The Technicolor Time Machine

“Mr. Hendrickson,” Jens Lyn called, pushing open the door and coming toward them. He fumbled in the breast pocket of his bush jacket. “I just remembered, there was a message I was supposed to give you.”

“What is it?” Barney asked.

“I have no idea. I presumed it was confidential. Your secretary handed it to me just as we were leaving.”

Barney took the crumpled envelope and tore it open. It contained a single sheet of yellow paper with a brief, typed message. It read:

L.M. on phone says cancel operation,

all work to cease on picture.

No reason given.

6

Barney threw the magazine back onto the table, but the cover stuck to his hand and half tore off. He impatiently peeled away the paper and regretted not having taken the time to wash off the Viking beer before coming here. But canceled!

“Miss Zucker,” he said. “L,M. wants to see me. He said so. He left a message. I’m sure that he is waiting impatiently to hear from me…”

“I’m very sorry, Mr. Hendrickson, but he left strictest instructions that he is in conference and cannot be disturbed.” Her fingers poised for a second over the typewriter, her gum-chewing suspended momentarily. “I will notify him that you are waiting as soon as I am able.” The typewriter thrummed again, the jaws moving in slow rhythm with it.

“You could at least ring through and tell him that I’m here.”

“Mr. Hendrickson!” she said, her tones those a Mother Superior might use if accused of running a bawdy house.

Barney went over and took a drink of water from the cooler, then rinsed off his sticky hand. He was drying it on some typing paper when the intercom buzzed and Miss Zucker nodded to him. “You may go in now,” she said coldly.

“What do you mean, L.M.?” he asked the instant the door closed behind him. “What do you mean by sending me that message?” Sam sat propped in his chair as mobile as a log of wood and Charley Chang slumped across from him, sweating heavily and looking miserable.

“What do I mean? What could I possibly mean I mean? I mean you led me up the garden path, Barney Hendrickson, and pulled my leg. You got my agreement to go ahead on a picture when you didn’t even have a script!”

“Of course I don’t have a script, how could I when we just decided to do the picture. This is an emergency, remember?”

“How could I forget. But an emergency is one thing doing a picture without a script is another. In France maybe, they make the arty-schmarty things you couldn’t tell if they had a script or not. But in Climactic we don’t work that way.”

“It’s not good business,” Sam agreed.

Barney tried not to wring his hands. “L.M., look. Be reasonable. This is a salvage operation, have you forgotten that? There are very special circumstances involved—”

“Say bank. The word don’t hurt no more.”

“I won’t say it, because we can beat them yet. We can make this picture. So you called in my scriptwriter—”

“He got no script.”

“Of course he’s got no script. It was just yesterday when you and I finalized the idea. Now you’ve talked to him and explained your ideas—”

“He got no script.”

“Hear me out, L.M. Charley’s a good man, you picked him yourself and you briefed him yourself. If any man can deliver the goods, good old Charley can. If you had a Charley Chang script in your hand for this film you would let production go ahead, wouldn’t you?”

“He got no—”

“L.M., you’re not listening. If. That’s the big word. If I were to here and now hand you a Charley Chang script for this great motion picture titled… titled… Viking Columbus, would you okay production?”

L.M. was wearing his best poker face. He glanced over at Sam, who let his head drop the merest fraction of an inch. “Yes,” L.M. instantly said.

“We’re halfway home, L.M.,” Barney hurried on. “If I were to hand you that script just one hour from now, you would okay production. Same difference, right?”

L.M. shrugged. “All right, same difference. But what difference does it make?”

“Sit right there, L.M.,” Barney said, grabbing the startled Charley Chang by the arm and dragging him from the loom. “Talk to Sam about the budget, have a drink—and I’ll see you in exactly one hour. Viking Columbus is almost ready to roll.”

“My head shrinker keeps evening hours,” Charley said when the door closed behind him. “Let him talk to you, Barney. I have heard rash promises in this rash business many, many times, but this takes the gold plated bagel—”

“Save it, Charley. You got some work ahead of you.” Barney steered the reluctant script writer out into the corridor while he talked. “Just give me your estimate of how long it would take you to rough out a first draft of a script for this film, working hard and putting your best into it. How long?”

“It’s a big job. At least six months.”

“Right. Six weeks. Concentrated effort, a first-class job.”

“I said months. And even six weeks are more than an hour.”