The Technicolor Time Machine

15

“Better to die like men than live like cowards,” Ottar bellowed. “For Odin and Frigg—follow me!” He held his shield before him as he threw the door open, and two arrows thudded into it. Shouting with rage, he spun his ax and charged out of the burning building. Slithey, waving a sword, followed him, as did Val de Carlo, blowing loudly on the lurhorn, then all of the others.

“Cut. Print that!” Barney shouted and dropped down into his safari chair. “That winds it up gang. Go get your lunch so they can pack up the kitchen.”

The propmen were spraying foam onto the trough of burning oil and it stank abominably. All the lights except one went out and Gino had the camera open, taking out the film. Everything was under control. Barney waited until the rush was over, then went outside too. Ottar was sitting on an upended barrel, folding the arrows back into his shield.

“Watch this, arrows coming,” he called out to Barney and held up the shield. The springs whipped the concealed arrows into position with a thunk-thunk.

“A wonderful invention,” Barney said. “We’ve finished the shooting for now, Ottar, so I’m going to move the company ahead to next spring. Do you think you’ll have the palisade completed by then?”

“Easy. You keep your bargain, Ottar keeps his. We can cut logs for wall easy with the steel saws and axes you leave. But you leave food for the winter so we can eat.”

“I’ll get the supplies first before we move the company. Is everything clear? Any questions?”

“Clear, clear,” Ottar mumbled, concentrating on getting the arrows back inside the shield. Barney looked at him suspiciously.

“I’m sure you remember it all, but just for the record’s sake let’s run through it once more, quickly. We leave you the food, all the cereals and dried and canned stuff I can get from the studio commissary. That way you don’t have to spend the summer and fall laying down food for the winter, so you can take the time to build some more shells of log buildings and a log wall around the camp. If what the Doc said is right you shouldn’t be bothered by the Cape Dorset until the spring when the pack ice closes in near the shore here and the seals band together and raise pups on it. That’s when the hunters come, they’ll all be farther north now. And even if they bother you before then you should be okay behind the log wall.”

“Kill them, cut them up.”

“Try not to, will you please? Ninety percent of this film has been shot and I’d feel better if you didn’t get yourself slaughtered before we finished it. We’ll check up on you in February and March, then bring the company as soon as we know the redskins are close by. Give them some trade goods to pay them to launch an attack on the stockade, bum part of it down and that is that. Agreed?”

“And Jack Daniels whiskey.”

“That’s in your contract…”

A brassy moan drowned his words, rising and falling unevenly.

“Must you?” Barney asked Val de Carlo, who had the length of the lurhorn curled around his body, the nodulated flat plate of the opening over his shoulder, and was blowing on it.

“This is a wild horn,” Val said. “Listen.” He licked his lips and applied them to the mouthpiece, and, with much puffing and cheek reddening, produced a barely recognizable version of “The Music Goes ’Round and ’Round.”

“Stick to acting,” Barney said. “You have no future as a musician. You know, I keep thinking I’ve seen that kind of hom somewhere before, outside of a museum I mean.”

“They’ve got it on every pack of Danish butter. It’s a trade mark.”

“Maybe that’s where. It sounds like a sick tuba.”

“Spiderman Spinneke would love it.”

“He might at that,” Barney squinted as an idea hit him, then snapped his fingers. “That’s what I was thinking about, the Spiderman. He plays all kinds of weirdo instruments in that beat joint the Fungus Grotto. I heard him once, backed up with a brass section and a drum.”

Val nodded. “I’ve been there. He’s supposed to be the only jazz tuba player in captivity. It’s the most terrible noise I ever heard.”

“It’s not that bad—and it might be just what we want. It gives me a thought.”

Ottar thunked his arrows in and out and Barney leaned against the wall listening to the lurhorn until Dallas pulled up in the jeep.

“Ready to go,” he reported. “All the commissary people are waiting and a couple of grips who volunteered because they wanted to see if Hollywood was still there.”

