The Second Science Fiction Megapack Page 35

  “You laugh?” St. Cyr demanded with instant displeasure. “You do not appreciate great art? What do you know about it, eh? Are you a genius?”

  “This,” Martin said urbanely, “is the most noisome movie ever put on film.”

  In the sudden, deathly quiet which followed, Martin flicked ashes elegantly and added, “With my help, you may yet avoid becoming the laughing stock of the whole continent. Every foot of this picture must be junked. Tomorrow bright and early we will start all over, and—”

  Watt said quietly, “We’re quite competent to make a film out of Angelina Noel, Martin.”

  “It is artistic!” St. Cyr shouted. “And it will make money, too!”

  “Bah, money!” Martin said cunningly. He flicked more ash with a lavish gesture. “Who cares about money? Let Summit worry.”

  Watt leaned forward to peer searchingly at Martin in the dimness.

  “Raoul,” he said, glancing at St. Cyr, “I understood you were getting your—ah—your new writers whipped into shape. This doesn’t sound to me as if—”

  “Yes, yes, yes, yes,” St. Cyr cried excitedly. “Whipped into shape, exactly! A brief delirium, eh? Martin, you feel well? You feel yourself?”

  Martin laughed with quiet confidence. “Never fear,” he said. “The money you spend on me is well worth what I’ll bring you in prestige. I quite understand. Our confidential talks were not to be secret from Watt, of course.”

  “What confidential talks?” bellowed St. Cyr thickly, growing red.

  “We need keep nothing from Watt, need we?” Martin went on imperturably. “You hired me for prestige, and prestige you’ll get, if you can only keep your big mouth shut long enough. I’ll make the name of St. Cyr glorious for you. Naturally you may lose something at the box-office, but it’s well worth—”

  “Pjrzqxgl!” roared St. Cyr in his native tongue, and he lumbered up from the chair, brandishing the microphone in an enormous, hairy hand.

  Deftly Martin reached out and twitched it from his grasp.

  “Stop the film,” he ordered crisply.

  It was very strange. A distant part of his mind knew that normally he would never have dared behave this way, but he felt convinced that never before in his life had he acted with complete normality. He glowed with a giddy warmth of confidence that everything he did would be right, at least while the twelve-hour treatment lasted.…

  * * * *

  The screen flickered hesitantly, then went blank.

  “Turn the lights on,” Martin ordered the unseen presence beyond the mike. Softly and suddenly the room glowed with illumination. And upon the visages of Watt and St. Cyr he saw a mutual dawning uneasiness begin to break.

  He had just given them food for thought. But he had given them more than that. He tried to imagine what moved in the minds of the two men, below the suspicions he had just implanted. St. Cyr’s was fairly obvious. The Mixo-Lydian licked his lips—no mean task—and studied Martin with uneasy little bloodshot eyes. Clearly Martin had acquired confidence from somewhere. What did it mean? What secret sin of St. Cyr’s had been discovered to him, what flaw in his contract, that he dared behave so defiantly?

  Tolliver Watt was a horse of another color; apparently the man had no guilty secrets; but he too looked uneasy. Martin studied the proud face and probed for inner weaknesses. Watt would be a harder nut to crack. But Martin could do it.

  “That last underwater sequence,” he now said, pursuing his theme. “Pure trash, you know. It’ll have to come out. The whole scene must be shot from under water.”

  “Shut up!” St. Cyr shouted violently.

  “But it must, you know,” Martin went on. “Or it won’t jibe with the new stuff I’ve written in. In fact, I’m not at all certain that the whole picture shouldn’t be shot under water. You know, we could use the documentary technique—”

  “Raoul,” Watt said suddenly, “what’s this man trying to do?”

  “He is trying to break his contract, of course,” St. Cyr said, turning ruddy olive. “It is the bad phase all my writers go through before I get them whipped into shape. In Mixo-Lydia—”

  “Are you sure he’ll whip into shape?” Watt asked.

  “To me this is now a personal matter,” St. Cyr said, glaring at Martin. “I have spent nearly thirteen weeks on this man and I do not intend to waste my valuable time on another. I tell you he is simply trying to break his contract—tricks, tricks, tricks.”

  “Are you?” Watt asked Martin coldly.

