Tomorrow’s World

Chapter 8

“No, no, no!” Van shouted. He tossed his pencil onto the floor and stalked over to the bar. “You still haven’t got it! You’re still turning out Ree garbage, Lo. You’re back in the Middle Ages. You’re giving me Charles Dickens.”

“Dickens wasn’t in the Middle Ages,” Lois said coldly.

“All right, then you’re giving me Spenser.”

“He wasn’t...”

“I don’t give a damn what he was! This isn’t a seminar in English lit. That’s the whole damned trouble with you college broads. You read some junk by a guy who’s been dead for centuries, and he becomes your god. Nine times out of ten, half these guys couldn’t make livings as authors today.”

“I’m not making anyone my god,” she said. “And Spenser wasn’t...”

“Here we go again! You’re not giving me what I want. Is that clear?”

“I don’t think you know what you want,” Lois said. She sat in a chair with her long legs crossed, the skirt opened over her thighs. She wore no stockings, but a deep green garter set with a rhinestone circled the flesh of one leg. Her breasts were done in two golden sunbursts, and the echo of a small burst shaded her navel.

“I know what I need,” Van said. He opened his kit and selected a vial. “You’re enough to make a man mix, I’ll tell you that much.”

He popped off, closed his eyes for a moment, and then stared at her fixedly. “You had yours?”

“This morning,” she said. There was anger on her face. It smoldered in her eyes, put real color in her cheeks, pulled her brows together, swelled her lower lip into a pout.

“Have another,” Van said.

“No, thank you.”

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.”

He walked to the desk and slapped the back of his hand onto her script. “You think this is good, is that it? You think this is deathless prose. You think...”

She stood up abruptly, and her frontage bobbed with her sudden fury. “Yes, if you must know. I think it’s good. I think it’s better than any of the junk that Walt is turning out. In fact, I think it’s too good for...”

The buzzer on Van’s desk sounded, and he reached over to click on. Lois stamped her foot and turned her back, folding her arms across her breasts.

“Yes?” he asked.

“Clark Talbot, Van. I took the call, knew you didn’t want to be disturbed.”

“What did he want, Liz?”

“An advance.”

“Oh, mother. Again?”

“Wants a hundred. Until he gets on his feet with Lana, he said.”

“These guys think a literary agency is a bank. All right, make out a check for a clam. Bring it in and I’ll sign it. I’ll be damned.”

“He’s into us for three already, Van.”

“Another clam won’t hurt.”

“Okay.”

Van clicked off and looked at Lois hopefully. “Someday I’m going to write a novel,” he said.

“Really?” Her tone was still cold.

“Yes. About a literary agency. I’m going to call it To Borrow And To Borrow.”

“Do you mind if we get back to my script?” Lois asked.

“Not at all.”

“It’s good, Van, and you know it. Much too good for the...”

“I guess you don’t like the smell of that five gee.”

“...too good for the...” She paused. She let out an exasperated breath. Then she began pacing the floor. “It is good.”

“It stinks,” he told her.

“It’s just what you and Hayden said you wanted.”

“It stinks.”

“It’s the best I can do.”

“Then do better.”

“I can’t!” she fairly screamed.

“You can.”

“I can’t, can’t, can’t. I’ve had enough; I can’t take any more. Do it this way, do it that way. Change this, change that. How can a person write that way? Do you think I’m a robot? Do you think you can feed ideas into one end and get neatly typed pages from the other? Well, you can’t! You can’t!”

“Shut up, Lois!”

“I’m going home. I wish I’d never met you. I wish I were still Ree. Oh, I wish I were dead.” She sank into a chair and began sobbing. The door slid open, and Lizbeth stepped into the room. She studied Lois curiously for a moment, shrugged, and brought the check to Brant’s desk.

“You Hancock it, and I’ll send it over, Van.”

“Grooved.” He took a pen from the holder on his desk, glanced at the amount on the check, and signed it. He picked up the check then and flapped it in the air, drying the ink.

Liz nodded her head at Lois. “What’s with Redbird?”

“Art,” Van said cryptically.

“Oh.” Liz plucked the check from his fingers, studied the signature briefly, and then sighed. “Good luck.” She walked from the room swiftly, swinging her hips exaggeratedly. At the door, she turned and winked, and then was gone. Van walked over to Lois and put his arm around her shoulders.

“Look, baby...”

“Don’t get Ree, mister,” she snapped.

Van withdrew his arm hastily. “I was only...”

“I’m leaving in a minute, so save your breath. I don’t want any part of you or your damned Senso. I just want to be left alone.”

“You’re doing it wrong, Lo, I’m trying to help.”

“You can help me by dropping dead.”

“Is that nice?”

“Yes, I think it would be damned nice.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.” She sucked in a deep breath, passed a hand over the side of her face, and asked, “All right, mastermind, how do we fix it?”

“That’s my girl.”

“Never mind the goo. How do we fix it?”

“Listen to this, Lo, just listen to it.” He picked up the script and began reading. “Darling, kiss me. Take me in your arms.”

“Well, what’s wrong with that?”

“It’s not loaded. It doesn’t stimulate the listener. We want something like: Darling, put your mouth on mine. Cover my lips with yours. Crush your arms around me. Press me against your body and let me...”

“I get it,” she said dully. She took another deep breath. “Have you any morph, Van?”

“Honey, I’m Mister Morph himself.” He started toward the bar.

Lois smiled, but her eyes were mirthless.

“It doesn’t fit,” Walt Alloway said. There was no emotion in his voice. He was simply stating a matter of fact.

“Then we’ll make it fit.”

Walt shook his head. They were alone in Brant’s office, and the city gleamed like a broad, jeweled tiara outside the window. The light over Van’s desk cast a golden circle around the scripts scattered on the polished top.

“It’s no go, Van.”

“Why not?”

“I’m not a whiner, Van. You know I’m not.”

“Spell it,” Van told him.

“Lois.”

“What’s the matter with her?”

“Nothing that talent wouldn’t fix.”

“She’s not that bad.”

“Van, she’s terrible. She’s got Ree sentiments as long as my arm; and on top of that, she can’t write.”

“You weren’t so damned hot when I stumbled across you, either.”

“No, but at least I had the inclination. Van, you’ve got to face it. Some got it, and some ain’t. I didn’t always think that way. I used to feel that writing was just a matter of application. Do it regularly, and do it often, and it’ll begin to pay off. That’s what I used to think.”

“Look, Walt...”

“But it isn’t that way, Van. Not at all. You see, everyone thinks he’s a natural born scribe. Anyone who’s ever written a letter to his Aunt Zephinia in Albuquerque automatically assumes he’s a scribe. He automatically joins the great brotherhood, entitled to all the privileges and amenities. The college jerk who pens a sonnet becomes part of the brotherhood. The dunce who puts on paper an embarrassing situation he lived through — he’s part of the brotherhood. Anybody and everybody. All part of the great, big, shining brotherhood of scribes.”

“Walt...”

“And those who succeed, they’re called the lucky ones. They’re called the ones who had pull, or the ones who kissed somebody, or the ones who fell in. You’ve heard it often enough, Van. Why? Because everyone can write; everyone can hold a bloody pen in his fist and scribble some hen tracks on a sheet of paper. An engineer? That takes training and a natural affinity, a mind for that sort of thing. A painter? Hell, father, no layman would call himself an artist after he painted his outhouse. But the scribe, ah the scribe, ah the underrated scribe — that doesn’t take talent. Just practice, that’s all. Like learning to pitch quoits. Well, it takes a lot of hard work — but it takes a hell of a lot of something else, too. And if you haven’t got it, you might just as well donut-leap, because that’s as far as you’ll get.”

“You finished?” Brant asked.

“No. Lois has nothing. Nothing at all. Sure, she tries, but that isn’t enough. She may be able to write that letter to Aunt Zephinia, but that’s all. We’ll never mate her words and mine, Van. Never.”

“You’re wrong, Walt. We damn well better mate them.”

“I tell you she’s no good. Zero.”

“Lower your voice. She’ll be here any second.”

Alloway shook his head again. “Why are you keeping her, Van? She’s a smooth enough broad, I suppose, with the right things in the right places, and a frontage out of a stereoshow. But... you’re not going Ree, are you?”

“Friend or no friend,” Van said seriously, “I can still punch you in the mouth.”

“All right, I’m sorry. Suppose you tell me why?”

“I’m paying her five gee; you’re getting twenty. Is that good enough?”

Walt spread his hands wide. “The root of all.”

“Damn right. For fifteen gee sliced from the bill, I’d have taken on a Mongolian idiot.”

“And what happens to slave Walt? You pay the broad five and me twenty. That’s fine from where you sit, sure. But it means I’ll have to work hard enough to earn fifty, and the broad will amble along earning about three clams worth. That sounds fair, all right; that sounds really fair, all...”

“This sounds like a hijack, Walt. Are you boosting me?”

“Oh, boost rocks!” Alloway said. He stood up and walked to the bar, wringing his hands aimlessly. There was a lengthy silence. Walt stood with his back to Van, and the city flickered outside the window, casting pools of illumination on the dimly lit floor.

“What’s the matter, Walt?” Van asked at last.

“Nothing.”

“Come on, father. This is Van.”

Alloway whirled. “All right, I don’t like it. I quit Lana Davis because she was a cashew. But she paid me more than I’d get at ten years of this. Now you slap another bedbug on me — only this one hasn’t any talent. Lana may have been psyched-up, but at least she knew which end to sit on. This broad...”

“This broad is costing me five gee.”

“Yeah, and she’s costing me a hell of a lot more than that!”

“What do you want?”

“Nothing. Not a goddamned thing. I wanted to blow off steam, and I did.”

“Walt...”

“Cut it, Van. I agreed to come along on this crazy goddamned scheme, and here I am. Don’t make me think of the moo I’m losing again, or I’ll walk out cold.”

“Okay. Fine.”

“Just remember one thing. If I’m going to have to teach that broad to write, she’s going to have to listen. One peep out of her, and...”

