The Starcrossed

11: THE FIRST DAY’S SHOOTING

Gregory Earnest sat in the control booth, high above the rebuilt starship bridge set.

Directly in front of him were the engineers and technicians who ran the complex three-dee holographic equipment. They sat along a row of desk consoles, earphones clamped to their heads, eyes fixed on the green, glowing dials and viewscreens that were the only illumination in the darkened control booth.

Beyond the soundproof window in front of them, the set was alive with crewmen and actors. Electricians were trailing cables across the floor; cameramen were jockeying their self-propelled units and nodding their laser snouts up and down, right and left, like trainers taking high-spirited horses for a morning trot. Mitch Westerly was deep in conversation with Dulaq, one arm around the burly hockey star’s shoulders. Rita Yearling lounged languidly on her special liquafoam couch, glowing with the metallic sheen of her skintight costume. Ron Gabriel paced nervously around the set, orbiting closer and closer to Rita.

Earnest’s nose throbbed whenever he saw Gabriel. And a special vein in his forehead, reserved exclusively for passions of hatred and revenge, pulsed visibly.

“The first take of the first scene,” a voice whispered from behind Earnest.

He turned to scowl, but saw that the speaker was Les Montpelier, from Titanic. He let his scowl vanish. Montpelier was B.F. s special representative; here to lend an air of official enthusiasm to the first day’s shooting. He was higher in the pecking order than the Executive Producer, entitled to scowl but not to be scowled at.

For a moment neither man said anything. They simply sat there looking at each other, Montpelier’s trim little red beard nearly touching the Canadian’s shaggier black one.

Then, over the loudspeaker, they heard Westerly’s voice crackle: “Okay, let’s get started.”

A technician held out the clapboard and shouted, “Starcrossed. Episode One. Scene One. Take One.”

“We’re on our way!” Montpelier said with almost genuine enthusiasm, as the clapboard cracked and fell apart. The embarrassed technician picked up the pieces and scuttled out of camera range, shaking his head at the broken clapboard in his hands.

An omen? Earnest wondered.

Brenda Impanema stayed well back in the shadows, away from the bustling men and women on the blazingly lighted set.

“Would you like a chair?”

Startled, she looked around to see Bill Oxnard smiling at her. He was carrying a pair of folding chairs, one in each hand.

“I won’t be able to see if I sit down,” she whispered. “‘Then stand on it,” he said as he flicked the chairs open and set them down on the cement floor.

With a grin of thanks, Brenda clambered up on a chair. Oxnard climbed up beside her.

“I thought you were back at Malibu,” she said, without taking her eyes from the two minor actors who were going through their lines under the lights.

“Couldn’t stay there,” he replied. “Kept fidgeting. Guess I wanted to see how the equipment works the first day. And I’ve got some new ideas to discuss with you, when you have some free time.”

“Business ideas?”

He looked at her and Brenda saw a mixture of surprise, hurt and anticipation in his face.

With a slow nod, he replied, “Uh, yes… business ideas.”

“Fine,” said Brenda.

The actors were clomping across the bridge set, pronouncing their lines and fiddling with the props that were supposed to be the starship’s controls. Out of the corner of her eye, Brenda could see Oxnard shaking his head and muttering to himself.

“What’s the matter?” she whispered.

“The lights. I told them we don’t need so much wattage with this holographic system. They’re going to wash out everything… the tape will be overexposed.”

“Can’t they take care of that electronically, up in the control booth?”

“Up to a point. I just wish they’d listen to what I tell them. Once, at least.”

His teeth were clenched and he looked very unhappy.

“It’ll be all right,” she said soothingly.

Oxnard grimaced and jabbed a finger toward the actors. “You don’t use an astrolabe for navigating a starship! I told Earnest and the rest of them… why don’t they listen?”

Mitch Westerly wasn’t worried about the astrolabe or any other technical details. His head was still buzzing from last night’s high. Faced with the first day’s shooting, he hadn’t been able to get to sleep without help. Which came in the form of pills that floated him up among the stars and then dumped him on the cement floor of the studio with a bad case of shakes.

Liven it up, you guys! he ordered the actors, mentally. We don’t have time or money for retakes. Put some life into it.

“We haven’t seen any signs of the Capulet starship since we left Rigel Six,” said the first bit player, pronouncing “Wriggle” instead of “Rye-gel.”

“Maybe they never got away from the planet,” spoke the second, as if he were being forced to repeat the words at gunpoint. “They were having trouble with their engines, weren’t they?”

With some feeling! Westerly pleaded silently.

“I’ll check the radars,” said Actor One.

“Cut!” Westerly yelled.

Both actors looked blankly toward him. “What’s the matter?”

Westerly strode out onto the set. He felt the glare of the lights on his shoulders like a palpable force.

“The word in the script is ‘scanners,’ not ‘radar,’” Westerly said, squinting in the light despite his shades.

The actor shrugged. “What’s the difference?”

