American Science Fiction Five Classic Novels 1956-58 (2 page)

“Do you mean a
professional
engagement?” I answered slowly. For a horrid instant I suspected that he was offering me . . . Well,
you
know—a
job
. Thus far I had kept my professional pride intact, despite the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune.

“Oh, professional, of course!” he answered quickly. “This requires the best actor we can get.”

I did not let my relief show in my face. It was true that I was ready for
any
professional work—I would gladly have played the balcony in
Romeo and Juliet
—but it does not do to be eager. “What is the nature of the engagement?” I asked. “My calendar is rather full.”

He brushed it aside. “I can’t explain over the phone. Perhaps you don’t know it, but any scrambler circuit can be unscrambled—with the proper equipment. Shag over here fast!”

He was eager; therefore I could afford not to be eager. “Now really,” I protested, “what do you think I am? A bellman? Or an untried juvenile anxious for the privilege of carrying a spear?
I
am Lorenzo!” I threw up my chin and looked offended. “What is your offer?”

“Uh . . . Damn it, I
can’t
go into it over the phone. How much do you get?”

“Eh? You are asking my professional salary?”

“Yes, yes!”

“For a single appearance? Or by the week? Or an option contract?”

“Uh, never mind. What do you get by the day?”

“My minimum fee for a one-evening date is one hundred Imperials.” This was simple truth. Oh, I have been coerced at times into paying some scandalous kickbacks, but the voucher never read less than my proper fee. A man has his standards. I’d rather starve.

“Very well,” he answered quickly, “one hundred Imperials in cash, laid in your hand the minute you show up here. But hurry!”

“Eh?” I realized with sudden dismay that I could as easily have said two hundred, or even two fifty. “But I have not agreed to accept the engagement.”

“Never mind that! We’ll talk it over when you get here. The hundred is yours even if you turn us down. If you accept— well, call it a bonus, over and above your salary. Now will you sign off and get over here?”

I bowed. “Certainly, sir. Have patience.”

Fortunately the Eisenhower is not too far from the Casa, for I did not even have a minum for tube fare. However, although the art of strolling is almost lost, I savor it—and it gave me time to collect my thoughts. I was no fool; I was aware that when another man is too anxious to force money on one, it is time to examine the cards, for there is almost certainly something illegal, or dangerous, or both, involved in the matter. I was not unduly fussy about legality
qua
legality; I agreed with the Bard that the Law is often an idiot. But in the main I had stayed on the right side of the street.

But presently I realized that I had insufficient facts, so I put it out of my mind, threw my cape over my right shoulder, and strode along, enjoying the mild autumn weather and the rich and varied odors of the metropolis. On arrival I decided to forego the main entrance and took a bounce tube from the sub-basement to the twenty-first floor, I having at the time a vague feeling that this was not the place to let my public recognize me. My
voyageur
friend let me in. “You took long enough,” he snapped.

“Indeed?” I let it go at that and looked around me. It was an expensive suite, as I had expected, but it was littered and there were at least a dozen used glasses and as many coffee cups scattered here and there; it took no skill to see that I was merely the latest of many visitors. Sprawled on a couch, scowling at me, was another man, whom I tabbed tentatively as a spaceman. I glanced inquiringly but no introduction was offered.

“Well, you’re here, at least. Let’s get down to business.”

“Surely. Which brings to mind,” I added, “there was mention of a bonus, or retainer.”

“Oh, yes.” He turned to the man on the couch. “Jock, pay him.”

“For what?”

“Pay him!”

I now knew which one was boss—although, as I was to learn, there was usually little doubt when Dak Broadbent was in a room. The other fellow stood up quickly, still scowling, and counted out to me a fifty and five tens. I tucked it away casually without checking it and said, “I am at your disposal, gentlemen.”

The big man chewed his lip. “First, I want your solemn oath not even to talk in your sleep about this job.”

“If my simple word is not good, is my oath better?” I glanced at the smaller man, slouched again on the couch. “I don’t believe we have met. I am Lorenzo.”

He glanced at me, looked away. My barroom acquaintance said hastily, “Names don’t matter in this.”

