Afterwards, things would have to go as he had planned.
Afterwards, Jade would have to come to him, as he believed she would. If she didn't, then he had bungled, he had clumsily wrecked, and to no avail.
He slipped through the power-room where converters hummed softly, supplying power to the stage. He stood close to the entrance, watching the beginnings of scene
iii,
of the third act. Andreyev-the Peltier doll-was on alone, pacing grimly in his apartment while the low grumble of a street mob and the distant rattle of machine-gun fire issued from the Maestro-managed sound effect system. After a moment's watching, he saw that Andreyev's movements were not "grim" but merely methodical and lifeless. The tapeless mannequin, going through the required motions, robotlike, without interpretation of meaning. He heard a brief burst of laughter from someone in the production row, and after watching the zombie-like rendering of Andreyev in a suspenseful scene, he, too, found himself grinning faintly.
The pacing mannequin looked toward him suddenly with a dead-pan face. It raised both fists toward its face.
"Help," it said in a conversational monotone. "Ivan, where are you? Where? Surely they've come; they must come." It spoke quietly, without inflection. It ground its fists casually against its temples, paced mechanically again.
A few feet away, two mannequins that had been standing frozen in the off-stage lineup, clicked suddenly to life. As ghostly calm as display window dummies, they galvanized suddenly at a signal pulse command from the Maestro. Muscles-plastic sacs filled with oil-suspended magnetic powder and wrapped with elastic coils of wire, like flexible solenoids-tightened and strained beneath the airfoam flesh, working spasmodically to the pulsing rhythms of the polychromatic u.h.f. commands of the Maestro. Expressions of fear and urgency leaped to their faces. They crouched, tensed, looked around, then burst on stage, panting wildly.
"Comrade, she's come, she's come!" one of them screamed. "She's come with
him,
with Boris!"
"What? She has him prisoner?" came the casual reply. "No, no, comrade. We've been betrayed. She's with him. She's a traitor, she's sold out to them."
There was no feeling in the uninterpreted Andreyev's responses, even when he shot the bearer of bad tidings through the heart.
Thornier grew fascinated with watching as the scene progressed. The mannequins moved gracefully, their movements sinuous and more evenly flowing than human, they seemed boneless. The ratio of mass-to-muscle power of their members was carefully chosen to yield the flow of a dance with their every movement. Not clanking mechanical robots, not stumbling puppets, the dolls sustained patterns of movement and expression that would have quickly brought fatigue to a human actor, and the Maestro coordinated the events on stage in a way that would be impossible to a group of humans, each an individual and thinking independently.
It was as always. First, he looked with a shudder at the Machine moving in the stead of flesh and blood, at Mechanism sitting in the seat of artistry. But gradually his chill melted away, and the play caught him, and the actors were no longer machines. He lived in the role of Andreyev, and breathed the lines off-stage, and he knew the rest of them: Meta and Pettier, Sam Dion and Peter Repplewaite. He tensed with them, gritted his teeth in anticipation of difficult lines, cursed softly at the dud Andreyev, and forgot to listen for the faint crackle of sparks as the mannequins' feet stepped across the copper-studded floor, drinking energy in random bites to keep their storage packs near full charge.
Thus entranced, he scarcely noticed the purring and brushing and swishing sounds that came from behind him, and grew louder. He heard a quiet mutter of voices nearby, but only frowned at the distraction, kept his attention rooted to the stage.
Then
a thin spray of water tickled his ankles. Some-thing soggy and spongelike slapped against his foot. He whirled.
A gleaming metal spider, three feet high came at him slowly on six legs, with two grasping claws extended. It clicked its way toward him across the floor, throwing out a thin spray of liquid which it promptly sucked up with the spongelike proboscis. With one grasping claw, it lifted a ten-gallon can near his leg, sprayed under it, swabbed, and set the can down again.