Ron Gabriel came trotting up. “What’s the difference? You’re supposed to be seven hundred years in the future, dim-dum! They don’t use radar anymore!”

The actor was tall and lanky. When he shrugged, it looked like a construction crane stirring into motion. “Aww, who’s gonna know the difference?”

Gabriel started hopping up and down. “I’ll know the difference! And so will anybody with enough brains in his head to find the men’s room without a seeing-eye dog!”

Westerly placed a calming hand on the writer’s shoulder. “Don’t get worked up, Ron.”

“Don’t get worked up?”

Turning back to the actor, Westerly said, “The word is scanners.”

“Scanners.” Sullenly.

“Scanners,” Westerly repeated. “And you two guys are supposed to be joking around, throwing quips at each other. Try to get some life into your lines.”

“Scanners,” the actor repeated.

Westerly went back to his position next to the Number One camera unit. The script girl—a nondescript niece of somebody’s who spoke nothing but French—pointed to the place in the scene where they had stopped.

“Okay,” Westerly said, with a deep breath. “Let’s take it from… ‘Maybe they never got away from that planet’ With life.” Cat, he said to himself. I’ve got to find some cat or I’ll never sleep again.

Ron Gabriel was trying not to listen. He prowled around the edges of the clustered crew, peeking between electricians and idle actors as they stood watching the scene being taped. They’re mangling my words, he knew. They’re taking the words I wrote and grinding them up in a cement mixer. Whatever’s left, they’re putting into a blender and then beating it with a stick when it comes crawling out.

He felt as if he himself were being treated the same way.

He paced doggedly, his back to the lighted set.

Farther back, away from the action, Brenda and Oxnard were standing on their chairs, watching. Off to, one side, Rita Yearling reclined on her couch, the one Finger had flown up from Hollywood for her.

Gabriel stopped pacing and stared at her. If it wasn’t for her, he thought, I’d have walked out on this troop of baboons long ago. Maybe I ought to split anyway. She’s a terrific lay, but…

Rita must have felt him watching her. She looked up and smiled beckoningly. Gabriel went over to her side and hunkered down on his heels.

“Nervous?” he asked her.

Her eyes were extraordinarily blue today and they widened with girlish surprise. “Nervous? Why should I be nervous? I know all my lines. I could say them backwards.”

Gabriel frowned. “We’ve already got one clown who’s going to be doing that.”

“What do you mean?” Her voice was an innocent child’s.

“Dulaq. He’s going to get it all ass-backwards. I just know it.”

“Oh, he’ll be all right,” Rita said soothingly. “Don’t get yourself flustered.”

“He’s an idiot. He’ll never get through one scene.”

Rita smiled and patted Gabriel’s cheek. “Francois will be all right He can be very much in control. He’s a takecharge kind of guy.”

“How do you know?” Gabriel demanded.

She made her surprised little girl face again, and Gabriel somehow found it irritating this time. “Why, by watching him play hockey, of course. How else?”

Before Gabriel could answer, the assistant director’s voice bellowed (assistant directors are hired for their lungpower): “Okay, set up for Scene Two, Dulaq and Yearling, front and center.”

“I’ve got to go to work,” Rita said, swinging her exquisite legs off the couch.

“Yeah,” said Gabriel.

“Wish me luck.”

“Break a fibia.”

She blew him a kiss and clinked off toward the set. Gabriel watched her disappear among the technicians and actors, and suddenly realized that her walk, which used to be enough to engorge all his erectile tissue, didn’t affect him that way anymore. The thrill was gone. With a rueful shake of his head, he walked toward the set like Jimmy Cagney heading bravely down the Last Mile toward the little green door.

Scene Two. Int., starship bridge. BEN is sitting at the control console, watching the viewscreens as the ship flies through the interstellar void at many times the speed of light. On the viewscreens we see nothing but scattered stars against the blackness of space.

BEN: (To himself.) Guess we’ve shaken off those Capulets. Haven’t seen another ship within a hundred parsecs of us.

ROM enters. He is upset, despondent. (Tell Dulaq that the Redwings will win the Stanley Cup next year; that should work him up enough for this scene.) He glances at the viewsscreens, then goes to BEN and stands beside him.

BEN: (Looking up at Rom.) Greetings, cousin. How are you this day?

ROM: Not as good. (Shakes his head)

BEN: What’s the trouble, cousin?

ROM: I dunno. Must’a been somet’in I picked up back on Rigel Six. Maybe a bug…

“Cut!”

“Francois… the script says ‘virus,’ not ‘bug.’ ”

“Ahh. “Bug” sounds better. I don’t like all dose fancy words.”

“Try to say ‘virus,’ will you? And watch your diction.”

“My what?”

“Your pronunciation!”

“Hey, you want me to say all dose funny words and pernounce everyfing your way? At de same time? Come on!”

“Take it from, ‘What’s the trouble, cousin.’”

BEN: What’s the trouble, cousin?

