with hemiplegics…”
Gabriel stopped and dropped his suitcase to the floor. Brenda and Oxnard took a step or two more, then turned back toward him.
“Don’t say anything more about it,” Gabriel warned.
“Why not?” Oxnard looked totally surprised at his reaction. “You could do away with…”
“He’s right,” Brenda agreed. “Forget about it. You’ll produce nothing but trouble.”
Oxnard stared at them both. “But you could lower the costs of producing shows enormously. You wouldn’t have to hire any act…”
Gabriel put a hand over his mouth. “For Chrissake, you wanna start a revolution in LA.? Every actor in the world will come after you, with guns!”
Oxnard shrugged as Gabriel took his hand away. “It’s just an idea… might be too expensive to work out in real-time.” He sounded hurt.
“It would cause more trouble than it’s worth,” Brenda said, as they resumed walking. “Believe me, a producer would have to be utterly desperate to try a scheme like that.”
Gregory Earnest stood beside the reclining plush barber chair, watching the skinny little old man daub Francois Dulaq’s rugged features with makeup.
“What is it this time, Francois?” he asked, barely suppressing his growing impatience.
Dulaq’s eyes were closed while the makeup man carefully filled in the crinkles at the corners and painted over the bags that had started to appear under them.
“I gotta leave early t’day. Th’team’s catchin’ the early plane to Seattle.”
Earnest felt startled. “I thought you were taking the special charter flight, later tonight. You can still be in Seattle tomorrow morning, in plenty of time for the game.”
“Naw… I wanna go wit th’guys. They’re startin’ t’razz me about bein’ a big TV star… and de coach ain’t too happy, neither. Sez I oughtta get t’th’practices… my scorin’s off and th’guys’re gettin’ a little sore at me.”
“But we can’t shoot your scenes in just a few hours,” Earnest protested.
“Sure ya can.”
Earnest grabbed the nearest thing at hand, a tissue box, and banged it viciously on the countertop. Dulaq opened one eye and squinted at him, in the mirror.
“Francois, you’ve got to understand,” Earnest said. “We’ve stripped your scenes down as far as we can. We haven’t given you anything more complicated to say than ‘Let’s go,’ or ‘Oh, no you don’t’ We’re dubbing all the longer speeches for you. But you’ve got to let us photograph you! You’re the star, for goodness’ sakel The people have to see you on the show!”
“I ain’t gonna be a star of nuthin’ if I don’t start scoria’ and th’team don’t start winnin’.”
Earnest’s mind spun furiously. “Well, I suppose we could use Fernando to stand in for the long shots and the reverse angles, when your back’s to the camera.”
“He still limpin’?”
“A little. That was some fight scene.”
“Dat’s th’only fun I’ve had since we started dis whole show.”
The makeup man pursed his lips, inspected his handiwork and then said, “Okay, mon ami. That’s the most I can do for you.”
Dulaq bounded up from the chair.
“Come on,” Earnest said, “you’re already late for the first scene.”
As they left the makeup room and headed down the darkened corridor toward the studio, Dulaq put his arm around Earnest’s shoulders. “Sorry I gotta buzz off, but th’team’s important, y’know.”
“I know,” Earnest said, feeling dejected. “It’s just… well, I thought we were going to have dinner tonight.”
Dulaq squeezed him. “Don’ worry. I’ll be back Wensay night. I’ll take d’early plane. You meet me at th’ airport, okay?”
Earnest brightened. “All right. I will.” And he thrilled to the powerful grip he was in.
“But you can’t walk out on us!” Brenda pleaded.
Mitch Westerly was slowly walking along the windswept parking lot behind Badger’s square red-brick studio building. The night was Arctic cold and dark; even the brilliant stars seemed to radiate cold light.
“It’s h… hopeless,” Westerly said.
His head was bent low, chin sunk into the upraised collar of his mackinaw, hands stuffed into the pockets. The wind tousled his long hair. Brenda paced along beside him, wrapped in an ankle-length synthetic fur coat that was warmed electrically.
“You can’t give up now,” Brenda said. “You’re the only shred of talent left in the crew! You’re the one who’s been holding this show together. If you go…”
Westerly pulled one gloved hand out of his pocket. Under the bluish arclamps the leather looked strange, otherwordly. The hand was trembling, shaking like the strengthless hand of a palsied old man.