“So you’re in TV?” I said. “What are you doing here— collecting material, or just on vacation?”
He gave me the frank, friendly smile of a man who has plenty to hide.
“Oh, I’m keeping my eyes open. But this really is amazing; I read your Exploration of Space when it came out back in, ah—”
“1952; the Book-of-the-Month Club’s never been quite the same since.”
All this time I had been sizing him up, and though there was something about him I didn’t like, I was unable to pin it down. In any case, I was prepared to make substantial allowances for someone who had read my books and was also in TV; Mike and I are always on the lookout for markets for our underwater movies. But that, to put it mildly, was not Hartford’s line of business.
“Look,” he said eagerly. “I’ve a big network deal cooking that will interest you—in fact, you helped to give me the idea.”
This sounded promising, and my co-efficient of cupidity jumped several points.
“I’m glad to hear it. What’s the general theme?”
“I can’t talk about it here, but could we meet at my hotel, around three tomorrow?”
“Let me check my diary; yes, that’s O.K.”
There are only two hotels in Colombo patronized by Americans, and I guessed right first time. He was at the Mount Lavinia, and though you may not know it, you’ve seen the place where we had our private chat. Around the middle of The Bridge on the River Kwai, there’s a brief scene at a military hospital, where Jack Hawkins meets a nurse and asks her where he can find Bill Holden. We have a soft spot for this episode, because Mike was one of the convalescent naval officers in the background. If you look smartly you’ll see him on the extreme right, beard in full profile, signing Sam Spiegel’s name to his sixth round of bar-chits. As the picture turned out, Sam could afford it.
It was here, on this diminutive plateau high above the miles of palm-fringed beach, that Gene Hartford started to unload—and my simple hopes of financial advantage started to evaporate. What his exact motives were, if indeed he knew them himself, I’m still uncertain. Surprise at meeting me, and a twisted feeling of gratitude (which I would gladly have done without) undoubtedly played a part, and for all his air of confidence he must have been a bitter, lonely man who desperately needed approval and friendship.
He got neither from me. I have always had a sneaking sympathy for Benedict Arnold, as must anyone who knows the full facts of the case. But Arnold merely betrayed his country; no one before Hartford ever tried to seduce it.
What dissolved my dream of dollars was the news that Hartford’s connection with American TV had been severed, somewhat violently, in the early Fifties. It was clear that he’d been bounced out of Madison Avenue for Party-lining, and it was equally clear that his was one case where no grave injustice had been done. Though he talked with a certain controlled fury of his fight against asinine censorship, and wept for a brilliant—but unnamed—cultural series he’d had kicked off the air, by this time I was beginning to smell so many rats that my replies were distinctly guarded. Yet as my pecuniary interest in Mr. Hartford diminished, so my personal curiosity increased. Who was behind him? Surely not the BBC ...
He got round to it at last, when he’d worked the self-pity out of his system.
“I’ve some news that will make you sit up,” he said smugly. “The American networks are soon going to have some real competition. And it will be done just the way you predicted; the people who sent a TV transmitter behind the Moon can put a much bigger one in orbit round the Earth.”
“Good for them,” I said cautiously. “I’m all in favor of healthy competition. When’s the launching date?”
“Any moment now. The first transmitter will be parked due south of New Orleans—on the equator, of course. That puts it way out in the open Pacific; it won’t be over anyone’s territory, so there’ll be no political complications on that score. Yet it will be sitting up there in the sky in full view of everybody from Seattle to Key West. Think of it— the only TV station the whole United States can tune into! Yes, even Hawaii! There won’t be any way of jamming it; for the first time, there’ll be a clear channel into every American home. And J. Edgar’s Boy Scouts can’t do a thing to block it.”
So that’s your little racket, I thought; at least you’re being frank. Long ago I learned not to argue with Marxists and Flat-Earthers, but if Hartford was telling the truth I wanted to pump him for all he was worth.
“Before you get too enthusiastic,” I said, “there are a few points you may have overlooked.”
“Such as?”
“This will work both ways. Everyone knows that the Air Force, NASA, Bell Labs, I.T.&T. and a few dozen other agencies are working on the same project. Whatever Russia does to the States in the propaganda line, she’ll get back with compound interest.”
Hartford grinned mirthlessly.
“Really, Clarke!” he said (I was glad he hadn’t first-named me). “I’m a little disappointed. Surely you know that the States is years behind in payload capacity! And do you imagine that the old T.3 is Russia’s last word?”
It was at this moment that I began to take him very seriously. He was perfectly right. The T.3 could inject at least five times the payload of any American missile into that critical 22,000-mile orbit—the only one that would deliver a satellite apparently fixed above the Earth. And by the time the U.S. could match that performance, heaven knows where the Russians would be. Yes, Heaven certainly would know....
“All right,” I conceded. “But why should fifty million American homes start switching channels just as soon as they can tune into Moscow? I admire the Russian people, but their entertainment is worse than their politics. After the Bolshoi, what have you? And for me, a little ballet goes a long, long way.”
Once again I was treated to that peculiarly humorless smile. Hartford had been saving up his Sunday punch, and now he let me have it.
“You were the one who brought in the Russians,” he said. “They’re involved, sure—but only as contractors. The independent agency I’m working for is hiring their services.”
“That,” I remarked dryly, “must be some agency.”
“It is; just about the biggest. Even though the States tries to pretend it doesn’t exist.”
“Oh,” I said, rather stupidly. “So that’s your sponsor.”
I’d heard those rumors that the U.S.S.R. was going to launch satellites for the Chinese; now it began to look as if the rumors fell far short of the truth. But how far short, I’d still no conception.
“You are so right,” continued Hartford, obviously enjoying himself, “about Russian entertainment. After the initial novelty, the Nielsen rating would drop to zero. But not with the programs I’m planning. My job is to find material that will put everyone else out of business when it goes on the air. You think it can’t be done? Finish that drink and come up to my room. I’ve a highbrow movie about ecclesiastical art that I’d like to show you.”
Well, he wasn’t crazy, though for a few minutes I wondered. I could think of few titles more carefully calculated to make the viewer switch channels than the one that flashed on the screen:
aspects of thirteenth century tantric sculpture.
“Don’t be alarmed,” Hartford chuckled, above the whir of the projector. ‘That title saves me having trouble with inquisitive Customs inspectors. It’s perfectly accurate, but we’ll change it to something with a bigger box-office appeal when the time comes.”