Terrors (45 page)

Martin van Buren MacTavish, standing behind Josephine, danced up and down in anxiety, clutching his master copy of the script.

Karlos Karch
came shambling out of the shadows, out of the dim corridor that led from the circulation desk to the locked and guarded rare book room.

As Karlos passed the circulation desk, the voice of an extra came from off-camera. “Stop that man! He’s stealing a book!”

Gaza de Lure II hit a button and an iron gate (this was Marty’s invention and he was proud of it) clanged into place, blocking Karlos’s
exit from the room.

Lemon and Lime were at the opposite ends of the sky, Lemon just rising and Lime just setting, with Cherry directly overhead as the
Clare Winger Harris
spiraled down toward a landing in
Dinganzicht
. The artificial world’s landing port was opened and the shuttle entered neatly.

Within a matter of minutes, Tarquin Armbruster IV and Gold Abromowitz were greeted by marketing representatives
from Macrotech Associates, and within a matter of minutes after that a conference was taking place between Tarquin, Golda, and a team of Macrotech sales and engineering people in a plush office with the Macrotech complex.

Back in a service hangar, the shuttle ship
Clare Winger Harris
had been racked and fuelled and was being held for its owners’ return.

Some of the service techs and space jockeys
who worked in the hangar noticed that the
Harris
had a thin coating over most of its surface, a peculiarly textured greenish gunk that looked almost like an ultrathin layer of sponge. But, what the hey, the owners hadn’t requested a scrub-up, just a top-off of the fuel tanks. And what they asked for was what they got.

Ch-ch-ch Junior was left pretty much to itself. It still had the thoughts that
it had picked up from Tarquin and Golda to ponder, and although Junior had been alive for a fairly lengthy period
of time—and although it was a remarkably intelligent bit of vegetation—Junior was still very new at this consciousness business, and was having quite a time for itself trying to deal with all of the perceptions and thoughts to which it had rather suddenly fallen heir.

So, since nobody
had bothered it any—hey, nobody had much noticed it!—Junior just hung onto the
Clare Winger Harris
and pondered.

Golda and Tarquin, over at Macrotech, had pretty well sketched in their problem for the market and engineering folks. The Macrotech people invited them to have lunch in the executive dining room, but Golda, who was of somewhat proletarian attitudes, insisted on buying her own lunch
in the employees’ cafeteria.

Now you have to pay close attention at this point, because something very remarkable happened. Something that couldn’t have been planned. And it makes you wonder about the workings of chance, and whether they are altogether blind.

Hmm.

Golda and Tarquin were seated with some Macrotech honchos at a small table, eating a cold salad.

Amy 2-3-4- Al-Khnemu and Alexander
Ulianov were sitting nearby, also eating salad.

Golda and Tarquin were talking about the movie business.

Amy and Alex were talking about high-tech food-processors, having been “Pope Innocent the Sixth’ed as they left their communications lab at lunch time.

At precisely the same moment during their respective meals, both Amy and Golda found it necessary to answer a call of nature. Both of them
repaired to the facility. While there they struck up a casual conversation.

Amy told Golda that she was working with Dr. Ulianov on a new line of food-processors.

Golda expressed only polite interest.

Then Golda told Amy that she was working for Mr. Armbruster of Colossal Galactic Studios, that she was production chief and they were planning a big-budget horror movie.

Amy allowed as how she
was interested in movies herself when she wasn’t busy designing food-processors. Especially old movies.

Golda allowed as how she shared that interest. She was, in fact, probably the greatest Formalhautian film historian alive.

Amy responded with enthusiasm, reeling off the names of her favorite old-time films, directors, writers, and actors.

Gold responded with her own favorites. Now would
you like to know the names of Golda Abromowitz’s favorite real-old-time movie actresses? You would? Good! Here they come:

Sara Algood.

Verree Teasdale.

Butterfly McQueen.

Anna May Wong.

Jane Darwell.

Dorothy Gish.

Lupe Velez.

Lynn Bari.

Carmen Miranda.

Vera Hruba Ralston.

Bingo
!

No sooner had Golda mentioned Vera Hruba Ralston, the star of such memorable flix as
The Lady and the Monster,
Storm Over Lisbon
, and
Murder in the Music Hall
, than Amy 2-3-4 Al-Khnemu underwent a sudden, slight but noticeable, transition. Her face seemed to sag for an instant before resuming an expression almost—but not quite—exactly the same that it had shown before the mention of Vera Hruba Ralston.