  “Not now,” Martin said. “I’ve changed my mind. My agent insists I’d be better off away from Summit. In fact, she has the curious feeling that I and Summit would suffer by a mesalliance. But for the first time I’m not sure I agree. I begin to see possibilities, even in the tripe St. Cyr has been stuffing down the public’s throat for years. Of course I can’t work miracles all at once. Audiences have come to expect garbage from Summit, and they’ve even been conditioned to like it. But we’ll begin in a small way to re-educate them with this picture. I suggest we try to symbolize the Existentialist hopelessness of it all by ending the film with a full four hundred feet of seascapes—nothing but vast, heaving stretches of ocean,” he ended, on a note of complacent satisfaction.

  A vast, heaving stretch of Raoul St. Cyr rose from his chair and advanced upon Martin.

  “Outside, outside!” he shouted. “Back to your cell, you double-crossing vermin! I, Raoul St. Cyr, command it. Outside, before I rip you limb from limb—”

  Martin spoke quickly. His voice was calm, but he knew he would have to work fast.

  “You see, Watt?” he said clearly, meeting Watt’s rather startled gaze. “Doesn’t dare let you exchange three words with me, for fear I’ll let something slip. No wonder he’s trying to put me out of here—he’s skating on thin ice these days.”

  Goaded, St. Cyr rolled forward in a ponderous lunge, but Watt interposed. It was true, of course, that the writer was probably trying to break his contract. But there were wheels within wheels here. Martin was too confident, too debonaire. Something was going on which Watt did not understand.

  “All right, Raoul,” he said decisively. “Relax for a minute. I said relax! We don’t want Nick here suing you for assault and battery, do we? Your artistic temperament carries you away sometimes. Relax and let’s hear what Nick has to say.”

  “Watch out for him, Tolliver!” St. Cyr cried warningly. “They’re cunning, these creatures. Cunning as rats. You never know—”

  Martin raised the microphone with a lordly gesture. Ignoring the director, he said commandingly into the mike, “Put me through to the commissary. The bar, please. Yes. I want to order a drink. Something very special. A—ah—a Helena Glinska—”

  * * * *

  “Hello,” Erika Ashby’s voice said from the door. “Nick, are you there? May I come in?”

  The sound of her voice sent delicious chills rushing up and down Martin’s spine. He swung round, mike in hand, to welcome her. But St. Cyr, pleased at this diversion, roared before he could speak.

  “No, no, no, no! Go! Go at once. Whoever you are—out!”

  Erika, looking very brisk, attractive and firm, marched into the room and cast at Martin a look of resigned patience.

  Very clearly she expected to fight both her own battles and his.

  “I’m on business here,” she told St. Cyr coldly. “You can’t part author and agent like this. Nick and I want to have a word with Mr. Watt.”

  “Ah, my pretty creature, sit down,” Martin said in a loud, clear voice, scrambling out of his chair. “Welcome! I’m just ordering myself a drink. Will you have something?”

  Erika looked at him with startled suspicion. “No, and neither will you,” she said. “How many have you had already? Nick, if you’re drunk at a time like this—”

  “And no shilly-shallying,” Martin said blandly into the mike. “I want it at once, do you hear? A Helena Glinska, yes. Perhaps you don’t know it? Then listen carefully. Take the largest Napol
eon you’ve got. If you haven’t a big one, a small punch bowl will do. Fill it half full with ice-cold ale. Got that? Add three jiggers of creme de menthe—”

  “Nick, are you mad?” Erika demanded, revolted.

  “—and six jiggers of honey,” Martin went on placidly. “Stir, don’t shake. Never shake a Helena Glinska. Keep it well chilled, and—”

  “Miss Ashby, we are very busy,” St. Cyr broke in importantly, making shooing motions toward the door. “Not now. Sorry. You interrupt. Go at once.”

  “—better add six more jiggers of honey,” Martin was heard to add contemplatively into the mike. “And then send it over immediately. Drop everything else, and get it here within sixty seconds. There’s a bonus for you if you do. Okay? Good. See to it.”

  He tossed the microphone casually at St. Cyr.

  Meanwhile, Erika had closed in on Tolliver Watt.

  “I’ve just come from talking to Gloria Eden,” she said, “and she’s willing to do a one-picture deal with Summit if I okay it. But I’m not going to okay it unless you release Nick Martin from his contract, and that’s flat.”

