Complete Short Fiction, page 217
Corteya looked unhappy. He was a simple, honest man, who could lie as well as the next man, but only if he had started with a lie, and had to carry on. Having started with the truth, he could not stop.
“At the Areo Club dinner tomorrow,” he said gloomily, “I am showing a film about, a trip to one of the planets. The catalogue says it is very amusing.”
Dorman said, “I know this is a lot to ask, but will you drive over to your office, and show me that picture now?”
“Senor, my wife, she is waiting for me at home.”
Dorman said nothing. He took out his pocketbook, and peeled off a twenty dollar bill. As he expected, the other’s slim hand reached forth delicately but without diffidence, and accepted the money.
It took only eight minutes to get to Corteya’s place of business, and a few minutes after that the young man’s projector was set up and purring.
A seascape broke the shadows of a cloudy but brilliantly bright horizon. The sea was flat, a tideless expanse of water. Suddenly, in those murky depths, there was a stirring. A creature charged into view. It burst the surface, and leaped up, twenty, fifty, a hundred feet. Its enormous, bulbous head and vast, yawning mouth seemed almost to touch the camera. And then it began to fall, still struggling, still furiously determined to grasp the prey at which it had leaped.
It failed. It fell. It hit the water with a splash so gigantic that Dorman was startled. He had been admiring the illusion of stark reality that had been produced with what must be. an artificial monster being mechanically activated in some indoor imitation sea.
But those splashes looked—real. A moment later, the narrator said:
“That was a Venusian squid. These creatures, which frequent the depths of the warm seas of Venus, come to the surface only after food. Our camera artist acted as bait, and so enticed the squid to attack him. He was not however in danger. Electronic devices protected him at all times.”
Dorman was smiling twistedly. First an electric stove that prepared its own meals, now a trip to Venus. Both slick jobs of photography. and, in this case, it was especially clever to suggest there had been no danger. So many of these travelogues about places that actually existed faked suspense and excitement to the point of nausea.
He climbed to his feet, his interest close to the vanishing point. He felt very tolerant of himself. Just for a minute, while watching the stove go through its motions, he had had the wild thought that the picture was an advertising stunt for a competitor. The Venusian film put the whole affair into its proper perspective.
He saw that Corteya had stopped the machine. The overhead light clicked on.
“You have learned what you desire?”
“Practically.”
The younger man continued to unwind the reel. While he waited, Dorman glanced around the small room. It had a counter at the front. The projector rested on it near the wall. Behind the counter was a single chair and a small set of shelves. That was all the furniture. The white calcimined walls of the office were decorated with still pictures from one-reel and two-reel films. Printed on each of the pictures was a caption giving the subject and the cost of showing.
It was obviously a selling business. No one would come into a place like this without having been previously canvassed or told about it in some way.
“What else, senor?”
Dorman turned. The film was in its can, the projector in its case.
“I’d like you to check to see if the two films came from the same film library.”
“They did, senor.” Corteya had not moved. He was smiling in his deprecating fashion. “I looked in the can,” he explained, “when I came in.”
Dorman made no move to leave. There was nothing else, really, but he hated to leave unfinished anything he had started. Check on everything, then recheck. That was his method, and he had no intention of changing now. He took out his pocketbook, and removed a ten dollar bill.
“The catalogue of this particular library. I’d like to have a look at it.”
Corteya accepted the bill, and reached under the counter. He came up with several folders.
“They send one of these to me every month. These are for the last four months.”
Only the final two contained lists of the novelty films. Dorman ran his gaze down the column, the smile on his lips broadening. There were several travelogues. Venus, a spaceship voyage to the Moon, a journey through a Martian desert, an aerial trip over mountainous Europa, one of the moons of Jupiter, a camera examination of the rings of Saturn, a boat trip down a river of liquid oxygen on the far planet Pluto, and, finally, the size of the Sun as seen from each one of its ten planets.
Dorman glanced swiftly at the remaining score or so films given under the novelty heading. He found the one he wanted instantly. The caption was, “Amusing account of an automatic stove that does EVERYTHING.”
He closed the folder, and paused to look at the address. Arlay Film Library, Sunset Boulevard, Hollywood, California.
“Thanks,” said Dorman.
He went out into the street, and climbed into his car. It was getting cooler out, so he turned up the window, and sat for a minute lighting a cigarette. He drove unhurriedly back to the hotel. In the lobby, a man hailed him:
“Hey, Wally, come into the bar and have a drink. The boys have been looking for you. Where you been?”
As he settled into a booth a minute later, Dorman said, “I’ve been wild goose chasing.” He explained briefly. One of the other men looked at him.
“Wally,” he said, “you’re a smart man.” He gulped down a drink. “I mean that more than you think. One of the reasons I attended this convention was to find a man who could be the new chairman of the board for our firm. You’d have to buy about a thousand shares, but you’ll see what a deal it is when I show you the statements tomorrow. What we’re mainly interested in is a good man who doesn’t miss any bets. Your action tonight is pure genius, so far as I’m concerned, and you’re in.”
“Waiter,” said Dorman, “more drinks.”
