Tintagel (22 page)

A couple stood before him. The man could have been anyone's Pop, and beside him was Mom. He wore a somber black Stetson with a red and blue feather curving outward from the tooled-leather hatband. She wore tight slacks—perhaps too tight for her age—that still managed to make her look attractive. She snuggled deep inside her sheepskin coat. They both seemed as if they worked hard for a living.

And now, Lanier thought, they've come to see a movie about Hollywood decadence. About easy living and the idle bourgeoisie.

He carefully observed them. How were their lives changed by the world about them? Was this the future they had envisioned years ago when they married, had their children, took on jobs and debts? The most recent brush with aeroplankton was only two weeks ago. Did they work a ranch in the Bitterroot Valley? Did the tractors clog with aeroplankton in their air filters and carburetors? Did their cattle suffocate?

Yes
, he thought. Mom and Pop have their problems, like the rest. The wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, the skin of his face like leather, showed Lanier as much. The man could have been his own father, a sheep rancher, cattle rancher, hunter.

A cold wind blew down the street before the theater, brushing them as they waited in line. The streetlights and the theater marquee lights blotted out the stars for the present, as if they were hiding. Yet, he himself was no different, really. He was hiding in Montana, hiding in line with his cowboy hat pulled low as if he were a renegade. He felt only like retreating.

I'm tired
, he thought.
I'm tired of everything. I want out
. Once inside the theater, he lost himself to its almost embryonic comfort. Everyone relaxed in the low lights. And here it was warm.

The crowd was made up primarily of adults, since the movie was rated for only an older crowd. Even so, the film had been highly touted when it first came out. Critics had praised its integrity. Millions, worldwide, stormed to see it as soon as it was available. In Montana, it was pulling in enormous crowds, the same as everywhere else. Lanier was very interested in just how good the movie was to the audience, and he was also curious about its effect. An audience can make a vast difference at any performance. If the chemistry is right, a movie can become an emotional experience simply because of the crowd's participation.

Perhaps it was the lack of an audience when he had his own private screening of her films that made him want to see a movie of hers with a regular audience. He felt that her movies were not any different from any other films that had come out the last few years. They were well produced, slick, and very much in an extravagant mold. But, from his own viewings, they were nothing to rave about, even if Ellie Estevan was very beautiful.
Was
…

Lanier glanced around him as the lights suddenly began to dim.
What would they do
, he thought to himself,
if they knew she would be officially reported dead in a few weeks' time, that she died because of the Syndrome? There are many eager and excited faces in the audience. Some of these people have seen this particular film before. They are just regular people: secretaries, insurance salesmen, carpenters, impoverished college students, housewives. How will they react
?

And he sat them, recalling Ellie Estevan's fall through the floor of the hemispherical Eden, the hexagonal trapdoor tumbling beside her as she fell. The heat in his face. The smell. The fog. The cool green grass.

That was real, and
this
is real. A small fist of sadness lodged itself in the center of his chest.
The third chakra
, he thought to himself.
The chakra of love. Just below the heart
.

Suddenly, Lanier stiffened. The curtains parted before the screen, and the music of the film score filled the theater. He recognized it at once. The slow, processional tympani began the theme from William Schuman's
New England Triptych
, and the titles to the film rose majestically on the screen. People shifted, getting settled in their seats. A woman seated in the row just ahead of him shuddered where she sat.

Lanier's eyes went wide with shock. It was as if he were having a sudden heart attack. He gripped the armrests, shaking in a violent seizure.

This is wrong! Something is different
!

It was the same opening sequence of the movie that he had seen in his own living room, in the comfort of his own private surroundings, but something had taken over the atmosphere of the film. In this film, music shivered up and down his spine uncontrollably, the seats of the theater themselves vibrated slightly to the tensions the music described. The first scene, as the music continued, took him to the open countryside of Vermont.
Took him there
: as if the whole thing were absolutely, unquestionably real! His heart began beating rapidly.

He was completely entranced, hypnotized. Despite his depression and the knowledge of the death—and the
reality
of the death—of Ellie Estevan, Lanier sat there, fearfully rooted. Mesmerized. He had never seen
this
movie before!

Something was in the actual film itself, mixed in with the soundtrack, and it was being transmitted at a very low level, subliminally. The first character of the film strode into the scene, and as if on cue, the audience began silently weeping, knowing just how tragic the fate of this man would be. Lanier sat wide-eyed, enthralled by the story that was about to unfold before him. His skin tingled with electricity.
The music
…

He got up, forcing himself to turn his back on the effect of the music score. He hastily scrambled up the aisle into the outer lobby. A few disgruntled stares followed him as he burst desperately through the swinging doors.

No one was in the lobby. The ticket taker, the girls at the concession stand, were all inside watching the film. He leaned against the glass counter, breathing rapidly. He shook. The vibrations of the movie could be felt even in here; their effect was diminished somewhat by the walls themselves. He closed his eyes.

All the symptoms of Liu Shan's Syndrome, except milder and much more controlled! Purposely controlled
!

Lanier climbed the steps beyond the door with the sign
EMPLOYEES ONLY
to the projection booth. There, through a tiny glass window, he could see the manager and the projectionist sitting enraptured by the movie. The large first reel slowly rotated above them. They must have seen
Halcyon Days
a hundred times, and yet they looked as if it were their first viewing. Like junkies, they were hooked.

Lanier fought to control the sensations in his spine. There was something in the music, and whatever it was, it was also ingrained onto the actual celluloid itself. Sympathetic harmonic vibrations were being transmitted that coincided with the emotions being displayed by the actors on the screen.
Subconscious manipulation
, he realized, stunned by the discovery.

Lanier stepped back down the stairs, thinking. Movie sound-tracks—especially the music chosen for background effect—were always used to coincide with the dramatic elements for the high points in film. It was to anticipate moments at which audience response was to be elevated.

But this was something new, something completely different. There had been many gimmicks to lure audiences into theaters before, but nothing like this. And the audience inside didn't appear to notice the difference. It was the level of Baktropol in their systems. They merely absorbed the situation on the screen as if it were real. As if they were in a dream. It was only because he was a Stalker that he could feel the vibrations so strongly in the first place.

The electricity ran along the nerves in his back and shoulders. He staggered. The vibrations subtly piercing the walls of the lobby told him that the character Ellie Estevan played was now onscreen. The music was hers. It was tormented, stormy. Her drama was about to unfurl itself before the audience like a painter's ready canvas.

It wrenched at him. He ran out of the theater into the night.

It was no wonder the movies of Ellie Estevan were breaking box-office records all around the world. That would account for the crowds, the riots, the people wanting to see them again and again. They were being sucked into the center of the movie's fictional elements by having their very feelings manipulated.

"
Where have I been all my life?
" he said to the darkness.

Back at his pickup truck in the crowded parking lot, he swung open the door and sat on the cold seat. He switched the engine on, trying at the same time to calm himself. He had to think this through.

The door still open, he looked up into the night sky. He'd left his hat behind in the theater.
To hell with it
, he said to himself.

And above him were the stars. The tough old stars.

"But not tough enough," he said, quickly closing the door and throwing the pickup into gear.

Chapter Twelve

Symphony No. 7

Roy Harris

The pickup slid across the mud and gravel of his driveway, as Lanier pulled in front of his ranch house. He leaped from the side of the vehicle as the front door of the house burst open. Christy ran out while Charlie Gilbert stood alone in the doorway, holding it open to the night air.

"Fran," she met him, speaking urgently. "Oh, I'm glad you're back. Something terrible's happened!"

Lanier waved her aside, almost rudely, looking beyond to Charlie. "No time for that. I just went into town and …"

But he couldn't finish. Christy blurted out: "The President has gone under! Katie …"

Lanier froze. "What?" He looked back up at Charlie.

Charlie stood aside in the door. He said, "It came in over DataCom. We came back and Christy went in to check on something, and it was just arriving."

"And there it was," Christy said, concerned. "And at about that very minute. Ken Collins, the press secretary, called over the video scrambler."

Lanier looked at them, unbelieving.

"Where? How did it happen?"

"At a concert at Georgetown University. Tonight, just an hour ago. Ken said that they're keeping everyone mum. The place's shut down tight. But the press will pick up on it real fast. Maybe they have it already."

"Shit!" Lanier swore suddenly. "What happened? How?"

"No one knows for sure," Christy said. "Collins doesn't even know how such a thing could've happened. All the immunity cards were checked, especially Katie's. They even turned some important people away. Their individual ratings weren't good enough."

Lanier stared darkly at them. Christy had never seen him like this before.

She went on. "Katie was there with Senator Randell, and they …"

Randell?" Lanier, in the center of the living room, still in his coat, spun around. "Randell's in the middle of everything."

"Collins said that the concert was going fine," Charlie related. "Then,
poof
! They went." He waved his huge arms around expressively.

"They?"

"Oh, yeah," Charlie pointed out. "About fifteen people went at exactly the same instant in the performance." He smiled wryly. "But not Randell. He's still here. He's helping get things organized."

Lanier paced around the living room, his mind completely aswirl.

Christy came back with the printout.

"You know," Lanier began, "tonight something very unusual happened to me."

They watched him. Silence otherwise filled the spaces of the living room. He paced back and forth. He turned to Charlie Gilbert with a fierce look in his eyes.

"Look, Charlie, I want you to get your boys over here pronto."

Surprised, Charlie asked, "Now? What's up?"

"I've just realized a lot of things that didn't seem possible before. Down at the Watson Pueblo Theater they're showing
Halcyon Days
. I want you and your boys to get it for me. I want the actual physical copy of the film. All of the reels. Get a court order or just plain steal it."

"So that's where you went," Christy broke in. "We tried calling you everywhere. We didn't think that …"

"I know, I know," he said. "It just came over me to go see her for one last time."

"Ellie?"

"Yes, Ellie." He looked at his watch. "But when it closes tonight"—he looked at Charlie—"
I want that film
."

He turned to Christy and began removing his jacket. "Then, while I'm gone, I want you to set up the projection equipment we have here."

She gave him an exasperated look, a look that said
It's Friday night, that we need a break
.

"I know it's a hassle, but it'll be worth it, believe me."

Charlie said, "What's this all about?"

Lanier walked over to the door of his workroom. "Well, do you remember years ago—Jesus, I can't recall how long off-hand—but it was before our time, when that technician Leander"—he snapped his fingers—"Alex Leander invented a process of using a set of frequencies in television broadcasting for audience manipulation?"

Charlie said, "Certainly." Christy didn't know what they were talking about. But Charlie continued, "The Leander Interphase, I think it was called. The casebooks said that the equipment was confiscated and he was going to be brought to trial. Subterfuge, I think. The experts said it was a hoax and Leander disappeared. How long ago was that anyway?"

Lanier said, "Easily twenty years ago. But I think that it has resurfaced again. Get those film canisters from the Watson Pueblo and see for yourselves while I'm gone. If I'm thinking right, you'll be able to use it on any projector. But you'll find that the Leander Interphase is ingrained on the film of
Halcyon Days
. Check it against my copy of the movie. But be careful," he urged. "Don't get caught. I'll be gone for more than six hours this time, if this disease has gotten as bad as we think it has. And I want you guys to be here when I get back."

Christy scurried around in the library for the correct sonic-wafer.