Not for nothing was Golda Abramowitz regarded as one of the brightest talents in the entire flixbiz.
She was knowledgeable, she was intelligent, she was talented, and she was perceptive. Wow, was she ever perceptive!

That fleeting change in Amy 2-3-4 Khnemu’s expression, that momentary sag of the jaw muscles, that instant of disorientation in her eyes, would have gone unnoticed by almost anyone not carefully looking for such signs. But they didn’t get past Golda Abramowitz. She took hold of
Amy’s hands.

“Are you all right?”

“Of course I am.” Amy blushed. “Look, I’ve really enjoyed out little chat, I’m happy we met. Maybe we can get together for a mild intoxicant after work. But right now I have to get back to the instant commo project with Alex.”

Did you catch that? Golda Abramowitz sure as hell did. “What instant commo project?”

Amy shook her head. She pulled her hands free
of Golda’s. “Look, I have to make a living. I’m working on an instant-communicator for Macrotech.” She checked the time. “I do have to get back to work.”

“Now just hold on. There’s something very strange here.”

Amy might have been inclined to push past Golda and just stalk away, but she thought better of
that
. After all, Golda Abramowitz was a seven-foot tall Formalhautan. You didn’t just brush
past her. No you did not.

Golda and Amy sat down on a cushioned sofa there in the ladies’ lounge, and before coffee could cool back at their respective tables, they had unravelled the whole scheme that Biff Connaught and Cyndora Vexmann had so skillfully and ruthlessly woven.

The one thing they could
not
unravel was the key word that set Alex and Amy up to think they were working on food-processors.
But even that part of the Macrotech scheme was shortly to fail—and in an equally unlikely and farfetched manner.

Dig it:

As Amy 2-3-4 Al-Khnemu and Golda Abramowitz sat in the lounge working out the details of the key-word security scheme, Tarquin Armbruster IV and his hosts were still seated in the cafeteria, sipping coffee, smoking cigars, and carrying on a conversation consisting of just
the type of small talk that such new business acquaintances would indulge in under the circumstances.

One of the Macrotech executives remarked on Tark’s classical name.

Armbruster explained that he was descended from ancient old earth Roman nobility. He was one of a family that had produced Roman senators, Italian doges, and Catholic popes. Among his illustrious ancestors, Tarquin mentioned—yes—you
guessed it!

Just as Tarquin Armbruster spoke those portentous words,
Pope Innocent the Sixth
, Golda and Amy hove into earshot.

Again Amy 2-3-4 Al-Khnemu’s face sagged for the barest instant.

Gold hissed, “Quick, Amy! What’s your project?”

“Uh—high-tech food-processors. But –”

“Vera Hruba Ralston!”

“Instant communication.”

“Amy, that’s it! Grab your partner. You two and Tarkie and I have
got to have a private conference, fast!”

Mere hours later, Tarquin Armbruster IV, Golda Abramowitz, Amy 2-3-4 Al-Khnemu,
and Alexander Ulianov were aboard the
Clare Winger Harris
and that little ship was making its way from
Dinganzicht
back to
Starrett
and Hollywood-between-the-Stars.

It had taken some time to hire Al-Khnemu and Ulianov away from Macrotech Associates. Basically, Tarquin Armbruster
had offered fat pay checks, full support for their research projects, and a major participation in any product they developed in behalf of Colossal Galactic.

Getting them away from
Dinganzicht
, physically, had been an equal challenge. Macrotech didn’t want to let them go. There was no legal way the corporation could stop Amy and Alex from leaving, but they used every bit of moral suasion, economic
arm-twisting, and psychological pressure available.

Biff Connaught even tried pulling a gun, believe it or not. But when Amy threatened to blurt out the real meaning of the P. H. in P. H. “Biff” Connaught with her dying breath, Biff subsided.

Cyndora Vexmann tried some of her hypnotic-conditioning type manipulation, but Amy and Alex were on their guard against that and Cyndora couldn’t bring
it off.

There was even a squabble at the
Dinganzicht
portal about Customs and Astrogation clearances, but Tarquin Armbruster IV had the right combination of nerve and smarts to get them through that.