“Enough to move the supplies?” Barney asked. “Everyone on the lot will have gone home by now.”

“More than enough.”

“Let’s go.”

One of the big trailer trucks had backed onto the platform and a dozen men were lounging around it. Professor Hewett had the door to the control cabin tied open and Barney looked in.

“Saturday afternoon, and cut it as close as you can.”

“To the microsecond. We shall arrive precisely after the moment the platform left on the last trip.”

It took an effort of will for Barney to realize that, despite all that had happened during the previous months, it was still Saturday afternoon in Hollywood, the same day on which they had begun the operation. The weekend crowds were jamming up on the freeways, the supermarket parking lots were full, and at the top of Benedict Canyon Drive, behind his private golf course on the top floor of his mansion, L.M. Greenspan was suffering his phony heart attack. For a moment Barney considered telephoning him with a progress report, then decided not to. Only a few hours had passed for L.M. and he wouldn’t be worrying yet. Best to let sleeping studio owners lie. Maybe he should ring up the hospital and see how Jens Lyn was doing, it had been weeks since—no it hadn’t, just minutes here. He probably wasn’t even at the hospital yet. Time travel took a lot of getting used to.

“It’s a scorcher,” one of the cooks said. “I shoulda brought my sunglasses.”

The high sound-stage doors were rolled back, and when the time platform appeared all the men winced at the sudden onslaught of subtropical light. The northern Newfoundland sky was always a pale blue and the sun never burned down like this. Barney moved the men out of the way while the big diesel truck rumbled to life, then clanked down from the time platform. There was a holiday air about the occasion as they climbed into the truck and rolled through the empty studio streets.

At the commissary warehouse the holiday ended.

“I’m sorry, sir,” the studio guard said, spinning his club on its thong. “But I’ve never seen you before, and even if I had I couldn’t let you into this warehouse, no sir.”

“This paper…”

“I’ve seen the paper, but I have my orders.”

“Give me a war ax,” one of the grips shouted. “I’ll get that door open!”

“Kill! Kill!” another called out. They had been too long in the eleventh century and had picked up some of the Vikings’ simple solutions to most problems.

“Don’t come any closer!” the guard ordered, stepping away and dropping his hand toward his gun.

“All right you jokers, enough of that,” Barney ordered. “Just sit quiet while I straighten this out. Where’s your phone?” he asked the guard.

Barney took a chance that someone might be there and called the administration building first. He hit pay dirt. Sam, L.M.’s personal accountant, was there, undoubtedly cooking the books in private.

“Sam,” he said, “it’s good to talk to you again, how’ve you been… What?… Sorry, I forgot. It’s just been a couple of hours for you, natch, but it’s been months for me… No, of course I haven’t been drinking, I’ve been shooting the film… That’s right, it’s almost complete… Sam, no… don’t get excited… This is no more a one-day picture than the script was a one-hour script. We’ve been working hard. Look, I’ll explain it all later, but right now I want you to help me. I want you to talk to one of the studio guards, a real thick-headed job, must be a new man. Tell him to unlock the commissary warehouse so we can clean out all the dry cereals and canned stuff… No, we are not getting very hungry already, this is trade goods for the natives. Pay for the extras… Sam, what do you mean you have to think about it… if we can pay them off in Quaker Oats instead of greenbacks what possible difference can it make?”

It wasn’t easy, it never was with Sam, but he was finally convinced. Sam—who hated to spend money even if it was only Quaker Oats—took his temper out on the guard, who emerged from the phone booth red-faced and angry.

By five-thirty the truck was loaded, and by a quarter to six it was back aboard the time platform. Barney checked to make sure that everyone was aboard, then poked his head into Hewett’s control cubby.

“Take it away. Prof, but let me get clear first.”

“Am I to understand that you are not returning with us?”

