The Starcrossed

17: THE OUTCOME

Bill Oxnard grimaced with concentration as he maneuvered his new Electric TR into Ron Gabriel’s driveway. Ordinarily it would have been an easy task, but the late winter rainstorm made visibility practically nil and there was a fair-sized van parked at the curb directly in front of the driveway.

The front door of the house was open and a couple of burly men in coveralls were taking out the long sectional sofa that had curled around Gabriel’s living room. They grunted and swore under their breaths as they swung their burden around the Electric TR. The sofa was so big that if they had dropped it on the sportscar, they would have flattened it.

Brenda looked upset as she got out of the righthand seat. “They’re taking his furniture!” She dashed into the house. Oxnard was a step behind her. It only took three long strides to get inside the foyer, but the rain was hard enough to soak him, even so.

There were no lights on inside the house. The furniture movers had left a hand torch glowing in the living room. Oxnard watched them reenter the house, trailing muddy footprints and dripping water, to grab the other chairs in the living room.

Brenda said, “Bill! And they’ve turned off his electricity!” She was very upset and Oxnard found himself feeling pleased with her concern, rather than jealous over it. She’s really a marvelous person, he told himself.

They looked around the darkened house for a few minutes and finally found Ron Gabriel sitting alone in the kitchen, in candlelight.

“Ron, why didn’t you tell us?” Brenda blurted.

Gabriel looked surprised and, in the flickering light of the lone candle, a bit annoyed.

“Tell you what?”

“We would have helped you, wouldn’t we, Bill?”

“Of course,” Oxnard said. “If you’re broke, Ron, or run out of credit…”

“What’re you talking about?” Gabriel pushed himself up from the table. He was wearing his old Bruce Lee robe.

“We’ve been following the reviews of ‘The Starcrossed,’” said Brenda. “We saw what a panning the scripts took. They’re blaming you for everything…”

“And when we saw them taking away your furniture…”

“And no electricity…”

A lithe young girl walked uncertainly into the kitchen, dressed in a robe identical to Gabriel’s. The candlelight threw coppery glints from her hair, which flowed like a cascade of molten red-gold over her slim shoulders.

With a you guys are crazy look, Gabriel introduced, “Cindy Steele, this is Brenda Impanema and Bill Oxnard, two of my loony friends.”

“Hello,” said Cindy, in a tiny little voice.

Brenda smiled at her and Oxnard nodded.

“We were going to have a quiet little candlelight dinner,” Gabriel said, “just the two of us. Before the Ding-Doug Furniture Company came in with my new gravity-defying float-chair. And the Salvation Army came by to pick up my old living room furniture, which I donated to them. And my friends started going spastic for fear that I was broke and starving.”

“Is that what…” Brenda didn’t quite believe it.

But Oxnard did. He started laughing. “I guess we jumped to the wrong conclusion Come on,” he held out a hand to Brenda, “we’ve got a candlelight dinner of our own to see to.”

Gabriel’s eyebrows shot up. “Yeah? Really?” He came around the table and looked at the two of them closely. “Son of a gun.” He grinned.

They walked out to the foyer together, the four of them, Gabriel between Oxnard and Brenda, Cindy trailing slightly behind, twirling a curl of hair in one finger.

“Hey look,” Gabriel said. “Come on back after dinner. For dessert. Got a lot to tell you.”

“Oh, I don’t think…” Brenda began.

“We’ll be back in a couple of hours,” Oxnard said. “We’ve got a lot to tell you, too.”

“Great. Bring back some pie or something.”

“And give us at least three hours,” Cindy said, smiling and walking the fingers of one hand across the back of Gabriel’s shoulders. “I’m a slow cooker.”

It was just after midnight when Gabriel, Brenda and Oxnard tried out the new floatchairs. They were like an arrangement of airfoam cushions out of the Arabian Nights, except that they floated a dozen centimeters above coppery disks that rested on the floor.

“It’s like sitting on a cloud!” Brenda said, snuggling down on the cushions as they adjusted to fit her form.

“Takes a lot of electricity to maintain the field, doesn’t it?” Oxnard asked.

“You bet,” snapped Gabriel. “And you clowns thought they’d turned off my power.”

“Where’s Cindy?” asked Brenda.

Gabriel gave a tiny shrug. “Probably fell asleep in the whirlpool bath. She does that, sometimes. Nice kid, but not too bright.”

“So what’s your news?” Oxnard asked, anxious to tell his own.

Leaning back in his cushions, Gabriel said, “You know all the flak they’ve been throwing at me about the scripts for ‘The Starcrossed’? Well my original script—the one that little creepy censor and Earnest tore to shreds—is going to get the Screen Writer’s award next month as the best dramatic script of the year.”

“Ron, that’s great!”

Gabriel crowed, “And the Guild is asking the Canadian Department of Labor to sue Badger for using child labor—the high school kids who wrote scripts without getting paid!”

“Can they do that?”

Nodding, Gabriel said, “The lawyers claim they can and they’re naming Gregory Earnest as a codefendant, along with Badger Studios.”

‘The suit won’t affect Titanic, will it?” Brenda asked, looking around.

“Can’t. It’s limited to Canadian law.”

“That’s good; B.F.’s had enough trouble over “The Starcrossed.’”

“Nothing he didn’t earn, sweetie,” Gabriel said.