“No? Before my revered father died he made me promise him three things: first, never to mix whisky with anything but water; second, always to ignore anonymous letters; and lastly, never to talk with a stranger who refuses to give his name. Good day, sirs.” I turned toward the door, their hundred Imperials warm in my pocket.

“Hold it!” I paused. He went on, “You are perfectly right. My name is——”

“Skipper!”

“Stow it, Jock. I’m Dak Broadbent; that’s Jacques Dubois glaring at us. We’re both
voyageurs
—master pilots, all classes, any acceleration.”

I bowed. “Lorenzo Smythe,” I said modestly, “jongleur and artist—care of The Lambs Club.” I made a mental note to pay my dues.

“Good. Jock, try smiling for a change. Lorenzo, you agree to keep our business secret?”

“Under the rose. This is a discussion between gentlemen.”

“Whether you take the job or not?”

“Whether we reach agreement or not. I am human, but, short of illegal methods of questioning, your confidences are safe with me.”

“I am well aware of what neodexocaine will do to a man’s forebrain, Lorenzo. We don’t expect the impossible.”

“Dak,” Dubois said urgently, “this is a mistake. We should at least——”

“Shut up, Jock. I want no hypnotists around at this point. Lorenzo, we want you to do an impersonation job. It has to be so perfect that no one—I mean
no one
—will ever know it took place. Can you do that sort of a job?”

I frowned. “The first question is not ‘Can I?’ but ‘Will I?’ What are the circumstances?”

“Uh, we’ll go into details later. Roughly, it is the ordinary doubling job for a well-known public figure. The difference is that the impersonation will have to be so perfect as to fool people who know him well and must see him close up. It won’t be just reviewing a parade from a grandstand, or pinning medals on girl scouts.” He looked at me shrewdly. “It will take a real artist.”

“No,” I said at once.

“Huh? You don’t know anything about the job yet. If your conscience is bothering you, let me assure you that you will not be working against the interests of the man you will impersonate—nor against anyone’s legitimate interests. This is a job that really needs to be done.”

“No.”

“Well, for Pete’s sake, why? You don’t even know how much we will pay.”

“Pay is no object,” I said firmly. “I am an actor, not a double.”

“I don’t understand you. There are lots of actors picking up spare money making public appearances for celebrities.”

“I regard them as prostitutes, not colleagues. Let me make myself clear. Does an author respect a ghost writer? Would you respect a painter who allowed another man to sign his work— for
money?
Possibly the spirit of the artist is foreign to you, sir, yet perhaps I may put it in terms germane to your own profession. Would you, simply for
money
, be content to pilot a ship while some other man, not possessing your high art, wore the uniform, received the credit, was publicly acclaimed as the Master? Would you?”

Dubois snorted. “How much money?”

Broadbent frowned at him. “I think I understand your objection.”

“To the artist, sir, kudos comes first. Money is merely the mundane means whereby he is enabled to create his art.”

“Hmm . . . All right, so you won’t do it just for money. Would you do it for other reasons? If you felt that it had to be done and you were the only one who could do it successfully?”

“I concede the possibility; I cannot imagine the circumstances.”

“You won’t have to imagine them; we’ll explain them to you.”

Dubois jumped up off the couch. “Now see here, Dak, you can’t——”

“Cut it, Jock! He has to know.”

“He doesn’t have to know now—and here. And you haven’t any right to jeopardize everybody else by telling him. You don’t know a thing about him.”

“It’s a calculated risk.” Broadbent turned back to me.

Dubois grabbed his arm, swung him around. “Calculated risk be damned! Dak, I’ve strung along with you in the past— but this time before I’ll let you shoot off your face, well, one or the other of us isn’t going to be in any shape to talk.”

Broadbent looked startled, then grinned coldly down at Dubois. “Think you’re up to it, Jock old son?”

Dubois glared up at him, did not flinch. Broadbent was a head taller and outweighed him by twenty kilos. I found myself for the first time liking Dubois; I am always touched by the gallant audacity of a kitten, the fighting heart of a bantam cock, or the willingness of a little man to die in his tracks rather than knuckle under . . . And, while I did not expect Broadbent to kill him, I did think that I was about to see Dubois used as a dust rag.

