‘The Starcrossed’ was a vehicle worthy of my Krishna-given talents.”
“Have you met the people who’ll be working for you on ‘The Starcrossed’?”
“Not yet.”
“Have you read any of the scripts?”
“Do you think Shakespeare and science fiction can be mixed?”
“Why not? If Will were alive today, he’d be writing science fiction.”
“What do you think is the best film you’ve ever directed?”
Without an instant’s hesitation, Westerly replied, “The one I’m working on now. In this case, the entire series, ‘The Starcrossed.’”
But in his mind, his life flashed before his consciousness like a videotape spun at dizzying, blurring speed. He knew the best film he had done; everyone in the room knew it; the one original piece of work he had been able to do, the first major job he had tackled, as a senior back at UCLA:
He had never done anything so fine again. He became successful. He directed “True to Life” TV shows and made money and fame. He married Virginia while they were both still growing and changing. Unlike the magnetic patterns on video tape, they did not stay frozen in place forever. They split, slowly and sadly at first, then with the wild burning anger of betrayal and hate. By the time he directed his first major production and was nominated for an Oscar, his world had already crashed around him.
“Do you really think ‘The Starcrossed’ is award-winning material?”
The question snapped him back to this small stuffy overcrowded room, with the news people playing their part in the eternal charade. So he went back to playing his.
“‘The Starcrossed’ has the potential of an award-winning series. It won’t be eligible for an Oscar because it’s not a one-time production. But it should be in contention for an Emmy as Best Dramatic Series.”
Satisfied that they had put his neck in the noose, the news people murmured their thanks and headed on to their next assignments.
Westerly went straight to the studio, while two of the PR Oaks took his luggage to the hotel. He almost asked why it took a pair of them to escort his one flight bag to the hotel, but thought better of it. If he raised a question about it, Westerly knew, they’d wind up assigning a third PR man to supervise the first two.
Gregory Earnest met him at the studio, looking somber in a dark gray jumpsuit. His face was as deeply hidden by bushy beard and tangled mane as ever, but since Westerly had seen him last—many months earlier, in Nepal— Earnest’s face had subtly changed, improved. His nose seemed slightly different, somehow.
“I’m glad you’re finally here,” Earnest said, with great seriousness. “Now maybe we can start to bring some order out of this chaos.”
He showed Westerly around the sets that had been built in the huge studio. The place was empty and quiet, except for a small group of people off to one side who were working on some kind of aerial rigging. Westerly ignored them and studied the sets.
“This is impossible,” he said at last.
“What?” Earnest’s eyebrows disappeared into his bushy forelocks. “What do you mean?”
“These sets.” Westerly stood in the middle of the starship bridge, surrounded by complicated-looking cardboard consoles. “They’re too deep. How’re we going to move cameras in and out around all this junk? It’ll take hours to make a single shot!”
Earnest sighed with relief. “Oh that. You’ve never directed a three-doe show before, have you?”
“No, but…”
“Well, one of the things audiences like is a lot of depth in each scene. We don’t put all the props against the walls anymore… we scatter them around the floor. Makes a better three-dimensional effect.”
“But the cameras…”
“They’re small enough to move through the standing props. We measured all the tolerances…”
“But I thought three-dee cameras were big awkward mothers.”
Earnest cast a rare smile at him. It was not a pleasant thing to see. “That was two years ago. Time marches on. A lot of transistors have flown under the bridge. You’re not in the Mystic East anymore.”
Westerly pushed his glasses up against the bridge of his nose. “I see,” he said.
“Hey! There you are!” A shout came echoing across the big, nearly empty room.
Earnest and Westerly turned to see a stubby little guy dashing toward them. He wore a Starcrossed tee shirt and a pair of old-fashioned sailor’s bell-bottoms, complete with a thirteen-button trapdoor in front.
“Oh God,” Earnest whined nasally. “It’s Ron Gabriel.”
Gabriel skidded to a halt in front of the director. They were almost equal in height, much to Earnest’s surprise.
“You’re Mitch Westerly,” Gabriel panted.
“And you’re Ron Gabriel” He grinned and took Gabriel’s offered hand.
“I’ve been a fan of yours,” Gabriel said, “ever since ‘The Reawakening.’ Best damned piece of tape I ever saw.”
Westerly immediately liked the writer. “Well, thanks.”
“Everything else you’ve made since then has been crap.”
Westerly liked him even more. “You’re damn right,” he admitted.
“How the hell they ever gave you an Oscar for that abortion two years ago is beyond me.”
Westerly shrugged, suddenly carefree because there were no pretenses to maintain. “Money and politics, man. You know the game. Same thing goes for writers’ awards.”
Gabriel made a face that was halfway between rue and embarrassment Then he grinned. “Yeah. Guess so.”
Earnest said, “I’m taking Mr. Westerly on a tour of the studio facilities…”
“Go pound sand up your ass,” Gabriel said. “I’ve gotta talk about the scripts.” He grabbed at Westerly’s arm. “Come on, I’ll buy you a beer or something.”
“I don’t drink.”
“Great Neither do I.” They started off together, leaving Earnest standing there. Behind his beard, his face was redder than a Mounties jacket at sunset.
The studio cafeteria was murky with pot smoke, since smoking of all sorts was forbidden on the sets because of the fire hazard.
“Now let me get this straight,” Westerly was saying. “The original scripts were written by high school kids as part of a contest?”
They were sitting at a corner table, near the air conditioning blowers, sipping gingerales.
Gabriel nodded slowly. “I’ve been working since summer with Brenda and Bill Oxnard to make some sense out of them. I’ve also written two original scripts of my own.”
“And that’s all we’ve got to shoot with?”
“That’s right.”
“Krishna’s left eyebrow!”
“Huh?”
