Dark Benediction

Thorny knew the yearnings after lastingness, and he could no longer hate the ones who had gone over. As for himself, the autodrama industry had made him a tentative offer, and he had resisted—partly because he was reasonably certain that the offer would have been withdrawn during testing procedures. Some actors were not “cybergenic”—could not be adequately sculptured into electronic-robotic analogues. These were the portrayers, whose art was inward, whose roles had to be lived rather than played. No polygraphic analogue could duplicate their talents, and Thornier knew he was one of them. It had been easy for him to resist.

At the corner of Eighth Street, he remembered the spare tape and the replacement pickup for the Maestro. But if he turned back now, he’d hold up the ran-through, and Jade would be furious. Mentally he kicked himself, and drove on to the delivery entrance of the theater. There he left the crated mannequin with the stage crew, and headed back for the depot without seeing the producer.

“Hey, bud,” said the clerk, “your boss was on the phone. Sounded pretty unhappy.”

“Who… D’Uccia?”

“No… well, yeah, D’Uccia, too. He wasn’t unhappy, just having fits. I meant Miss Ferne.”

“Oh… where’s your phone?”

“Over there. The lady was near hysterical.”

Thorny swallowed hard and headed for the booth. Jade Ferne was a good friend, and if his absent-mindedness had goofed up her production—

“I’ve got the pickup and the tape ready to go,” the clerk called after him. “She told me about it on the phone. Boy, you’re sure on the ball today, ain’t ya—the greasy eight ball.”

Thorny reddened and dialed nervously.

“Thank God!” she groaned. “Thorny, we did the run-through with Andreyev a walking zombie. The Maestro chewed up our duplicate Peltier tape, and we’re running without an actor-analogue in the starring role. Baby, I could murder you!”

“Sorry, Jade. I slipped a cog, I guess.”

“Never mind! Just get the new pickup mechanism over here for Thomas. And the Peltier tape. And don’t have a wreck. It’s two o’clock, and tonight’s opening, and we’re still short our leading man. And there’s no time to get anything else flown in from Smithfield.”

“In some ways, nothing’s changed, has it, Jade?” he grunted, thinking of the eternal backstage hysteria that lasted until the lights went low and beauty and calm order somehow emerged miraculously out of the prevailing chaos.

“Don’t philosophize, just get here!” she snapped, and hung up.

The clerk had the cartons ready for him as he emerged. “Look, chum, better take care of that Peltier tape,” the clerk advised. “It’s the last one in the place. I’ve got more on order, but they won’t be here for a couple of days.”

Thornier stared at the smaller package thoughtfully. The last Peltier?

The plan, he remembered the plan. This would make it easy. Of course, the plan was only a fantasy, a vengeful dream. He couldn’t go through with it. To wreck the show would be a stab at Jade—

He heard his own voice like a stranger’s, saying; “Miss Ferne also asked me to pick up a Wilson Granger tape, and a couple of three-inch splices.”

The clerk looked surprised. “Granger? He’s not in ‘The Anarch,’ is he?”

Thornier shook his head. “No-guess she wants it for a trial casting. Next show, maybe.”

The clerk shrugged and went to get the tape and the splices. Thornier stood clenching and unclenching his fists. He wasn’t going to go through with it, of course. Only a silly fantasy.

“I’ll have to make a separate ticket on these,” said the clerk, returning.

He signed the delivery slips in a daze, then headed for the truck. He drove three blocks from the depot, then parked in a loading zone. He opened the tape cartons carefully with his penknife, peeling back the glued flaps so that they could be sealed again. He removed the two rolls of pattern perforated tape from their small metal canisters, carefully plucked off the masking-tape seals and stuck them temporarily to the dashboard. He unrolled the first half-yard of the Peltier tape; it was unperforated, and printed with identifying codes and manufacturer’s data. Fortunately, it was not a brand-new tape; it had been used before, and he could see the wear-marks. A splice would not arouse suspicion.

He cut off the identifying tongue with his knife, laid it aside. Then he did the same to the Granger tape.

Granger was fat, jovial, fiftyish. His mannequin played comic supporting roles.

Peltier was young, gaunt, gloomy—the intellectual villain, the dedicated fanatic. A fair choice for the part of Andreyev.