“Stop it!” he yelled hoarsely.
“Whassa matter, buddy?”
Thorny heard another switch snap. The doll stretched gracefully and yawned. It stretched out in its packing case again, closed its eyes and folded its hands over its bosom. The purring stopped.
“What’s eating you?” the clerk grumbled, slapping the lid back over the case again. “You sick or something?”
“I… I knew her,” Ryan Thornier wheezed. “I used to work—” He shook himself angrily and seized the crate. “Wait, I’ll give you a hand.”
Fury awakened new muscles. He hauled the crate out on the loading dock without assistance and dumped it in the back of the truck, then came back to slash his name across the release forms.
“You sure get sore easy,” the clerk mumbled. “You better take it easy. You sure better take it easy.”
Thorny was cursing softly as he nosed the truck out into the river of traffic. Maybe Jade thought it was funny, sending him after Mela’s doll. Jade remembered how it had been between them—if she bothered to think about it. Thornier and Stone—a team that had gotten constant attention from the gossip columnists in the old days. Rumors of engagement, rumors of secret marriage, rumors of squabbles and reunions, break-ups and patch-ups, and some of the rumors were almost true. Maybe Jade thought it was a howl, sending him to fetch the mannequin.
But no—his anger faded as he drove along the boulevard—she hadn’t thought about it. Probably she tried hard not to think of old times any more.
Gloom settled over him again, replacing rage. Still it haunted him—the horrified shock of seeing her sit up like an awakened corpse to smile at him.
They’d had it good together and bad together. Bit parts and beans in a cold-water flat. Starring roles and steaks at Sardi’s. And—love? Was that what it was? He thought of it uneasily. Hypnotic absorption in each other, perhaps, and in the mutual intoxication of their success—but it wasn’t necessarily love. Love was calm and even and lasting, and you paid for it with a dedicated lifetime, and Mela wouldn’t pay. She’d walked out on them. She’d walked to Smithfield and bought security with sacrifice of principle. There’d been a name for what. she’d done. “Scab,” they used to say.
He shook himself. It was no good, thinking about those times. Times died with each passing minute. Now they paid $8.80 to watch Mela’s figurine move in her stead, wearing Mela’s face, moving with Mela’s gestures, walking with the same lilting walk. And the doll was still young, while Mela had aged ten years, years of collecting quarterly royalties from her dolls and living comfortably.
The promise of relative immortality had been quite a bait. Actors unions had resisted autodrama, for obviously the bit players and the lesser-knowns would not be in demand. By making dozens—even hundreds—of copies of the same leading star, top talent could be had for every role, and the same actor-mannequin could be playing simultaneously in dozens of shows all over the country. The unions had resisted—but only a few were wanted by Smithfield anyhow, and the lure was great. The promise of fantastic royalties was enticing enough, but in addition immortality for the actor, through duplication of mannequins. Authors, artists, playwrights had always been able to outlive the centuries, but actors were remembered only by professionals, and their names briefly recorded in the annals of the stage. Shakespeare would live another thousand years, but who remembered Dick Burbage who trouped in the day of the bard’s premiers? Flesh and bone, heart and brain, these were the trouper’s media, and his art could not outlive them.
Thorny knew the yearnings after lastingness, and he could no longer hate the ones who had gone over. As for himself, the autodrama industry had made him a tentative offer, and he had resisted—partly because he was reasonably certain that the offer would have been withdrawn during testing procedures. Some actors were not “cybergenic”—could not be adequately sculptured into electronic-robotic analogues. These were the portrayers, whose art was inward, whose roles had to be lived rather than played. No polygraphic analogue could duplicate their talents, and Thornier knew he was one of them. It had been easy for him to resist.
At the corner of Eighth Street, he remembered the spare tape and the replacement pickup for the Maestro. But if he turned back now, he’d hold up the ran-through, and Jade would be furious. Mentally he kicked himself, and drove on to the delivery entrance of the theater. There he left the crated mannequin with the stage crew, and headed back for the depot without seeing the producer.
“Hey, bud,” said the clerk, “your boss was on the phone. Sounded pretty unhappy.”
“Who… D’Uccia?”
“No… well, yeah, D’Uccia, too. He wasn’t unhappy, just having fits. I meant Miss Ferne.”
“Oh… where’s your phone?”
“Over there. The lady was near hysterical.”
Thorny swallowed hard and headed for the booth. Jade Ferne was a good friend, and if his absent- mindedness had goofed up her production—
“I’ve got the pickup and the tape ready to go,” the clerk called after him. “She told me about it on the phone.
Thorny reddened and dialed nervously.
“Thank God!” she groaned. “Thorny, we did the run-through with Andreyev a walking zombie. The Maestro chewed up our duplicate Peltier tape, and we’re running without an actor-analogue in the starring role. Baby, I could murder you!”
“Sorry, Jade. I slipped a cog, I guess.”
“Never mind! Just get the new pickup mechanism over here for Thomas. And the Peltier tape. And don’t have a wreck. It’s two o’clock, and tonight’s opening, and we’re still short our leading man. And there’s no time to get anything else flown in from Smithfield.”
“In some ways, nothing’s changed, has it, Jade?” he grunted, thinking of the eternal backstage hysteria that lasted until the lights went low and beauty and calm order somehow emerged miraculously out of the prevailing chaos.
“Don’t philosophize, just
The clerk had the cartons ready for him as he emerged. “Look, chum, better take care of that Peltier tape,” the clerk advised. “It’s the last one in the place. I’ve got more on order, but they won’t be here for a couple of days.”
Thornier stared at the smaller package thoughtfully. The last Peltier?
The plan, he remembered the plan.
He heard his own voice like a stranger’s, saying; “Miss Ferne also asked me to pick up a Wilson Granger tape, and a couple of three-inch splices.”
The clerk looked surprised. “Granger? He’s not in ‘The Anarch,’ is he?”
Thornier shook his head. “No-guess she wants it for a trial casting. Next show, maybe.”
The clerk shrugged and went to get the tape and the splices. Thornier stood clenching and unclenching his fists. He wasn’t going to go through with it, of course. Only a silly fantasy.
“I’ll have to make a separate ticket on these,” said the clerk, returning.
He signed the delivery slips in a daze, then headed for the truck. He drove three blocks from the depot, then parked in a loading zone. He opened the tape cartons carefully with his penknife, peeling back the glued flaps so that they could be sealed again. He removed the two rolls of pattern perforated tape from their small metal canisters, carefully plucked off the masking-tape seals and stuck them temporarily to the dashboard. He unrolled the first half-yard of the Peltier tape; it was unperforated, and printed with identifying codes and manufacturer’s data. Fortunately, it was not a brand-new tape; it had been used before, and he could see the wear-marks. A splice would not arouse suspicion.
He cut off the identifying tongue with his knife, laid it aside. Then he did the same to the Granger tape.
Granger was fat, jovial, fiftyish. His mannequin played comic supporting roles.
Peltier was young, gaunt, gloomy—the intellectual villain, the dedicated fanatic. A fair choice for the part of Andreyev.