I had no thought of interfering. Every man is entitled to elect the time and manner of his own destruction.

I could see tension grow. Then suddenly Broadbent laughed and clapped Dubois on the shoulder. “Good for you, Jock!” He turned to me and said quietly, “Will you excuse us a few moments? My friend and I must make heap big smoke.”

The suite was equipped with a hush corner, enclosing the autograph and the phone. Broadbent took Dubois by the arm and led him over there; they stood and talked urgently.

Sometimes such facilities in public places like hotels are not all that they might be; the sound waves fail to cancel out completely. But the Eisenhower is a luxury house and in this case, at least, the equipment worked perfectly; I could see their lips move but I could hear no sound.

But I could indeed see their lips move. Broadbent’s face was toward me and Dubois I could glimpse in a wall mirror. When I was performing in my famous mentalist act, I found out why my father had beaten my tail until I learned the silent language of lips—in my mentalist act I always performed in a brightly lighted hall and made use of spectacles which—but never mind; I could read lips.

Dubois was saying: “Dak, you bloody, stupid, unprintable, illegal and highly improbable obscenity, do you want us both to wind up counting rocks on Titan? This conceited pip-squeak will spill his guts.”

I almost missed Broadbent’s answer. Conceited indeed! Aside from a cold appreciation of my own genius I felt that I was a modest man.

Broadbent: “. . . doesn’t matter if the game is crooked when it’s the only game in town. Jock, there is nobody else we can use.”

Dubois: “All right, then get Doc Capek over here, hypnotize him, and shoot him the happy juice. But don’t tell him the score—not until he’s conditioned, not while we are still on dirt.”

Broadbent: “Uh, Capek himself told me that we could not depend on hypno and drugs, not for the performance we need. We’ve got to have his co-operation, his intelligent co-operation.”

Dubois snorted. “What intelligence? Look at him. Ever see a rooster strutting through a barnyard? Sure, he’s the right size and shape and his skull looks a good bit like the Chief—but there is nothing behind it. He’ll lose his nerve, blow his top, and give the whole thing away. He can’t play the part—he’s just a ham actor!”

If the immortal Caruso had been charged with singing off key, he could not have been more affronted than I. But I trust I justified my claim to the mantle of Burbage and Booth at that moment; I went on buffing my nails and ignored it— merely noting that I would someday make friend Dubois both laugh and cry within the span of twenty seconds. I waited a few moments more, then stood up and approached the hush corner. When they saw that I intended to enter it, they both shut up. I said quietly, “Never mind, gentlemen, I have changed my mind.”

Dubois looked relieved. “You don’t want the job.”

“I mean that I accept the engagement. You need not make explanations. I have been assured by friend Broadbent that the work is such as not to trouble my conscience—and I trust him. He has assured me that he needs an actor. But the business affairs of the producer are not my concern. I accept.”

Dubois looked angry but shut up. I expected Broadbent to look pleased and relieved; instead he looked worried. “All right,” he agreed, “let’s get on with it. Lorenzo, I don’t know exactly how long we will need you. No more than a few days, I’m certain—and you will be on display only an hour or so once or twice in that time.”

“That does not matter as long as I have time to study the role—the impersonation. But approximately how many days will you need me? I should notify my agent.”

“Oh no! Don’t do that.”

“Well—how long? As much as a week?”

“It will be less than that—or we’re sunk.”

“Eh?”

“Never mind. Will a hundred Imperials a day suit you?”

I hesitated, recalling how easily he had met my minimum just to interview me—and decided this was a time to be gracious. I waved it aside. “Let’s not speak of such things. No doubt you will present me with an honorarium consonant with the worth of my performance.”

“All right, all right.” Broadbent turned away impatiently. “Jock, call the field. Then call Langston and tell him we’re starting Plan Mardi Gras. Synchronize with him. Lorenzo . . .” He motioned for me to follow and strode into the bath. He opened a small case and demanded, “Can you do anything with this junk?”

“Junk” it was—the sort of overpriced and unprofessional make-up kit that is sold over the counter to stage-struck youngsters. I stared at it with mild disgust. “Do I understand, sir, that you expect me to start an impersonation
now?
Without time for study?”