The ever happy music swelled around them. The voices rose and fell in gyrations of sound. The night dragged on.
Ten weeks before. Mr. Lester Arlay, of the Arlay Film Library, had read the first complaint with a faint frown creasing his already lined forehead. The letter had been shoved inside the can of film, and it began:
“Dear Mr. Arley—”
Mr. Arley started to scowl right there. He did not approve of his name being misspelled. He read on grimly:
Dear Mr. Arley:
The sound film, “Food Magic,” which you sent me, is entirely different from what I expected. Neither the audience nor I could make head or tail of it. Certainly, it has nothing to do with food. My program for the retailers convention here was ruined.
The letter was signed by one of his best customers and Mr. Arlay, who remembered the two reeler, “Food Magic,” perfectly, was stunned. It was an educational feature turned out by one of the big food distributors; and it was really a dandy job, one of those films which small film libraries could borrow for nothing, and then rent out at a small but profitable rate.
It was a film definitely suitable for a grocery retailers convention.
Frowning, Mr. Arlay shoved the letter back into the can of film, and put the can on the “To Be Examined” shelf. He began to open the ten other cans of film that had been returned that morning.
Of the ten, four borrowers complained that “This is not the film we asked for.”
“I cannot understand your sending a film so different from what we ordered.”
“This is visual gibberish.”
“Your joke ruined our show.”
For several moments, Mr. Arlay stared palely at the letters, and then, with a sudden burst of activity, he examined one of the criticized films.
Presently, he slid the reel onto the projector, made the necessary adjustments, switched off the light—and stared with a blank expectancy at the screen.
There was a faraway rustle of music. The music drew closer, but the nearer it came the more uncertainty there was in it. Singing violins played a sweet melody, but swiftly a harsher theme intruded, a trill of doubt. The doubt grew and grew until finally the happy strains were completely dominated.
Darkly, almost discordantly the music played—and retreated into distance.
The screen itself came to life. Color flared over it, an intricate weaving movement of color, that never quite formed a recognizable pattern. And the rich, vivid colors grew darker and darker until finally the screen was almost black.
Out of the darkness walked a young woman. She came from the shadows into the light with a casual grace, an agreeable ease, that marked her immediately as one of those marvelous photogenic types. Mr. Arlay had never seen her before, but she quirked her lips into a smile, made a movement with her fingers: and she was a personality.
The trouble was, she had barely appeared when, abruptly, she vanished in a gyrating puff of dark colors.
She came on again, and this time she walked along an intense blue hallway into a living room, where a young man sat reading beside a vast window. Mr. Arlay had a flashing glimpse of a city beyond that window; and then the camera angle shifted to the girl.
She was standing behind the man, hesitant, As she stood, the human details of her flesh merged into the dark thematic colors; and it was these colors in human form that moved forward, and very obviously kissed the young man on the lips. It was a long kiss, and at the end of it, the young man too was a color pattern.
The mingled colors began to twist and spin. The screen was a chromatic splendor of gyrating light. It was just beginning to stir with returning music, as Mr. Arlay emerged from his puzzlement, and held the letter he had received about this particular film in the blazing beam of the projector.
He read: “This is visual gibberish!”
So that was the one! He laid the letter down, and held up the can cover with the title on it: “How To Operate A Chicken Farm”.
On the screen, the young woman was walking uncertainly along a street, looking back at the man who was coming along a little behind her.
Mr. Arlay clicked it off, rewound the reel, then took another film out of its can. It was the one about which the complainant had said:
“Your joke ruined our show.”
He threaded the reel into place, and presently a picture of a machine came onto the screen. It was a very bright, dear picture, without any nonsense about it, but the machine was not one that Mr. Lester Arlay remembered having seen before.
The fact did not disturb him immediately. The world was full of machines that he had never seen: and. what was more, that he never wanted to see.
He waited; and a quiet baritone said:
“No spaceman should have any difficulty repairing this new space drive.”
Mr. Arlay sighed, and lifted the can cover up into the light. The title on it was: “How to Operate the American Cogshill Diesel Engine.”
What had happened was clear enough, it seemed to Mr. Arlay. Somebody had returned a whole series of wrong films to him; and he had sent them out in their original cans. The fantastically bad luck angle of the affair was that no less than five wrong films had gone out all at once.
On the screen, the baritone voice was saying:
“Now, raise the drive case itself. Since the standard weight of the case is eight tons, care must be taken when near a planetary body, to balance the antigravity needles at a similitude of ninety-nine gravitons. Unwringing them becomes a matter of one good shove—”
Mr. Arlay shut the film off, and he was packing it into a can when the thought came: What did he say? What did he say?”
He stood owlishly blinking his realization that something was very wrong indeed.
There was an interruption. The outer door opened, and a young woman came in. She wore a-mink coat, and heavily jeweled rings flashed on her fingers.
“ ’Lo, honey,” she said in a husky voice.
Mr. Arlay, all extraneous thoughts flying from his mind, came around the counter. His wife skillfully evaded the kiss he attempted to plant on her lips.
“Have you any money?” she asked. “I’m going shopping.”
Mr. Arlay said, “Careful, Tania. We’re almost at rock bottom.”
He said it affectionately. He tried to kiss her again, and this time managed to brush her cheeks. His words made her shake her slim body impatiently.
“That’s all I ever hear from you,” she said darkly. “Why don’t you make money like some of the people in this town?”
Almost, Mr. Arlay pointed out that he did. He refrained. He had no illusions about his hold on this young woman. His business netted him between three and five hundred dollars a week. It was not a terrific amount of money, but it rivaled the salaries of featured movie players. They might make a little more per week, but few of them made it fifty-two weeks a year.
It was that income which had enabled him three years before to marry a small-part player, who was a far more attractive person physically than he could have hoped to marry without money. Mentally—that was another matter. She was a survival type in the strictest Darwinian sense. Regardless of the variation in his income, she managed to spend it all, month in, month out. Her adaptability sometimes amazed even that defeatist Mr. Arlay.
What he did not realize, and certainly she neither knew nor would she have cared if she had known, was the profound influence she had had on him. All the imaginative qualities that had built his business had been replaced by a complete dependence on experience. He regarded himself as a practical man, and he had no inkling that his habit of thinking himself as “Mr.” was but one compensation for the psychic disaster he had suffered when she entered his life.
Not that he would necessarily have suspected anyway that he had come into possession of films that had been made more than fifty years in the future.
Now that she had come into the office, he strove to keep her there.
“Got something here that might interest you,” he said eagerly. “Somebody sent me a film of some other library by mistake, and it’s quite an odd affair, a sort of a visual freak.”
“Now, darling, I’m in a hurry, and—”
Her narrowed eyes saw that this was no moment to refuse him. He needed an occasional crumb, and he was so completely unsuspicious. After all, she’d be a nut to let this soft touch walk out on her.
“All right, honey,” she crooned. “If you want me to.”
He showed her the film with the man and the girl and the swirling colors—and realized the moment the girl appeared on the screen that he had made a mistake. His wife stiffened as that superb actress came into view.
“Hm-m-m,” she said bitingly. “what kind of ham are you serving up now?”
Mr. Arlay let the film run its course without another comment. He had momentarily forgotten that his wife did not admire other actresses, particularly stars.
Watching the film, he noticed absently that the reason for the dark tones of music and color seemed to be that the girl was unhappily married, and the twisting colors were designed to show her changing emotions, the doubts that came, and the thoughts that welled up into her mind.
“Interesting,” he thought. “I wonder who made it.”
As the reel ended, Tania jumped to her feet. “Well, got to be running. I’ll cash a check for five hundred dollars. O.K.?”
“Three!” said Mr. Arlay.
“Four,” his wife said in a tone of friendly give and take.
Four hundred it was. When she had gone, Mr. Arlay began a checkup to see who had sent him the unusual films.
The card index for the film, “How to Operate a Chicken Farm,” gave a list of men and schools and institutions that had rented the item. The second last renter would obviously be the one. His gaze flashed down to it.
“Tichenor Collegiate,” he read.
Mr. Arlay frowned at the name, and mentally changed the wording in the letter he had intended to write. Tichenor Collegiate was easily one of his best customers. And what was more, the operator in charge, Peter Caxton, a science teacher, was a thoroughly experienced man. It seemed scarcely possible that Caxton could be guilty.
Quickly, Mr. Arlay examined the card for another of the eccentric films. The second last borrower was Tichenor Collegiate.
The same name came up for each of the three other returned films, which didn’t belong to his library. Mr. Arlay sat down at his typewriter, and, bearing in mind that customers were seldom offended by the facts of the case, wrote:
Dear Mr. Caxton:
A number of films which you have returned to us were not the ones which we originally sent you. Altogether five films—
He paused there. Five? How did he know there were only five? Mr. Arlay made a beeline for the Tichenor Collegiate’s personal file card. It was a thick one, additions having been glued to it from time to time.
He skipped down to the fifteenth name on the card. That would take it back just a little over two weeks. The title was “Pruning Fruit Trees.” The film itself was a fantastic concoction in which a curious shaped ship seemed to leave the Earth’s surface and go to the Moon. The illusions were very realistic, and the photography had a Hollywood slickness.
Mr. Arlay shut it off finally, thinking for the first time that whoever was making those pictures would be well worth representing.
Meanwhile, there was a job to do. One by one, he screened the last nineteen films that had been borrowed by Tichenor. That is, he screened the sixteen that were in. Three had been re-rented, and in due course no doubt he would hear from them.
Of the sixteen, seven were travelogues. Travelogues: Unique, incredible creations, filmed by a madman. But mad or not, he was a genius, and he had designed some of the most lifelike backgrounds ever conceived for fantasia.
Among the first few that Mr. Arlay screened was the one about Venus which, ten weeks later, Pedro del Corteya showed to electronics manufacturer Walter Dorman. Mr. Arlay watched it and the other reels about the Solar System with an appraising eye. There was, it seemed to him, much to he said for a skillful motion picture presentation of what science believed about the various planetary bodies.
