Dark Benediction

The chic little woman in the white-plumed hat was explaining things carefully—with round vowels and precise enunciation—to the Playwright of the Moment, up-and-coming, with awed worshipfulness in his gaze as he listened to the pert little producer. “Stark realism, you see, is the milieu of autodrama,” she said. “Always remember, Bernie, that consideration for the actors is a thing of the past. Study the drama of Rome—ancient Rome. If a play had a crucifixion scene, they got a slave for the part and crucified him. On stage, but really!”

The Playwright of the Moment laughed dutifully around his long cigarette holder. “So that’s where they got the line: ‘It’s superb, but it’s hell on the actors.’ I must re-write the murder scene in my ‘George’s Wake.’ Do it with a hatchet, this time.”

“Oh, now, Bernie! Mannequins don’t bleed.”

They both laughed heartily. “And they are expensive. Not hell on the actors, but hell on the budget.”

“The Romans probably had the same problem. I’ll bear it in mind.”

Thornier saw them—the producer and the Playwright of the Moment—standing there in the orchestra when he came from backstage and across toward the center aisle. They lounged on the arms of their seats, and a crowd of production personnel and technicians milled about them. The time for the first run-through was approaching.

The small woman waved demurely to Thorny when she saw him making his way slowly through the throng, then turned to the playwright again. “Bernie, be a lamb and get me a drink, will you? I’ve got a butterfly.”

“Surely. Hard, or soft?”

“Oh, hard. Scotch mist in a paper cup, please. There’s a bar next door.”

The playwright nodded a nod that was nearly a bow and shuffled away up the aisle. The woman caught at the janitor’s sleeve as he passed.

“Going to snub me, Thorny?”

“Oh, hello, Miss Ferne,” he said politely.

She leaned close and muttered: “Call me ‘Miss Ferne again and I’ll claw you.” The round vowels had vanished.

“O.K., Jade, but—” He glanced around nervously. Technicians milled about them. Ian Feria, the producer, watched them curiously from the wings.

“What’s been doing with you, Thorny? Why haven’t I seen you?” she complained.

He gestured with the broom handle, shrugged. Jade Ferne studied his face a moment and frowned. “Why the agonized look, Thorny? Mad at me?”

He shook his head. “This play, Jade—‘The Anarch,’ well—” He glanced miserably toward the stage.

Memory struck her suddenly. She breathed a compassionate ummm. “The attempted revival, ten years ago—you were to be Andreyev. Oh, Thorny, I’d forgotten.”

“It’s all right.” He wore a carefully tailored martyr’s smile.

She gave his arm a quick pat. “I’ll see you after the run-through, Thorny. We’ll have a drink and talk old times.”

He glanced around again and shook his head. “You’ve got new friends now, Jade. They wouldn’t like it.”

“The crew? Nonsense! They’re not snobs.”

“No, but they want your attention. Feria’s trying to catch your eye right now. No use making them sore.”

“All right, but after the run-through I’ll see you in the mannequin room. I’ll just slip away.”

“If you want to.”

“I do, Thorny. It’s been so long.”

The playwright returned with her Scotch mist and gave Thornier a hostilely curious glance.

“Bless your heart, Bernie,” she said, the round vowels returning, then to Thornier: “Thorny, would you do me a favor? I’ve been trying to corner D’Uccia, but he’s tied up with a servo salesman somewhere. Somebody’s got to run and pick up a mannequin from the depot. The shipment was delivered, but the trucker missed a doll crate. We’ll need it for the runthrough. Could you—”

“Sure, Miss Ferne. Do I need a requisition order?”

“No, just sign the delivery ticket. And Thorny, see if the new part for the Maestro’s been flown in yet. Oh, and one other thing—the Maestro chewed up the Peltier tape. We’ve got a duplicate, but we should have two, just to be safe.”

“I’ll see if they have one in stock,” he murmured, and turned to go.

D’Uccia stood in the lobby with the salesman when he passed through. The theater manager saw him and smirked happily.

“…Certain special features, of course,” the salesman was saying. “It’s an old building, and it wasn’t designed with autojanitor systems in mind, like buildings are now. But we’ll tailor the installation to fit your place, Mr. D’Uccia. We want to do the job right, and a packaged unit wouldn’t do it.”

“Yah, you gimme da price, hah?”

“We’ll have an estimate for you by tomorrow. I’ll have an engineer over this afternoon to make the survey, and he’ll work up a layout tonight.”

“Whatsa ‘bout the demonstration, uh? Whatsa ‘bout you show how da swhip-op machine go?”

The salesman hesitated, eying the janitor who waited nearby. “Well, the floor-cleaning robot is only a small part of the complete service, but… I tell you what I’ll do. I’ll bring a packaged char—all over this afternoon, and let you have a look at it.”

“Fine. Datsa fine. You bring her, den we see.”