own voice. “And out of Detroit, at that!”
“Now wait a moment,” Earnest said, from well outside the ring of workers. “You can’t tell these people how to do their jobs…”
Oxnard asked, “Why? Union rules?”
“Union?”
“We don’t have trade unions.”
“Lord, that’s
Earnest smiled patiently. “Trade unions were disbanded in Canada years ago. That’s one of the many areas where our society is far ahead of the States.”
Shaking his head, Oxnard said, “All right. But a starship can’t have wings and fins on it. What it does need is radiative surfaces. You can change those fins from an aerodynamic shape…”
They listened to him with hostile, sullen countenances. Earnest folded his arms across his chest and smiled, like an indulgent uncle who would rather let his oddball nephew make an ass of himself than argue with him. Oxnard tried to explain some of the rationale of an interstellar vehicle and when he saw that it wasn’t penetrating, he asked the crew if they’d ever seen photos of spacecraft or satellites. “They don’t look like airplanes, do they?”
They agreed to that, reluctantly, and Oxnard had to settle for a moral victory.
When Earnest showed him the set they were constructing for the bridge of the starship, it was the same battle all over again. But this time it was with Earnest himself, since the carpenters and other contractors were nowhere in sight.
“But this looks like the bridge of a ship… an ocean liner!” Oxnard protested.
Earnest nodded. “It’s been built to Mr. Finger’s exact specifications. It’s a replica of the bridge on his ship, the
Oxnard puffed out an exasperated breath. “But a starship doesn’t sail in the ocean! It wouldn’t have a steering wheel and a compass for godsake!”
“It’s what Mr. Finger wants.”
“But it’s wrong!”
Earnest smiled his patient, infuriating smile. “We’re accustomed to you Yanks coming here and finding fault with everything we Canadians do.”
And no matter what Oxnard said, the Badger Studios executive dismissed it as Yankee imperialism.
Brenda met him for lunch and drove out to one of the hotel restaurants, away from the studio cafeteria.
“I’m beginning to see what you’re up against,” Oxnard told her. “They’re all going every which way with no direction, no idea of what the show needs.”
“That’s right,” Brenda agreed.
“But where’s Ron? Why isn’t he straightening this out? He knows better…”
“After lunch,” Brenda said, “I’ll take you to Ron’s place… if the guards let us through, that is.”
She wasn’t kidding.
Two uniformed security police flanked the door of Gabriel’s hotel suite. One of them recognized Brenda, asked her about Oxnard, then reluctantly let them both through.
The foyer of the suite looked normal enough, although there was an obviously broken typewriter on the floor next to the door. Its lid was open and it looked as if someone had stomped on its innards in a rage of frustration.
The sitting room was a mess. Wadded up sheets of paper were strewn everywhere, ankle deep. The sofas and chairs were covered with paper; The chandelier was piled high with it. The paper crackled and scrunched underfoot as they walked into the room. Invisible beneath the wads lay a luxurious carpet. Two more typewriters sat on two separate desks, near the windows. A huge pile of papers loomed over one of the typewriters.
“Ron?” called Brenda.
No answer.
She looked into the bedroom on the right, as Oxnard stood in the middle of the paper sea feeling rather stunned.
“Ron?” Brenda called again.
With a worried expression on her face, she waded through the litter and went into the other bedroom.
“Ron?” Her voice sounded panicky now.
Oxnard went into the bedroom after her. The double bed was rumpled. Drawers were hanging out of the dresser. The TV—a flat, two-dimensional set—was on and babbling some midday women’s show.
The window was open.
“My god, he escaped!” Brenda shouted. “Or jumped!”
She ran to the window and peered down.
Oxnard pushed open the door to the bathroom. The floor was wet. Towels were hanging neatly beside the tub. The shower screen was closed.
Almost as if he were a detective in a mystery show, Oxnard gingerly slipped the shower screen back a few centimeters, wondering if he ought to be careful about fingerprints.
“Brenda,” he said. “Here he is.”
She hurried into the bathroom. “Is he…”
Gabriel lay in the tub, up to his armpits in water. His eyes were closed, his mouth hung open. There was several days’ stubble on his chin. His face looked awful.
Brenda gulped once and repeated, “is he…”
Without opening his eyes, Gabriel said, “He was asleep, until you two klutzes came barging in here.”
Brenda sagged against Oxnard and let out a breath of relief.
Within a few minutes they were all sitting in the sitting room, Gabriel with the inevitable towel draped around his middle.
“They’ve had me going over these abortions they call story treatments for six days straight! They won’t let me out of here. They even took out the goddamned phone! I’m a prisoner.”
Brenda said, “They need the scripts, Ron. We’re working against a deadline now. If we’re not in production by…”
“In production?” Gabriel’s voice rose. “With what? Have you looked at these treatments? Have you tried to read any of them? The ones that are spelled halfway right, at least?”
“Are they that bad?” Oxnard asked.
“Bad?” Gabriel jumped to his feet. “Bad? They’re abysmal! They’re insufferable! They’re rotten! Junk, nothing but junk…”
He kicked at the paper on the floor and stomped over to the desk. “Listen to these treatments… these are the ideas they want to write about…” Riffling through the pile of papers on the desk, he pulled out a single sheet.
Oxnard started to say, “Maybe we ought to…”
“No, no… you listen. And you!” he jabbed a finger toward Brenda— “You better get back to Big Daddy in L.A. and tell him what the hell’s going on here. If we were in the States, I’d call the Civil Liberties Union. If I had a phone.”
“What about the story ideas, Ron?” she asked.
“Hah! Story ideas. Okay, listen… here’s one about two families working together to build a dam on a new planet that’s described as, get this now… ‘very much like upper Alberta Province, such as around Ft. Vermillion.’”
Oxnard looked at Brenda. She said, “Okay, so you don’t care for the setting. What’s the story idea?”
“That is the story ideal That’s the whole treatment… about how to build a dam! Out of logs, yet!”
Brenda made a disapproving face. “You picked the worst one.”
“Oh yeah? Lemme go down the list for you…”
Gabriel spent an hour reading story treatments to them:
