Dark Benediction

He finished breaking the lid-fastenings loose and turned to a wall-control board. “We don’t have a complete Maestro here,” he said as he closed a knife switch, “but we got the control transmitters, and some taped sequences. It’s enough to pre-flight a doll.”

Equipment hummed to life somewhere behind the panel. The clerk adjusted several dials while Thornier waited impatiently.

“Let’s see—” muttered the cleric. “Guess we’ll start off with the Frankenstein sequence.” He flipped a switch.

A purring sound came faintly from within the coffin-like box. Thornier watched nervously. The lid stirred, began to rise. A woman’s hands came into view, pushing the lid up from within. The purring increased. The lid clattered aside to hang by the metal straps.

The woman sat up and smiled at the janitor.

Thornier went white. “Mela!” he hissed.

“Ain’t that a chiller?” chuckled the clerk. “Now for the hoochy-coochy sequence—”

“No—”

The clerk flipped another switch. The doll stood up slowly, chastely nude as a window-dummy. Still smiling at Thorny, the doll did a bump and a grind.

“Stop it!” he yelled hoarsely.

“Whassa matter, buddy?”

Thorny heard another switch snap. The doll stretched gracefully and yawned. It stretched out in its packing case again, closed its eyes and folded its hands over its bosom. The purring stopped.

“What’s eating you?” the clerk grumbled, slapping the lid back over the case again. “You sick or something?”

“I… I knew her,” Ryan Thornier wheezed. “I used to work—” He shook himself angrily and seized the crate. “Wait, I’ll give you a hand.”

Fury awakened new muscles. He hauled the crate out on the loading dock without assistance and dumped it in the back of the truck, then came back to slash his name across the release forms.

“You sure get sore easy,” the clerk mumbled. “You better take it easy. You sure better take it easy.”

Thorny was cursing softly as he nosed the truck out into the river of traffic. Maybe Jade thought it was funny, sending him after Mela’s doll. Jade remembered how it had been between them—if she bothered to think about it. Thornier and Stone—a team that had gotten constant attention from the gossip columnists in the old days. Rumors of engagement, rumors of secret marriage, rumors of squabbles and reunions, break-ups and patch-ups, and some of the rumors were almost true. Maybe Jade thought it was a howl, sending him to fetch the mannequin.

But no—his anger faded as he drove along the boulevard—she hadn’t thought about it. Probably she tried hard not to think of old times any more.

Gloom settled over him again, replacing rage. Still it haunted him—the horrified shock of seeing her sit up like an awakened corpse to smile at him. Mela… Mela

They’d had it good together and bad together. Bit parts and beans in a cold-water flat. Starring roles and steaks at Sardi’s. And—love? Was that what it was? He thought of it uneasily. Hypnotic absorption in each other, perhaps, and in the mutual intoxication of their success—but it wasn’t necessarily love. Love was calm and even and lasting, and you paid for it with a dedicated lifetime, and Mela wouldn’t pay. She’d walked out on them. She’d walked to Smithfield and bought security with sacrifice of principle. There’d been a name for what_. she’d done. “Scab,” they used to say.

He shook himself. It was no good, thinking about those times. Times died with each passing minute. Now they paid $8.80 to watch Mela’s figurine move in her stead, wearing Mela’s face, moving with Mela’s gestures, walking with the same lilting walk. And the doll was still young, while Mela had aged ten years, years of collecting quarterly royalties from her dolls and living comfortably.

Great Actors Immortalized—that was one of Smith field’s little slogans. But they had discontinued production on Mela Stone, the depot clerk had said. Overstocked.

The promise of relative immortality had been quite a bait. Actors unions had resisted autodrama, for obviously the bit players and the lesser-knowns would not be in demand. By making dozens—even hundreds—of copies of the same leading star, top talent could be had for every role, and the same actor-mannequin could be playing simultaneously in dozens of shows all over the country. The unions had resisted—but only a few were wanted by Smithfield anyhow, and the lure was great. The promise of fantastic royalties was enticing enough, but in addition immortality for the actor, through duplication of mannequins. Authors, artists, playwrights had always been able to outlive the centuries, but actors were remembered only by professionals, and their names briefly recorded in the annals of the stage. Shakespeare would live another thousand years, but who remembered Dick Burbage who trouped in the day of the bard’s premiers? Flesh and bone, heart and brain, these were the trouper’s media, and his art could not outlive them.