Trouble in Warp Space (11 page)

“And attract the attention of the news media,” Webb added, suppressing a yawn. “We don’t need
reporters poking around. We’ve got enough trouble meeting our schedule as it is. If we’re not careful, this could be the end of the show.”

“Let’s not overreact,” Sandy said. “We’ve gotten through some tight spots before. What we really need is to get some rest and start fresh tomorrow.”

“You mean later this morning,” Pekar said, correcting her.

She sighed. “Later this morning, then.”

Security locked the place down for the night and posted guards outside the soundstage. Webb, O’Sullivan, and Pekar went home to catch what sleep they could before reporting to work in the morning. Pekar refused to go to the hospital to have his head looked at. “Who has time?” he said.

The Hardys and the Mortons were escorted back to their trailer by the studio guards.

“How bad do you think the studio situation really is?” Iola asked when they were alone.

“Pretty bad, I’d say,” Frank said. “Webb and O’Sullivan took the damage to the sets in stride, but it’s sure to hit the show in the pocketbook.”

“Boy,” Iola said, “things sure have been messed up since we got here.”

“At least Sandy and Webb aren’t blaming us for the troubles,” Chet said.

“Not yet, anyway,” Joe countered. “But they could. After all, Frank and I are the only ones who saw this intruder we fought.”

“How did the real culprit get past the guards?” Chet asked.

“Clearly he knows the studio better than we do,” Frank said. “We were lucky to catch him at all on the soundstage. If there’d been only one of us, he’d have gotten away scott free.”

“And security isn’t great at the studio,” Joe said. “Probably that’s one of the areas where they’re saving money.”

“Everything they’re saving there, they’re losing in sabotage and stolen goods,” Iola said.

Frank and Joe both nodded. “There’s nothing more we can do tonight,” Frank said. “Maybe we’ll have some new ideas in the morning.”

“I’d settle for some old ideas,” Chet said, “just so long as they explain what’s going on around here.”

•  •  •  

The morning was gray and overcast. Chet woke up early for his makeup call, only to find that Peck Wilson had returned from the hospital. Chet’s stint as the Slayer from Sirius was over.

Chet returned to the trailer and moped. “I’m out of showbiz before I’ve hardly begun!” he said.

“Go back to bed,” Joe said sleepily. “You’ll feel better after some more rest.”

Neither Joe nor Frank could sleep after Chet came back and decided to get up. They ate a quick breakfast in the commissary, then headed to the set.

If the pace around the show had been heated
previously, this day it could only be described as feverish. Stagehands and technicians worked frantically to repair the damage to the sets.

Rod Webb had come up with a scheme to shoot around the damaged sets, and Sandy had rewritten some scenes to accommodate the changes. The dark-haired writer/creator looked as if she’d gotten little or no sleep.

Iola got made up as a different character again and did some more walk-throughs during scenes set in the ship’s corridors and infirmary.

The show’s actors had put aside their differences and were working smoothly as a unit, even the combative Geoff Gross.

“Probably he’s happy to have me out of the Slayer suit,” Chet said quietly.

“What about you?” Joe asked. “Still missing the hot lights?”

Chet shook his head. “Nah. Let Peck Wilson brawl with Gross next time. My bruises haven’t healed yet.”

During a break in shooting, Peck Wilson came over to congratulate Chet for his work in the show. “You really helped out,” Wilson said. “And you don’t look half-bad as the Slayer from Sirius. You might consider doing some stunt work when you get out of school.”

Chet grinned. “Maybe you’ll need an apprentice Slayer by then,” he said.

Wilson laughed. “Let’s hope the show lasts that long.”

“We’re just glad to have you back in action,” Frank said. “The fire could have killed you.”

“That’s what they tell me,” Wilson replied. “I don’t remember much of what happened, to tell you the truth. I went over the hill and then—whammo!—Next thing I know, I wake up in the hospital.”

“Did you slip and fall, or what?” Joe asked.

“I guess I must have,” Wilson said. “I still have a big bump on the back of my head. I must have cracked my skull against a rock.”

“Yeah, probably,” Joe said, but the look he gave Frank said that he didn’t believe it.

After Wilson went back to work, Frank said, “Are you thinking that he was probably hit from behind?”

“Yeah, just like Pekar—by the kung fu alien,” Joe said.

“Why, though?” Chet asked.

“If we knew that, we’d have this mystery solved,” Frank said.