“Correct. I have a bit of business here. You can unload these people and the supplies, then come back to pick me up in a couple of hours, say about ten o’clock. If I’m not here I’ll ring you on the warehouse phone over there and let you know what’s happening.”

Hewett was feeling waspish. “I seem to be running a specie of temporal taxi, and I am not quite certain that I enjoy it. My understanding was that we would go to the eleventh century to make your film, then return. Instead I seem to be operating a constant shuttle service…”

“Relax, Prof, we’re coming down the home stretch. Do you think I would lose a couple of hours like this if I wasn’t sure of the production? We do one more time jump, finish the picture up and that is that. All over but the shouting.”

Barney stood by the door and watched the platform vanish into the past. Back to the wilds of primitive Canada, chapped lips and cold rain. Let them. He was going to take a couple of hours off, get some business done at the same time, of course, but that wasn’t going to stop him from enjoying himself as well. He couldn’t really relax yet, not until the film was in the can, but the end was in sight and he had been driving himself for months. The first order of business was going to be a first-class, deluxe dinner at Chasen’s, that much at least he owed himself. There was no point in getting to the Fungus Grotto before nine o’clock at the very earliest.

There was an unreality about being back in California, and in the twentieth century. Things seemed to move too fast, there were too many garish colors and the stink of exhaust fumes made his head ache. Rube! Dinner—with drinks before, brandy after and champagne in the middle—helped, and he was feeling no pain when the cab dropped him in front of the club at a little after nine. He even managed not to be offended by the bilious green doorway with the red skulls and crossbones on it.

“Beware,” a sepulchral voice moaned when he pushed open the door. “Beware that all who enter the Fungus Grotto do so at their own risk. Beware…” The recorded voice cut off as he closed the door and felt his way down the ill-lit and black-velvet-lined stairwell. A curtain of glowing plastic bones was the last barrier before the inner sanctum of the club itself. He had been here before, so the novelty of the decor did not impress him. It had not impressed him the first time either, being just a cut above—or below—the ghost house at a carnival. Green lights flickered, rubber cobwebs hung in the comers and the chairs were shaped like giant toadstools. He had the room to himself.

“A Bloody Mary,” he told the vampire-garbed waiter. “Is the Spiderman here yet?”

“I fink he’s in a dressing room,” the creature mumbled around its plastic fangs.

“Tell him I want to see him, Barney Hendrickson of Climactic.”

Spiderman Spinneke arrived before the drink, a lean, black-garbed, scuttling figure with large dark glasses. “Long time no see, man,” he said, letting his dank fingers flap against Barney’s palm. “How’z the pix biz?” he sank into a chair.

“Keeping body and soul together. Tell me, Spider, is it true you scored a couple of films?”

“It is true I did the music for a ragged piece of class-X crap name of Teen-age Beatniks’ Hophead Rumble, but I keep hoping people will forget about it. Why you ask? Can’t be you’re interested in the poor old Spiderman?”

“Might be, Spinneke, just might be. Do you think you could write the music for a picture and record it with your own group?”

“Anything’s possible, Dad. But that takes time, we got commitments.”

“Don’t worry about the time, I’ll fix it so you won’t miss a single show. I thought you might have the right sound for a picture I’m doing, a stirring story of the Vikings. You’ve heard of them?”

“Cert. Hairy cats with axes, go around chopping people.”

“That’s roughly it. Primitive stuff, strong. They have a kind of brass horn and that gave me the idea. An all brass score complete with drums, hammering away with primitive savagery.”

“Real cool.”

“Think you can handle it?”

“A natural.”

“Good. Here’s a C as a down payment.” Barney took five twenties from his billfold and dropped them onto the table. Spiderman’s fingers oozed across the black cloth and absorbed them. “Let’s grab your boys and go around to the studio now and I’ll give you the scoop. You’ll be back here inside an hour.” Where else they would be during that hour of twentieth-century time Barney did not trouble to say.