  Watt showed pleased surprise.

  “Well, we might get together on that,” he said instantly, for he was a fan of Miss Eden’s and for a long time had yearned to star her in a remake of Vanity Fair. “Why didn’t you bring her along? We could have—”

  “Nonsense!” St. Cyr shouted. “Do not discuss this matter yet, Tolliver.”

  “She’s down at Laguna,” Erika explained. “Be quiet, St. Cyr! I won’t—”

  A knock at the door interrupted her. Martin hurried to open it and as he had expected encountered a waiter with a tray.

  “Quick work,” he said urbanely, accepting the huge, coldly sweating Napoleon in a bank of ice. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

  St. Cyr’s booming shouts from behind him drowned out whatever remark the waiter may have made as he received a bill from Martin and withdrew, looking nauseated.

  “No, no, no, no,” St. Cyr was roaring. “Tolliver, we can get Gloria and keep this writer too, not that he is any good, but I have spent already thirteen weeks training him in the St. Cyr approach. Leave it to me. In Mixo-Lydia we handle—”

  Erika’s attractive mouth was opening and shutting, her voice unheard in the uproar. St. Cyr could keep it up indefinitely, as was well known in Hollywood. Martin sighed, lifted the brimming Napoleon and sniffed delicately as he stepped backward toward his chair. When his heel touched it, he tripped with the utmost grace and savoir-faire, and very deftly emptied the Helena Glinsak, ale, honey, creme de menthe, ice and all, over St. Cyr’s capacious front.

  St. Cyr’s bellow broke the microphone.

  * * * *

  Martin had composed his invention carefully. The nauseous brew combined the maximum elements of wetness, coldness, stickiness and pungency.

  The drenched St. Cyr, shuddering violently as the icy beverage deluged his legs, snatched out his handkerchief and mopped in vain. The handkerchief merely stuck to his trousers, glued there by twelve jiggers of honey. He reeked of peppermint.

  “I suggest we adjourn to the commissary,” Martin said fastidiously. “In some private booth we can go on with this discussion away from the—the rather overpowering smell of peppermint.”

  “In Mixo-Lydia,” St. Cyr gasped, sloshing in his shoes as he turned toward Martin, “in Mixo-Lydia we throw to the dogs—we boil in oil—we—”

  “And next time,” Martin said, “please don’t joggle my elbow when I’m holding a Helena Glinska. It’s most annoying.”

  St. Cyr drew a mighty breath, rose to his full height—and then subsided. St. Cyr at the moment looked like a Keystone Kop after the chase sequence, and knew it. Even if he killed Martin now, the element of classic tragedy would be lacking. He would appear in the untenable position of Hamlet murdering his uncle with custard pies.

  “Do nothing until I return!” he commanded, and with a final glare at Martin plunged moistly out of the theater.

  The door crashed shut behind him. There was silence for a moment except for the soft music from the overhead screen which DeeDee had caused to be turned on again, so that she might watch her own lovely form flicker in dimmed images through pastel waves, while she sang a duet with Dan Dailey about sailors, mermaids and her home in far Atlantis.

  “And now,” said Martin, turning with quiet authority to Watt, who was regarding him with a baffled expression, “I want a word with you.”

  “I can’t discuss your contract till Raoul gets back,” Watt said quickly.

  “Nonsense,” Martin said in a firm voice. “Why should St. Cyr dictate your decisions? Without you, he couldn’t turn out a box-office success if he had to. No, be quiet, Erika. I’m handling this, my pretty creature.”

  Watt rose to his feet. “Sorry, I can’t discuss it,” he said. “St. Cyr pictures make money, and you’re an inexperien—”

  “That’s why I see the true situation so clearly,” Martin said. “The trouble with you is you draw a line between artistic genius and financial genius. To you, it’s merely routine when you work with the plastic medium of human minds, shaping them into an Ideal Audience. You are an ecological genius, Tolliver Watt! The true artist controls his environment, and gradually you, with a master’s consummate skill, shape that great mass of living, breathing humanity into a perfect audience.…”

  “Sorry,” Watt said, but not, bruskly. “I really have no time—ah—”

  “Your genius has gone long enough unrecognized,” Martin said hastily, letting admiration ring in his golden voice. “You assume that St. Cyr is your equal. You give him your own credit titles. Yet in your own mind you must have known that half the credit for his pictures is yours. Was Phidias non-commercial? Was Michaelangelo? Commercialism is simply a label for functionalism, and all great artists produce functional art. The trivial details of Rubens’ masterpieces were filled in by assistants, were they not? But Rubens got the credit, not his hirelings. The proof of the pudding’s obvious. Why?” Cunningly gauging his listener, Martin here broke off.