The morning flew by with the crew shooting pages almost as quickly as the rewrites could be printed from Sandy’s computer. When Jerri Bell and Claudia Rajiv finished their morning scenes, they invited Chet, Frank, and Joe to join them for lunch while Iola continued working.

“I don’t see how we can make up for lost time
without shooting this weekend,” Claudia said. “And even then, getting back to the park will be tricky.”

“Maybe Sandy will rewrite those scenes,” Iola suggested.

“Poor Sandy,” Claudia said. “She’s working herself to death.”

“And the rest of us, too,” Jerri said. She sighed and ran a hand through her blond hair. “I guess I’d better cancel my plans for Saturday and Sunday.”

“The price of fame,” Frank said.

Jerri smiled and laughed. “Listen to me!” she said. “The show’s in trouble and I’m worried about a weekend getaway.”

“I’d tell you to get a life, but I think that may be your problem,” Claudia said.

Lunch soon ended, and the women went back to work. Frank, Joe, and Chet lingered for a few moments, finishing their desserts.

“Did you notice that Geoff Gross and Matt Stiller had their eyes on us the whole time Jerri was here?” Frank said.

Joe nodded. “And they left just as soon as Jerri and Claudia did.”

“Well, it’ll be harder for Gross to take a poke at me now that I’m out of the Slayer outfit,” Chet said.

Shooting stretched late into the afternoon, with technicians and actors flying around in a state just short of chaos. Stiller kept busy running errands for
the cast, especially Jerri Bell, and stayed out of the way of the Hardys and Mortons except to toss them an occasional sneer.

“He’s an excellent gofer . . . for a creep,” Iola commented.

“I don’t think Gross is too pleased with him, though,” Joe said. “Look.”

As they watched, Geoff Gross drained the coffee cup in his hand and violently crushed it. He tossed it aside and called, “Stiller! Where’s my coffee?”

Stiller looked annoyed but said, “Coming, Mr. Gross.” He took his tray, piled high with coffee and soft drinks, and ducked behind a flat to cross to Gross’s chair. Webb was working nearby, setting up the next shot. Suddenly he turned and yelled, “Hey! Look out!”

He rushed behind the flat, and a moment later there was a loud popping noise, and the lights on the set went out. Immediately, the emergency lights kicked on, and chaos erupted on the set.

Jerri Bell screamed, “Somebody call an ambulance!”

Frank, Joe, and the others raced to the sound of Jerri’s voice. They found her behind the flat, next to the prone body of Matt Stiller. He lay in a pool of spilled coffee, next to a fallen electrical cable. Stiller’s eyes were wide open, and his body was shaking. His mouth moved, but no intelligible words came out.

Rod Webb, who had been standing next to a nearby circuit-breaker box, dashed to Stiller’s side. “Is he all right?” Webb asked. “That cable must have fallen,” he said. “I tried to warn him, but . . .”

Frank kneeled next to the quivering gofer. “It looks like he’s had a pretty bad shock. We should keep him quiet until the EMTs get here.”

“It’s a good thing I knew where the breaker was,”
Webb said, wiping his sweaty forehead with the back of his sleeve.

“He might have been killed,” Jerri said, tears streaming down her face. She held Stiller’s hand and tried to calm him. Stiller’s eyes darted around frantically, but he still couldn’t talk.

A large group of cast and crew members began to gather. Joe stepped in and said, “Keep back, everybody. Give him room.”

A few long minutes later the EMTs arrived. They quickly stabilized Stiller and put him on a gurney. As the emergency workers rolled Stiller out of the soundstage, he kept his hand clamped tightly around Jerri Bell’s. She followed him out to the ambulance.

On the set, silence reigned for a few moments. Then Rod Webb spoke up. “I . . . I don’t know what to say,” he said. “Everyone take thirty. We’ve still got a schedule to meet.”

Shaken, everyone quietly filed out of the stage. The Hardys and the Mortons retired to their trailer.

“Another accident,” Iola moaned.

“I’m not buying it,” Frank replied.

“If it wasn’t an accident,” Chet said, “how did the perpetrator set it up?”

“You’d need intimate knowledge of the cast and crew,” Joe said. “For example, the alien we fought clearly knew the stage and sets better than we did.”

They pondered the situation but came up with
no new ideas. Finally, Frank said, “The only thing we can do is keep our eyes open. Maybe whoever’s doing this will tip his or her hand somehow.”

