“That’s right,” Brenda agreed.

“But where’s Ron? Why isn’t he straightening this out? He knows better....”

“After lunch,” Brenda said, “I’ll take you to Ron’s place... if the guards let us through, that is.”

She wasn’t kidding.

Two uniformed security police flanked the door of Gabriel’s hotel suite. One of them recognized Brenda, asked her about Oxnard, then reluctantly let them both through.

The foyer of the suite looked normal enough, although there was an obviously broken typewriter on the floor next to the door. Its lid was open and it looked as if someone had stomped on its innards in a rage of frustration.

The sitting room was a mess. Wadded up sheets of paper were strewn everywhere, ankle deep. The sofas and chairs were covered with paper. The chandelier was piled high with it. The paper crackled and scrunched underfoot as they walked into the room. Invisible beneath the wads lay a luxurious carpet. Two more typewriters sat on two separate desks, near the windows. A huge pile of papers loomed over one of the typewriters.

“Ron?” called Brenda.

No answer.

She looked into the bedroom on the right, as Oxnard stood in the middle of the paper sea feeling rather stunned.

“Ron?” Brenda called again.

With a worried expression on her face, she waded through the litter and went into the other bedroom.

“Ron?” Her voice sounded panicky now.

Oxnard went into the bedroom after her. The double bed was rumpled. Drawers were hanging out of the dresser. The TV—a flat, two-dimensional set—was on and babbling some midday women’s show.

The window was open.

“My god, he escaped!” Brenda shouted. “Or jumped!”

She ran to the window and peered down.

Oxnard pushed open the door to the bathroom. The floor was wet. Towels were hanging neatly beside the tub. The shower screen was closed.

Almost as if he were a detective in a mystery show.

Oxnard gingerly slipped the shower screen back a few centimeters, wondering if he ought to be careful about fingerprints.

“Brenda,” he said. “Here he is.”

She hurried into the bathroom. “Is he....”

Gabriel lay in the tub, up to his armpits in water. His eyes were closed, his mouth hung open. There was several days’ stubble on his chin. His face looked awful.

Brenda gulped once and repeated, “Is he....”

Without opening his eyes, Gabriel said, “He was asleep, until you two klutzes came barging in here.”

Brenda sagged against Oxnard and let out a breath of relief.

Within a few minutes they were all sitting in the sitting room, Gabriel with the inevitable towel draped around his middle.

“They’ve had me going over these abortions they call story treatments for six days straight! They won’t let me out of here. They even took out the goddamned phone! I’m a prisoner.”

Brenda said, “They need the scripts, Ron. We’re working against a deadline now. If we’re not in production by...”

“In production?” Gabriel’s voice rose. “With what? Have you looked at these treatments? Have you tried to read any of them? The ones that are spelled halfway right, at least?”

“Are they that bad?” Oxnard asked.

“Bad?” Gabriel jumped to his feet “Bad? They’re abysmal! They’re insufferable! They’re rotten! Junk, nothing but junk....”

He kicked at the paper on the floor and stomped over to the desk. “Listen to these treatments... these are the ideas they want to write about....” Riffling through the pile of papers on the desk, he pulled out a single sheet Oxnard started to say, “Maybe we ought to....”

“No, no... you listen. And you!” he jabbed a finger toward Brenda—“You better get back to Big Daddy in LA. and tell him what the hell’s going on here. If we were in the States, I’d call the Civil Liberties Union. If I had a phone.”

“What about the story ideas, Ron?” she asked.

“Hah! Story ideas. Okay, listen... here’s one about two families working together to build a dam on a new planet that’s described as, get this now... ‘very much like upper Alberta Province, such as around Ft. Vermillion.’”

Oxnard looked at Brenda. She said, “Okay, so you don’t care for the setting. What’s the story idea?”

“That is the story idea! That’s the whole treatment... about how to build a dam! Out of logs, yet!”

Brenda made a disapproving face. “You picked the worst one.”

“Oh yeah? Lemme go down the list for you...”

Gabriel spent an hour reading story treatments to them:

• A monster from space invades one of the starships, but it turns out to be a dream that the hero is having.

• The heroine (Rita Yearling) gets lost on an unexplored planet and the natives find her and think she’s a goddess. She gets away by explaining astronomy to them.

• The heads of the two competing families of star traders engage in an Indian wrestling match in a frontier saloon “very much like those in upper Alberta Province, such as around Ft. Vermillion.”

• The hero and heroine are stranded on an unpopulated planet and decide to call themselves Adam and Eve. Before they can bite the apple, they are rescued.

• A war between the two families is averted when the women of both families decide to stop cooking for their men if they fight.

By the end of the hour, Oxnard felt as if his head was stuffed with cotton wool. Brenda was stretched out on one of the sofas, looking equally dazed.

“And those are the best of them,” Gabriel finished grimly.