Thornier came unfrozen with a howl, leaped over the thing, hit the wet-soapy deck off balance. He skidded and sprawled. The spider scrubbed at the floor toward the edge of the stage, then reversed directions and came back toward him.
Groaning, he pulled himself together, on hands and knees. D'Uccia's cackling laughter spilled over him. He glanced up. The chubby manager and the servo salesman stood over him, the salesman grinning, D'Uccia chortling.
"Datsa ma boy, datsa ma boy! Always, he watcha the show, then he don't swip-op around, then he wantsa day off. Thatsa ma boy, for sure." D'Uccia reached down to pat the metal spider's chassis.
"Hey, ragazzo,"
he said again to Thornier, "want you should meet my new
boy
here. This one, he don't watcha the show like you."
He got to his feet, ghost-white and muttering. D'Uccia took closer note of his face, and his grin went sick. He inched back a step. Thornier glared at him briefly, then whirled to stalk away. He whirled into near collision with the Mela Stone mannequin, recovered, and started to pass in back of it.
Then he froze.
The Mela Stone mannequin was on stage, in the final scene. And this one looked older, and a little haggard. It wore an expression of shocked surprise as it looked him up and down. One hand darted to its mouth.
"Thorny-!" A frightened whisper.
"Mesa!
"
Despite the play, he shouted it, opening his arms to her. "Mela, how
wonderful!"
And then, he noticed she winced away from his sodden coveralls. And she wasn't glad to see him at all.
"Thorny, how nice," she managed to murmur, extending her hand gingerly. The hand flashed with jewelry.
He took it for an empty second, stared at her, then walked hurriedly away, knots twisting up inside him. Now he could play it through. Now he could go on with it, and even enjoy executing his plan against all of them.
Mela had come to watch opening night for her doll in "The Anarch," as if its performance were her own.
I'll arrange,
he thought,
for it not to be a dull show.
"No, no, wool" came the monotone protest of the dud Andreyev, in the next-to-the-last scene. The bark of Marka's gun, and the Peltier mannequin crumpled to the stage; and except for a brief triumphant denouement, the play was over.
At the sound of the gunshot, Thornier paused to smile tightly over his shoulder, eyes burning from his hawklike face. Then he vanished into the wings.
She got away from them as soon as she could, and she wandered around backstage until she found him in the storage room of the costuming section. Alone, he was sorting through the contents of an old locker and muttering nostalgically to himself. She smiled and closed the door with a thud. Startled, he dropped an old collapsible top-hat and a box of blank cartridges back into the trunk. His hand dived into his pocket as he straightened.
"Jade! I didn't expect-"
"Me to come?" She flopped on a dusty old chaise lounge with a weary sigh and fanned herself with a program, closing her eyes. She kicked off her shoes and muttered: "Infuriating bunch. I hate 'em!"-made a retching face, and relaxed into little-girlhood. A little girl who had trouped with Thornier and the rest of them-the
actress
Jade Ferne, who had begged for bit parts and haunted the agencies and won the roles through endless rehearsals and shuddered with fright before opening curtain like the rest of them. Now she was a pert little woman with shrewd eyes, streaks of gray at the temples, and hard lines around her mouth. As she let the executive cloak slip away, the shrewdness and the hard lines melted into weariness.
"Fifteen minutes to get my sanity back, Thorny," she muttered, glancing at her watch as if to time it.
He sat on the trunk and tried to relax. She hadn't seemed to notice his uneasiness, or else she was just too tired to attach any significance to it. If she found him out, she'd have him flayed and pitched out of the building on his ear, and maybe call the police. She came in a small package, but so did an incendiary grenade.
It won't hurt you, Jade, what I'm doing,
he told himself.
It'll cause a big splash, and you won't like it, but it won't hurt you, nor even wreck the show.
He was doing it for show business, the old kind, the kind they'd both known and loved. And in that sense, he told himself further, he was doing it as much for her as he was for himself.
"How was the run-through, Jade?" he asked casually.