ROM: I dunno. Must’a been somet’in I picked up back on Rigel Six. Maybe a b… a virus or somet’ing.

BEN: (With a grin.) Or that Capulet girl you were eyeing, Julie.

ROM grabs BEN’s lapels and lifts him out of his chair.

ROM: (With some heat.) Hey, I don’t mess around with Capulets. Dey’re our enemies!

BEN: (Frightened.) Okay… okay! I was only joking.

ROM: (Lets him go. He drops back into his seat.) Some t’ings you shouldn’t kid about… Go on back and grab somet’ing to eat. I’ll take over.

BEN: (Glad to get away.) Sure. It’s all yours, cousin.

BEN hurries off-camera. ROM sits at the command console, stares out at the stars.

ROM: (Pensively.) All dose stars… all dat emptiness. I wish she was right here, instead of back on Rigel Six.

JULIE steps out from behind the electronic computer, where she’s been hiding since she stowed away on the Montague starship.

JULIE: (Shyly.) I am here, ROM. I stowed away aboard your ship.

ROM: (Dumbfounded.) You… you… Hey, Mitch, what th’hell’s my next line?

“Cut!!!”

From up in the control booth, Les Montpelier kept telling himself, It’s not as bad as it looks. They’ll fix up all the goofs in the editing process. Maybe we can even get somebody to dub a voice over Dulaq’s lines. He looks pretty good, at least.

At that moment, Dulaq was pointing to the blank side wall of the set, where the Capulets’ starship would be matted in on the final tape.

“How’d your ship catch up wit’ us so soon?” he was asking Rita Yearling. But he was looking neither at her nor the to-be-inserted view of the other starship. He was peering, squint-eyed, toward Mitch Westerly. The director had his face sunk in his hands, as if he were crying.

“Rita looks stunning,” said Gregory Earnest, with a hyena’s leer on his face.

“She sure does,” Montpelier agreed. “But there’s something wrong about her… something…”

Rita’s face was all dewy-cheeked youth, her eyes wide and blue as a new spring sky. But her body was adult seductress and she slinked around the set with the practiced undulations of a bellydancer.

“…something about her that doesn’t seem quite right for the character she’s supposed to be playing,” Montpelier finished.

“The audience will love her,” Earnest said. “We’ve got to give them a little pizazz.”

Montpelier started to answer, but hesitated. Maybe he’s right.

“And Dulaq looks magnificent,” the Canadian went on. “Look at that costume. Shows plenty of muscles, doesn’t it?” Earnest’s voice was almost throbbing with delight.

“Too bad it doesn’t cover his mouth,” Montpelier said.

Earnest shot him an angry glance.

On the set, Dulaq was staring off into space. He thought he was looking at the red light of an active camera unit, as Westerly had instructed him to do. Actually, he was fixing his gaze on a red EXIT sign glowing in the darkness on the other end of the huge studio. Dulaq’s eyes weren’t all that good.

“I know it’s wrong,” he was saying, “But I love you, Julie. I’m mad about you.”

Rita was entwining herself about his muscular frame, like a snake climbing a tree.

“And I love you, Rom darling,” she breathed. The boom microphone, over her head, seemed to wilt in the heat of her torridly low-pitched voice.

“That’s a shy, innocent young girl?” Montpelier asked rhetorically.

Dulaq finally focused his raggedly handsome gaze on her, as their noses touched. Suddenly he gave a strangled growl and clutched at her. Rita shrieked and they both went tumbling to the floor.

“Cut!” Mitch Westerly yelled. “Cut!”

The cameramen were grinning and training their equipment on the squirming couple. Then, out of the crowd, came a blur of fury.

Ron, Gabriel leaped on Dulaq’s back and started pounding the hockey star’s head. “Leggo of her, you goddamn ape!” he screamed.

It took Dulaq several moments to notice what was happening to him. Then, with a roar, he swung around and flipped Gabriel off his back. The writer staggered to his knees, got up quickly and launched himself at Dulaq.

With a surprised look on his face, Dulaq took Gabriel’s charge. The writer’s head rammed into his stomach, but produced nothing except a slight “Oof” which might have come from either one of them. Gabriel rebounded, looking a bit glassy eyed. He charged at Dulaq again and kicked him in the shins, hard.

It finally seemed to penetrate Dulaq’s head that he was being attacked by someone who had no hockey stick in his hands. The athlete’s face relaxed into a pleasant grin as he picked Gabriel up off his feet with one hand and socked him between the eyes so hard that the writer sailed completely off the set while his shirt remained in Dulaq’s left fist.

Pandemonium raged. The only recognizable sound to come out of the roiling crowd on the set was Westerly, pathetically screaming “Cut! Cut!”

Montpelier and the technicians in the control booth bolted out the door and down the steps to the floor of the studio. Gregory Earnest sat in the darkened booth alone, watching the riot develop, and smiled to himself.

He knew at last how to get rid of Ron Gabriel. And how to cash in on what little money would be made by “The Starcrossed.”