Dark Benediction

He closed his eyes for a moment and relived it. “I’d probably be sore,” he said slowly. “I’d probably accuse Kovrin of jamming my lines and Aksinya of killing my exit—as an excuse,” he added with a lame grin. “But I can’t accuse the dolls. They can’t steal.”

“As a matter of fact, old man, they can,” said the technician. “And your excuse is exactly right.”

“Whh—what?”

“Sure. You did muff the first scene or two. The audience reacted to it. And the Maestro reacts to audience reaction—by compensating through shifts in interpretation. It sees the stage as a whole, you included. As far as the Maestro’s concerned, you’re an untaped dud-like the Peltier doll we used in the first run-through. It sends you only the script-tape signals, uninterpreted. Because it’s got no analogue tape on you. Now without an audience, that’d be O.K. But with art audience reaction to go by, it starts compensating, and since it can’t compensate through you, it works on the others.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Bluntly, Thorny, the first scene or two stunk. The audience didn’t like you. The Maestro started compensating by emphasizing other roles—and recharacterizing you, through the others.”

“Recharacterize? How can it do that.”

“Easily, darling,” Jade told him. “When Marka says ‘I hate him; he’s a beast’—for example—she can say it like it’s true, or she can say it like she’s just temporarily furious with Andreyev. And it affects the light in which the audience see you. Other actors affect your role. You know that’s true of the old stage. Well, it’s true of auto-drama, too.”

He stared at them in amazement. “Can’t you stop it? Readjust the Maestro, I mean?”

“Not without clearing the whole thing out of the machine and starting over. The effect is cumulative. The more it compensates, the tougher it gets for you. The tougher it gets for you, the worse you look to the crowd. And the worse you look to the crowd, the more it tries to compensate.”

He stared wildly at the clock. Less than a minute until the first scene of Act II. “What’ll I do?”

“Stick it,” said Jade. “We’ve been on the phone to Smithfield. There’s a programming engineer in town, and he’s on his way over in a heliocab. Then we’ll see.”

“We may be able to nurse it back in tune,” Rick added, “a little at a time—by feeding in a fake set of audience—restlessness factors, and cutting out its feeler circuits out in the crowd. We’ll try, that’s all.”

The light flashed for the beginning of the act.

“Good luck, Thorny.”

“I guess I’ll need it.” Grimly he started toward his entrance.

The thing in the booth was watching him. It watched and measured and judged and found wanting. Maybe, he thought wildly, it even hated him. It watched, it planned, it regulated, and it was wrecking him.

The faces of the dolls, the hands, the voices—belonged to it. The wizard circuitry in the booth rallied them against him. It saw him, undoubtedly, as one of them, but not answering to its pulsing commands. It saw him, perhaps, as a malfunctioning doll, and it tried to correct the effects of his misbehavior. He thought of the old conflict between director and darfstellar, the self-directed actor—and it was the same conflict, aggravated by an electronic director’s inability to understand that such things could be. The darfsteller, the undirectable portrayer whose acting welled from unconscious sources with no external strings—directors were inclined to hate them, even when the portrayal was superb. A mannequin, however, was the perfect schauspieler, the actor that a director could play like an instrument.

It would have been easier for him now had he been a schauspieler, for perhaps he could adapt. But he was Andreyev, his Andreyev, as he had prepared himself for the role. Andreyev was incarnate as an alter anima within him. He had never “played” a role. He had always become the role. And now he could adapt to the needs of the moment on stage only as Andreyev, in and through his identity with Andreyev, and without changing the feel of his portrayal. To attempt it, to try to fall into conformity with what the Maestro was doing, would mean utter confusion. Yet, the machine was forcing him-through the others.

He stood stonily behind his desk, listening coldly to the denials of the prisoner—a revolutionary, an arsonist associated with Piotr’s guerrilla band.

“I tell you, comrade, I had nothing to do with it!” the prisoner shouted. “Nothing!”

“Haven’t you questioned him thoroughly?” Andreyev growled at the lieutenant who guarded the man. “Hasn’t he signed a confession?”

“There was no need, comrade. His accomplice confessed,” protested the lieutenant.

Only it wasn’t supposed to be a protest. The lieutenant made it sound like a monstrous thing to do—to wring another confession, by torture perhaps, from the prisoner, when there was already sufficient evidence to convict. The words were right, but their meaning was wrenched. It should have been a crisp statement of fact: No need, comrade; his accomplice confessed.

Thorny paused, reddening angrily. His next line was, “See that this one confesses, too.” But he wasn’t going to speak it. It would augment the effect of the lieutenant’s tone of shocked protest. He thought rapidly. The lieutenant was a bit-player, and didn’t come back on until the third act. It wouldn’t hurt to jam him.

He glowered at the doll, demanded icily: “And what have you done with the accomplice?”

The Maestro could not invent lines, nor comprehend an ad lib. The Maestro could only interpret a deviation as a malfunction, and try to compensate. The Maestro backed up a line, had the lieutenant repeat his cue.

“I told you—he confessed.”

“Sol” roared Andreyev. “You killed him, eh? Couldn’t survive the questioning, eh? And you killed him.”

Thorny, what are you doing? came Rick’s frantic whisper in his earplug.

“He confessed,” repeated the lieutenant.

“You’re under arrest, Nichol!” Thorny barked. “Report to Major Malin for discipline. Return the prisoner to his cell.” He paused. The Maestro couldn’t go on until he cued it, but now there was no harm in speaking the line. “Now—see that this one confesses, too.”

“Yes, sir,” the lieutenant replied stonily, and started off-stage with the prisoner.

Thorny took glee in killing his exit by calling after him: “And see that he lives through it!”

The Maestro marched them out without looking back, and Thorny was briefly pleased with himself. He caught a glimpse of Jade with her hands clasped over her head, giving him a “the-winnah” signal from concealment. But he couldn’t keep ad libbing his way out of it every time.

Most of all, he dreaded the entrance of Marka, Mela’s doll. The Maestro was playing her up, ennobling her, subtly justifying her treachery, at the expense of Andreyev’s character. He didn’t want to fight back. Marka’s role was too important for tampering, and besides, it would be like slapping at Mela to confuse the performance of her doll.

The curtain dipped. The furniture revolved. The stage became a living room. And the curtain rose again.

He barked: “No more arrests; after curfew, shoot on sight!” at the telephone, and hung up.

When he turned, she stood in the doorway, listening. She shrugged and entered with a casual walk while he watched her in suspicious silence. It was the consummation of her treachery. She had come back to him, but as a spy for Piotr. He suspected her only of infidelity and not of treason. It was a crucial scene, and the Maestro could play her either as a treacherous wench, or a reluctant traitor with Andreyev seeming a brute. He watched her warily.

“Well—hello,” she said petulantly, after walking around the room.

He grunted coldly. She stayed flippant and aloof. So far, it was as it should be. But the vicious argument was yet to come.

She went to a mirror and began straightening her wind-blown hair. She spoke nervously, compulsively, rattling about trivia, concealing her anxiety in his presence after her betrayal. She looked furtive, haggard, somehow more like the real Mela of today; the Maestro’s control of expression was masterful.

“What are you doing here?” he exploded suddenly, interrupting her disjointed spiel.

“I still live here, don’t I?”