"Except for Andreyev, I mean." "Superb, simply superb," she said mechanically.
"
I mean
really."
She opened her eyes, made a sick mouth. "Like always, Thorny, like always. Nauseating, overplayed, perfectly directed for a gum-chewing bag-rattling crowd. A crowd that wants it overplayed so that it won't have to think about what's going on. A crowd that doesn't want to reach
out
for a feeling or a meaning. It wants to be clubbed on the head with the meaning, so it doesn't have to reach. I'm sick of it."
He looked briefly surprised. "That figures," he grunted wryly.
She hooked her bare heels on the edge of the lounge, hugged her shins, rested her chin on her knees, and blinked at him. "Hate me for producing the stuff, Thorny?"
He thought about it for a moment, shook his head. "I get sore at the setup sometimes, but I don't blame you for it."
"That's good. Sometimes I'd trade places with you. Sometimes I'd rather be a charwoman and scrub D'Uccia's floors instead."
"Not a chance," he said sourly. "The Maestro's relatives are taking
that
over, too."
"I know. I heard. You're out of a job, thank God. Now you can get somewhere."
He shook his head. "I don't know where. I can't do anything but act."
"
Nonsense. I can get you a job tomorrow."
"
Where?"
"With Smithfield. Sales promotion. They're hiring a number of old actors in the department."
"
No." He said it flat and cold.
"Not so fast. This is something new. The company's expanding."
"Ha."
"Autodrama for the home. A four-foot stage in every living room. Miniature mannequins, six inches high. Centralized Maestro service. Great Plays piped to your home by concentric cable. Just dial Smithfield, make your request. Sound good?"
He stared at her icily. "Greatest thing in show business since Sarah Bernhardt," he offered tonelessly. "Thorny! Don't get nasty with me!"
"Sorry. But what's so new about having it in the home? Autodrama took over TV years ago."
"I know, but this is different. Real miniature theater. Kids go wild for it. But it'll take good promotion to make it catch on."
"Sorry, but you know me better than that."
She shrugged, sighed wearily, closed her eyes again. "Yes, I do. You've got portrayer's integrity. You're a darfsteller. A director's ulcer. You can't play a role without living it, and you won't live it unless you believe it. So go ahead and starve." She spoke crossly, but he knew there was grudging admiration behind it.
"I'll be O.K.," he grunted, adding to himself:
after tonight's performance.
"Nothing I can do for you?"
"Sure. Cast me. I'll stand in for dud mannequins." She gave him a sharp glance, hesitated. "You know, I believe you
would!"
He shrugged. "Why not?"
She stared thoughtfully at a row of packing cases, waggled her dark head. "Hmmp! What a spectacle that'd be-a human actor, incognito, playing in an autodrama."
"It's been done-in the sticks."
"Yes, but the audience knew it was being done, and that always spoils the show. It creates contrasts that don't exist or wouldn't be noticed otherwise. Makes the dolls seem snaky, birdlike, too rubbery quick. With no humans on stage for contrast, the dolls just seem wistfully graceful, ethereal."
"But if the audience didn't know-"
Jade was smiling faintly. "I wonder," she mused. "I wonder if they'd guess. They'd notice a difference, of course-in one mannequin."
"But they'd think it was just the Maestro's interpretation of the part."
"Maybe-if the human actor were careful."
He chuckled sourly. "If it fooled the critics-"
"
Some ass would call it 'an abysmally unrealistic interpretation' or 'too obviously mechanical." She glanced at her watch, shook herself, stretched wearily, and slipped into her shoes again. "Anyway," she added, "there's no reason to do it, since the Maestro's
really
capable of rendering a better-than-human performance anyhow."
The statement brought an agonized gasp from the janitor. She looked at him and giggled."Don't be shocked, Thorny. I said '
capable
of-not ‘in the habit of.' Auto-drama entertains audiences on the level they
want
to be entertained on."
"
But-"
“Just,"
she added firmly, "as show business has always done."