  “Why?” Watt asked.

  “Sit down,” Martin urged. “I’ll tell you why. St. Cyr’s pictures make money, but you’re responsible for their molding into the ideal form, impressing your character-matrix upon everything and everyone at Summit Studios.…”

  * * * *

  Slowly Watt sank into his chair. About his ears the hypnotic bursts of Disraelian rhodomontade thundered compellingly. For Martin had the man hooked. With unerring aim he had at the first try discovered Watt’s weakness—the uncomfortable feeling in a professionally arty town that money-making is a basically contemptible business. Disraeli had handled tougher problems in his day. He had swayed Parliaments.

  Watt swayed, tottered—and fell. It took about ten minutes, all in all. By the end of that time, dizzy with eloquent praise of his economic ability, Watt had realized that while St. Cyr might be an artistic genius, he had no business interfering in the plans of an economic genius. Nobody told Watt what to do when economics were concerned.

  “You have the broad vision that can balance all possibilities and show the right path with perfect clarity,” Martin said glibly. “Very well. You wish Eden. You feel—do you not?—that I am unsuitable material. Only geniuses can change their plans with instantaneous speed.… When will my contract release be ready?”

  “What?” said Watt, in a swimming, glorious daze. “Oh. Of course. Hm-m. Your contract release. Well, now—”

  “St. Cyr would stubbornly cling to past errors until Summit goes broke,” Martin pointed out. “Only a genius like Tolliver Watt strikes when the iron is hot, when he sees a chance to exchange failure for success, a Martin for an Eden.”

  “Hm-m,” Watt said. “Yes. Very well, then.” His long face grew shrewd. “Very, well, you get your release—after I’ve signed Eden.”

  “There you put your finger on the heart of the matter,” Martin approved, after a very brief moment of somewhat dashed thought. “
Miss Eden is still undecided. If you left the transaction to somebody like St. Cyr, say, it would be botched. Erika, you have your car here? How quickly could you drive Tolliver Watt to Laguna? He’s the only person with the skill to handle this situation.”

  “What situa—oh, yes. Of course, Nick. We could start right away.”

  “But—” Watt said.

  The Disraeli-matrix swept on into oratorical periods that made the walls ring. The golden tongue played arpeggios with logic.

  “I see,” the dazed Watt murmured, allowing himself to be shepherded toward the door. “Yes, yes, of course. Then—suppose you drop over to my place tonight, Martin. After I get the Eden signature, I’ll have your release prepared. Hm-m. Functional genius.…” His voice fell to a low, crooning mutter, and he moved quietly out of the door.

  Martin laid a hand on Erika’s arm as she followed him.

  “Wait a second,” he said. “Keep him away from the studio until we get the release. St. Cyr can still out-shout me any time. But he’s hooked. We—”

  “Nick,” Erika said, looking searchingly into his face. “What’s happened?”

  “Tell you tonight,” Martin said hastily, hearing a distant bellow that might be the voice of St. Cyr approaching. “When I have time I’m going to sweep you off your feet. Did you know that I’ve worshipped you from afar all my life? But right now, get Watt out of the way. Hurry!”

  Erika cast a glance of amazed bewilderment at him as he thrust her out of the door. Martin thought there was a certain element of pleasure in the surprise.

  * * * *

  “Where is Tolliver?” The loud, annoyed roar of St. Cyr made Martin wince. The director was displeased, it appeared, because only in Costumes could a pair of trousers be found large enough to fit him. He took it as a personal affront. “What have you done with Tolliver?” he bellowed.

  “Louder, please,” Martin said insolently. “I can’t hear you.”

  “DeeDee,” St. Cyr shouted, whirling toward the lovely star, who hadn’t stirred from her rapturous admiration of DeeDee in technicolor overhead. “Where is Tolliver?”