“I’ve heard they’re being manufactured. I can’t imagine why; the idea’s ridiculous.”
“Thanks,” said Garrett. “Thanks a lot. This has been a most interesting—well, we’ll say visitor’s tour.”
“And now,” said Uranov, “we’ll pay our respects to S.B., or he’ll be wanting to know how we think we’re earning our credits.”
“Ah, boys,” Sacheverell Breakstone greeted them. “Glad to see you. Getting acquainted with the place, Garrett? Coming to understand how we do things here? Fine,” he went on before Garrett could answer. “Glad to hear it. And now to business. You may have heard I’m going away for a while next week. We’re shooting the big scenes in ‘Lurazar’ on location on the Moon. I think they need my personal supervision. Astra finishes her current epic today, and as soon as we can get under way— But what I wanted to say: I expect to see a shooting script when I get back. Stick close to him, Garrett. Don’t let him idle. And I don’t want either of you leaving Metropolis until then. You, Uranov, pay special attention to that suggestion of Garrett’s about working in a woman—rather Astra’s type as he described her. Maybe she could motivate him. Supposing—I’m just groping with words, you understand—she might be a Siberian general who—”
Hesketh Uranov listened patiently while S.B. twisted some of the most stirring events in history into a vehicle for Astra Ardless. Garrett frowned to himself. If his orders were to confine himself to the Metropolis lot, and he was bound to subordinate his real job to his apparent one, though he hardly needed to avoid suspicion any longer when knife throwers and practitioners with secret weapons—
“That’ll be all,” S.B. concluded. “I always find these conferences stimulating. You understand? Free interchange of minds. And I’ll want that script when Astra and I get back from the Moon. Meanwhile, you stick here. Both of you.”
“Mr. Breakstone,” Garrett asked with academic diffidence, “who is designing the sets for the Devarupa epic?”
“Tentatively Benson.” S.B. did not sound contented.
“If I may offer technical advice, it seems to me that Emigdio Valentinez’s knowledge of the period and great artistic ability—”
“I know. I know. I’d mortgage half the studio to get Valentinez for the job. But he’s gone hermit on us. He won’t listen to—”
“He might listen to me,” Garrett lied quietly. “We’re old friends. Don’t you think it might be worth our while for me to run down to his place? Uranov can drive me, and we can work on the way?”
Breakstone grunted. “Fine. Fine. But remember the deadline on that script.”
Uranov’s two-seater copter was laden with swank gadgetry, most of which served to indicate his position in Sollywood rather than any practical need. It rode well, however, and made the trip to Valentinez’s beach retreat in about ten minutes.
“I hate to drop in on Mig announced,” said Uranov, “but he hasn’t a televisor or even a blind phone, and he won’t open mail. He said he was coming out here to solve a problem—artistic, I think, rather than personal—and the hell with all the complications of progress. That was a month or two ago and nobody’s heard a word from him since. Neat trick of yours, by the way, to get S.B. to turn us loose.”
“We might bring it up at that,” said Garrett. “Valentinez would be ideal to design that epic.”
“Bring up your lovestonite problem first. If you mention S.B., he’s apt to walk out on you flat. Temperamental, I suppose, but still a nice guy. I think Astra’s still carrying a torch for him.”
“So? That’s a bit of Sollywood gossip that never got on the telecasts.”
“Which reminds me: I haven’t forgotten about your swizard girl. We’re having dinner with her tonight, if we get through here in time.”
“I wish you hadn’t told me. I’ll be thinking about that dinner instead of lovestonite. But what do you think Valentinez can tell us?”
“I don’t know. I only know that it seemed to tie in somehow with this problem of his. And any lead that you can get—”
The copter dropped straight down onto the rolling dunes. It might have been a time machine that had carried them out of the reach of all signs of progress. Nothing but the ramshackle studio indicated the presence of man, and even that might have come bodily out of some far earlier century.
“Mig!” Uranov shouted. “Hi, Mig! Get out the glasses! Company!”
No answer came from the wind-worn wooden studio. Garrett and Uranov plowed up the hillock to the door and paused to empty sand from their shoes. Uranov beat a rhythmic tattoo on the weather-beaten door. There was still no answer.
Garrett pushed at the door, and old-fashioned hinged affair. It swung open. The only trace of progress inside the studio was the hundreds of microbooks and their projector. There were shelves upon shelves of the older paper books, too, and canvases and an easel and brushes and paint pots and rags and everything but Emigdio Valentinez.
He heard Uranov’s puzzled voice from behind his shoulder. “We’d have heard about it if he’d come back to town. The man’s news.”
“He’s probably out painting someplace. You’re the one that knows him; you go scout around. I’ll wait here in case you miss him and he comes back.”
Uranov nodded. “I’ll be glad to. I can see how Mig feels about this stretch of coast. You see nothing but sand and ocean and your soul begins to come back inside you. Maybe with a shack like this I could write the—” He shook himself and said, “See you later.”
Garrett was glad to be rid of a witness. Even the cynical Uranov might not appreciate the ethics of W.B.I. work. To find what has to be found, that is the important thing. The moral problem involved in the guest’s right to search his host’s belongings is secondary. Supposing Valentinez, when he did