“No can do. Doody and I just fake up until the rest come in around eleven. After that we’re on until three. We can’t split before then.”

The Bloody Mary slid down smoothly and Barney looked at his watch and convinced himself there was no point in going away and coming back again, and 3 a.m. on Sunday morning would still be okay because they had until Monday to turn the film in. It was all going to work out. Spiderman slid back into the recesses of the club, and at ten Barney got on the phone and talked to Professor Hewett and arranged a new appointment for three, then went back to his table and relaxed, as much as he could relax with the hot tuba, brass section and amplified drums. The Bloody Marys helped.

At two o’clock he stirred himself and went out for a breath of air that wasn’t solid with cigarette smoke and vibrating with wailing rhythms. He even managed to arrange for two cabs to come to the club just after three. Things were working out very well.

It was close to four before they pulled up in front of the warehouse, and Professor Hewett was pacing up and down staring at his watch. “Very precise,” he snapped.

“Not too bad, Prof old boy,” Barney said, slapping him on the back, then turning to help pull the bass drum out of the cab. Then, in single file, they marched into the warehouse, with Doody on the trombone playing “Colonel Bogey.”

“What’s the raft?” Spiderman asked, bleary-eyed and tired.

“Transportation. Just climb aboard. We’ll just be gone a few minutes from here, that I promise.” Barney smiled slyly behind his hand as he said it.

“Enough already,” Spiderman said, pulling the trombone away from Doody’s fluttering lips. Doody kept playing for at least five seconds before he realized he wasn’t making a sound. “Flying on pot,” Spiderman exclaimed.

Hewett snorted as the funerally robed musicians climbed aboard the time platform, then went into the control cubicle to start the vremeatron.

“Is this the waiting room?” Doody asked, following him into the cramped quarters.

“Get out you oaf!” the professor snapped, and Doody mumbled something and tried to oblige. But as he turned, the slide extended from his trombone and swiped along the top row of exposed electronic tubes. Two of them popped and fizzled sparkily.

“Yow!” Doody said, and dropped the instrument. Its brass length fell across the exposed innards of the tubes and sparks jumped as the circuits shorted. All of the lights on the controls went out.

Barney was completely sober in less than a second. He pulled the musician out of the instrument room and herded him, and all the others, to the far end of the platform.

“How is it, Professor?” he asked softly when he came back, but there was no answer. He didn’t ask again but only looked on as Hewett tore off inspection hatches and hurled the broken tubes out of the door.

He sent the musicians away after he received a grudging “yes” in answer to his question, when he asked if it would be at least a couple of hours before the vremeatron would be fixed.

By nine o’clock Sunday morning Professor Hewett admitted that the repairs would probably take most of the day, not including the time needed to find replacement tubes on a Sunday in Los Angeles. Barney, hollowly, said that, after all, they had plenty of time. After all the picture wasn’t due until the following morning.

Late Sunday night Barney fell asleep for the first time, but he woke up with a start after only a few minutes and could not get back to sleep again.

At 5 A.M. on Monday morning the professor announced that the rewiring was complete and that he was going to sleep for an hour. After that he would leave and try to obtain the missing tubes.

At 9 A.M. Barney phoned and discovered that the representatives of the bank had arrived and were waiting for him. He gurgled and hung up.

At nine-thirty the phone rang, and when he picked it up the girl on the switchboard told him that the entire studio was being turned upside down trying to locate him, and that L.M. himself had personally talked to her and asked her if she knew where Mr. Hendrickson was. Barney hung up on her too.

At ten-thirty he knew it was hopeless. Hewett had not returned, nor had he phoned. And even if he arrived at that moment it was too late. The picture could not possibly be finished in time.

It was all over. He had tried, and he had failed. Walking over to L.M.’s office was like trodding the last mile—which it really was.

He hesitated outside L.M.’s door, considered suicide as an alternative, decided he did not have the guts, then pushed the door open.