“Maybe so,” Brenda said. “But enough is enough. He’ll be getting out of the hospital next week and I don’t want him hurt anymore.”

Gabriel shook his head. “You’re damned protective of that louse.”

Oxnard glanced at Brenda. She controled herself perfectly. He knew what was going through her mind: He may be a louse, but he’s the only louse in the world who’s my father.

“Has the show been cancelled yet?” Gabriel Asked.

“No,” Brenda said. “Its being renewed for the remainder of the season.”

“What?”

Oxnard said, “Same reaction I had. Wait’ll you hear why.”

“What’s going on?” Gabriel asked, suddenly a-quiver with interest.

“Lots,” Brenda said. “Titanic is receiving about a thousand letters a week from the viewers. Most of them are science fiction fans complaining about the show; but they have to watch it to complain about it. The Nielsen ratings have been so-so, but there’s been a good number of letters asking for pictures of Rita and personal mail for her. She’s become the center of a new Earth Mother cult—most of the letters are from pubescent boys.”

“My god,” Gabriel moaned.

“Goddess,” corrected Oxnard.

“Also,” Brenda went on, “Rita’s apparently got her talons into Keith Conors, the TNT man. So the show’s assured of a sponsor for the rest of the season. She’s got him signing commitments ‘til his head’s spinning.”

With a rueful nod, Gabriel admitted, “She can do that.”

“The New York bankers seem pleased. The show is making money. The critics hate it, of course, but its bringing in some money.”

“I’ll be damned,” Gabriel said.

“Never overestimate the taste of the American public,” Brenda said.

Oxnard added, “And the show’s bringing money into my lab, as well. People are seeing how good the new system is and they’re showering us with orders. We’re working three shifts now and I’m expanding the staff and adding more floor space for production.”

Gabriel gave an impressed grunt.

“What Bill doesn’t seem to realize,” Brenda said, “is that it’s really his holographic system that’s created so much interest in ‘The Starcrossed.’ Nobody’d stare at Rita Yearling for long if she didn’t look so solid.”

“I don’t know about that,” Oxnard protested.

“It’s true,” Brenda said. “All the networks and production companies have placed orders for the new system. Everybody’ll have it by next season.”

“Then there goes Titanic’s edge over the competition,” Gabriel said, sounding satisfied with the idea.

Not quite,” Oxnard said. “What do you mean?”

How to phrase this? he wondered. Carefully, Oxnard said, “Well… I made a slip of the tongue to a reporter from an electronics newspaper, about computerizing the system so you can animate still photos…”

“You mean that thing about getting rid of the actors?”

“Somehow B.F. heard about it while he was recuperating from his seizure,” Brenda took over, “and made Bill an offer to develop the system for Titanic.”

“So I’m going to work with him on it,” Oxnard concluded.

Gabriel’s face froze in a scowl. “Why? Why do anything for that lying bastard?”

Oxnard shot a glance at Brenda, then replied, “He was sick. Those New York bankers were pressuring him. So I agreed to work with him on it. It impressed the bankers, helped make them happier with a small return on ‘The Starcrossed.’ ” Call it a present to a prospective father-in-law, he added silently.

“You oughtta have your head examined,” Gabriel said. “He’ll just try to screw you again.”

“I suppose so,” Oxnard agreed cheerfully.

But Gabriel chuckled. “I think I’m going to drop a little hint about this to some of my acting friends. They’ve got a guild, too…”

Brenda said, “Do me a favor, Ron? Wait a month… until he’s strong enough to fight back.”

“Why should I?”

“For me,” she said. He stared at her.

“For you?”

“Please.”

He didn’t like it, that was clear. But he muttered, “Okay. One month. But no longer than that.”

Brenda gave him her best smile. “Thanks, Ron. I knew you were just a pussycat at heart.”

Gabriel shook his head. “It’s just not fair! Dammit, Finger goes around screwing everybody in sight and comes up smelling like orchids. Every goddamned time!l He works you to death, Brenda, sticks you with all the shit jobs…”

“That’s true,” she admitted.

“Leaves me high and dry…”

“You got your award,” Oxnard said.

“Can’t eat awards. I need work! There’s nothing coming in except a few little royalties and residuals. And your mother-humping B.F. has spread the word all over town that I’m too cranky to work with.”

Oxnard broke in, “Come to work with me, Ron.”

Gabriel’s eyes widened. “What?”

“Sure,” Oxnard said. “Listen to me, both of you. Why should you have to put up with all this lunacy and nonsense? Ron, how long can you stand to be trampled by idiots like Earnest and that Canadian censor? Come to work with mel I need a good writer to direct our advertising and public relations staffs. You can be a consultant… work one day a week at the lab and spend the rest of the time free to write the books you’ve always wanted to write.”

Before Gabriel could answer, Oxnard turned to Brenda. “And you too. You’re a top-flight administrator, Brenda. Come to work with me. Why should you give yourself ulcers and high blood pressure over some dumb TV show? We can be a team, a real team—the three of us.”

She looked shocked.

Oxnard turned back to Gabriel. “I mean it, Ron. You’d enjoy the work, I know.” He looked back and forth, from Gabriel to Brenda and back again. “Well? How about it? Will you both come to work at Oxnard Labs?”

In unison they replied, “What? And quit show business?”