They quietly made their way back to the soundstage. When they arrived, they found Sandy, Rod Webb, Claudia, Bruce Reid, Peck Wilson, Ramon Torres, and a number of extras standing near the infirmary set. A larger circle of stagehands and crew members stood beyond the ring of cast members. In the center of the ring was a well-dressed man in a business suit.

The well-dressed man pushed his black-framed glasses up on his nose. “Some of you may know me,” he said. “My name is Mr. Mycroft, and I work with the studio’s business department.”

He looked gravely at everyone gathered as he spoke. “As many of you are aware,
Warp Space
has had a number of difficulties lately—both with ratings and production. In light of today’s accident, the insurance company has suspended our policy, pending a full review.

“With no insurance, we can’t produce this series,” Mycroft said. “Therefore, I am suspending production of
Warp Space
effective immediately. I’m very sorry. The main office will be in touch with all of you regarding settlement of your contracts.”

“You . . . you mean we won’t be starting up again?” Sandy O’Sullivan asked.

“I can’t say for certain,” Mycroft said, “but resuming production seems unlikely at this time.”

Sandy’s lower lip trembled, and she wiped tears from the corners of her eyes. Geoff Gross pounded his fist into one of the set’s walls. Some members of the crew groaned and turned away. Rod Webb tensed. “We’ll fight this,” he said.

“You bet we will,” said Bruce Reid. Claudia, Ramon Torres, and several others grumbled their agreement.

Mycroft took off his glasses and wiped them. “I’m sorry,” he said. “There’s nothing I can do. You should all go home and calm down. The main office will be in touch with every one of you shortly.”

•  •  •  

The mood in Stan Pekar’s studio was as somber as on the rest of the lot when Iola went to have her makeup removed. Pekar and Nelson completed their jobs without much talk. Then Iola and the other crew members went their separate ways. The Hardys and Chet waited for Iola and walked back to the trailer with her.

Just before they went inside, Sandy O’Sullivan dashed up. Her eyes were red from crying.

“I am so sorry about this,” she said. “It’s not the kind of prize we had in mind for the contest.”

Iola gave her a hug. “Oh, Sandy,” she said, “don’t worry about it. It’s not your fault.”

Sandy bit her lower lip to stop it from shaking.
“You can stay in the trailer the rest of the week, of course,” she said. “And I want you to know that we’ll find some alternate prize—perhaps an appearance on another UAN show.”

“We’re not much concerned with the prize at the moment,” Chet said. “I just wish there was some way we could help.”

Sandy shook her head. “There’s nothing you can do,” she said. “If it’ll make you feel better, though, Claudia’s still getting people together at her place in an hour or two because . . . well, I’m afraid it may feel more like a wake than a celebration.”

“We’d be happy to come,” Joe said.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” added Iola.

“Great,” Sandy said. Fumbling with her purse, she pulled out a small photocopied sheet with directions on it and handed it to Iola. “We’ll see you there, then,” she said. “Keep your chins up.”

“You, too,” Chet said.

Sandy gave them a final weak smile. She dashed off toward the main studio building before her emotions could get the better of her.

Frank frowned. “There
is
something more we can do,” he said.

Joe nodded. “We can get to the bottom of this mystery.”

•  •  •  

The Hardys and the Mortons poked around the lot as much as they could before the “party.” They
didn’t find any clues, though, and their investigation was hampered by the police looking into the accident.

Around four o’clock, they piled into the van and drove to Claudia Rajiv’s home in the northern suburbs of Jewel Ridge. Claudia’s place was a new condo near the Jewel River. The home featured a split-level living room with a nice view of the river and the city skyline.

Jerri Bell, Bruce Reid, Peck Wilson, Ramon Torres, Marge Nelson, and a number of other cast and crew members were milling around aimlessly.

“Thanks for coming,” Claudia said to the teens. “To tell you the truth, given what happened today, I wasn’t sure if anyone would show up.”

“How are you handling it?” Iola asked.

“Okay,” Claudia said. “Better than a lot of the others. I’m sure I’ll find more work, and I’ve got enough stashed away to pay my bills for the next year and a half.”

Bruce Reid walked over to them, a drink in his hand. “Yes, Claudia, my dear,” he said morosely, “I’m sure you’ll land on your feet. I wish I could say the same for the rest of us.”