So here was
Clare Winger Harris
shussing merrily along, the yellow, cerise, and green of Fornax 1382 behind it, the metallic shape of
Starrett
looming in its radar-telescope, and its four occupants
chatting in the cabin while the shuttle coasted along. Amy and Alex mainly listened; for all their engineering know-how and scientific prowess, they felt themselves to be planetbound rubes in the presence of these members of the interstellar set.

“I don’t really understand, Tarquin, why you’re so interested in this instantaneous communication project. Are you planning to give up flix for the
commo business?”

Tarquin peered through the space telescope at
Starrett
. He turned and re-lit a soggy, half-smoked Havana Perfecto. “Darling, let me tell you something. Gold dear, you are a wonderful production chief, you know all about old movies and all about new flix. You are terrific at your job plus having the prettiest green skin and white fur of anybody I know, Golda darling.”

Golda flushed
blue. (That’s how Formalhautans blush or flush.) “We were going to
Dinganzicht
for some help with the special effects.
With the Whateley twins. That isn’t what we got.”

“Darling,” Tarquin said, “what we got here, I tell you, is worth thirty yukky monsters. No, thirty thousand.”

“I know you really mean, that, Tarquin. You always start sounding like a character out of Yiddish theater when you’re
sincere, which isn’t often.”

“Golda you can say such a thing to me, to Tarquin Armbruster IV?”

“But what good will a super space telegraph do Colossal Galactic?”

“Golda, sweetheart, listen to an old man what has seen it all, that that would make you blush like cobalt. Golda, when we make a show, like
Suicide Ranch
starring Buck Longabaugh, may he rest in peace poor Buck, how many times did
we sell
Suicide Ranch
? To how many planets, do you remember? For how much
gelt
?”

“That one I know, Tark. We’ve sold it a hundred eleven times. The flik made production costs on the sixty-third sale, total nut on the ninety-sixth. Now it’s a nice little money-maker.”

Tarquin drew on his Perfecto, blew a perfect smoke ring, and winked in the direction of Amy and Alexander. “And by the time we
finish selling
Suicide Ranch
, Golda sweetheart, how many times do you think we can sell it? A hundred fifty? Two hundred? Before it’s too old and creaky and we got to put it on the art-house circuit which pays, may my worst enemies make only art-house fliks, practically nothing?”

“I guess about two hundred.”

“But if we didn’t have to wait for
Starrett
to visit each world? If we could send holo
images like the old teewee pix, only instantly not at light speed, darling? If we could offer, say,
The Dunwich Horror
all at once to everybody while it’s brand new? If we could make for it a galaxy-wide simultaneous premiere with spotlasers and celebrities on every civilized planet in the galaxy—how many times could we sell it then? Hah?”

Golda opened her lips to answer, but before she could
get a syllable out, Tarquin continued.

“Don’t interrupt your elders, darling. Think of me, and old man. Soon I’ll be dead and gone, so le talk please while I can. Thousands of planets we could sell to, thousands. What will we make from
The Dunwich Horror
I’ll tell you, Gold, a fortune. A positive fortune. That’s why I hired these two big domes, you should pardon my bluntness, Dr. Al-Khnemu, Dr.
Ulianov. So –”

Tarquin leaned back in his chair and grinned. “What do you think of that, hey?”

Ch-ch-ch Junior found itself back inside
Starrett
and felt a pleasant sensation that it might have known as the warmth of homecoming, had it ever heard of such a thing. The little ship
Clare Winger Harris
entered
Starrett
via Kaspak Portal and then skimmed its way across the center of the tincan toward
Hollywood-between-the-Stars.

En route
, the shuttle zipped through the null-g zone and bits of Ch-ch-ch Junior were scraped off, reattaching themselves to Ch-ch-ch Senior, transferring their recollections with them. Simultaneously, bits of Ch-ch-ch Senior adhered to the rough surface of
Harris
(said roughness consisting of Junior!) and remaining with the ship as it dropped toward the wall of the
world.

The
Harris
made berth at Hollywood-between-the-Stars, midway between Mix Mesa and Lugosi Lagoon. Tarquin Armbruster IV and Golda Abramowitz, Amy 2-3-4 Al-Khnemu and Alexander Ulianov set out for Tarquin’s office to talk business. They didn’t even look back as they moved away from the
Harris
. They didn’t see the translucently thin, greenish coating slide from the shuttle and begin to slither
across the ground.