A tapping sounded on the outer door.

“There she is,” Van said. He touched the lock release on his desk, and they heard the outer door slide open, heard the hurried click of high heels through the reception room. The door to Brant’s office slid wide then, and Lois came into the room.

She was out of breath, and she carried a thick script under her arm. “Am I late?” She smiled briefly at Alloway.

“A little,” Van said. “Come on over.”

She walked to the desk and dumped the script under the lamp. “There it is, father; my latest sweat and blood. Now all we have to do is match it with Walt’s.”

Walt sighed painfully. “Yes,” he said. “That’s all we have to do.”

“Oh, mother, I wish I had a shot,” Lois said. She twisted her hands nervously. “Mother, could I use a shot.”

“Relax,” Walt told her.

“But suppose he doesn’t like it. Suppose...”

“He’ll like it.”

They sat side by side on the couch in Hayden Thorpe’s reception room. Across from them, the blonde receptionist was busily filing her nails.

“But suppose he doesn’t?” Lois insisted. “And where’s Van? It’s almost fifteen now. Shouldn’t he be here by now? Will it look bad if we’re late? I mean...”

“For God’s sake, relax,” Alloway said. “Thorpe is Van’s partner. If he doesn’t like it, he doesn’t like it, that’s all. We’ll start all over again.”

“Isn’t there some time limit? Don’t they have to start shooting right away? Oh, mother, do you think Thorpe would let me have a morph fix?”

“Lo, honey, if you don’t pull yourself together...”

The lift doors slid open, and Walt leaned forward. “Here’s Van now.”

Van strode across the room rapidly. He wore tight green breeches, and his muscles gleamed wetly under their coat of alcojel. His blue eyes snapped to the couch, and a smile lifted his mouth.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said. “Does Hayden know we’re here?”

“No,” Lois said in a small voice.

“Well, we don’t want to keep him waiting.” He walked to the receptionist, who looked up lazily from her nails.

“Sir?”

“Will you tell Mr. Thorpe that Miss Sylvan, Mr. Alloway, and Mr. Brant are here to see him, please?”

“Yes, sir.” The receptionist plugged in, and then spoke into her mouthpiece. “He’ll see you now, sir.”

“Thank you.” Van turned toward the couch. “Let’s go, kids.”

Lois stood up too hurriedly, almost tripping. Walt took her arm to steady her, then released it instantly. They followed Van into Hayden’s office, and Hayden rose to greet them.

“Have you got it?” he asked. His round face was flushed, and Brant decided that he’d just popped off.

“We’ve got it, father.”

Hayden rubbed his pudgy hands together. “Good, good. I’ve been waiting a long time for this.”

“Hayden,” Van said, “I don’t think you’ve met the scribes. Walt Alloway and Lois Sylvan, this is Hayden Thorpe.”

There was a murmured round of polite “how do you do’s” and then Hayden said, “Well, where is it?”

“Walt?”

Alloway came forward and removed a thickly-bound script from a briefcase. He handed it to Hayden, and Hayden grinned. “Feels good,” he said.

“It is good,” Van answered.

“Well, we’ll see. Sit down, won’t you?”

Lois looked around her in bewilderment. She spotted a couch against the wall, moved to it, and sat quickly before her knees gave way. Van sat on her left, and Walt sat down on her right. Hayden brought the script to a small table, dropped it there, and then went to his desk. He selected a cigar from a humidor, ripped off one end with his teeth, and then lighted it, great balls of smoke billowing from his mouth. He sighed, studied the lighted, glowing end of the cigar, sighed again, and then walked back to the small table. He picked up the script, sat down in a big chair under the ceilamp, made himself comfortable, and began reading.

After a while, his brow furrowed, and his mouth tightened. His eyes narrowed in concentration. Lois, Bruce, and Van sat opposite him on the couch.

The room was quiet.

Outside, the midday traffic on the various levels raised a din that tried valiantly to penetrate the muted office.

Brant had never seen a Corradonict smoke before. For all he knew, the cigar was just a prop. Hayden certainly didn’t seem aware of it. But great billows of smoke rose from his mouth, puffed out over his head, smothered him, and the chair, and the script.

The electric chronometer on the wall hummed quietly. Van began to jiggle his foot. Hayden coughed and turned a page. He read silently, turned another page, blew out another stream of smoke. The rustle of the paper made a loud, scratching sound in the silence of the room. Hayden made a noise that sounded like a cross between a burp and a grunt. He turned another page. The chronometer on the wall continued humming, throwing seconds, minutes, hours into the room. The cloud of smoke thickened and Hayden kept turning pages, one after the other, grunting occasionally, burping frequently. And finally, he leaned back, closed the script.

Van heard Lois gasp beside him, saw Walt lean forward expectantly.

“Well...” Hayden said. He studied the end of his cigar, sighed, and tossed it into the disposotray.

Lois gripped Walt’s hand tightly, and he glanced down at it for a moment, and then turned his eyes to Hayden’s face.

Hayden drew a heavy breath, and Van felt Lois tense.

“It’s terrific,” Hayden said mildly. “We can start shooting at once.”