“Who gives a damn about artistic control?” Finger laughed at the perplexed producer. “There’s a million ways to get around such a clause. We’ll have clauses in there about financial limits and decisions, clauses that tie him up six ways from Sunday. And even in his artistic control clause we’ll throw in the line about no holding up production with unreasonable demands. Ever see anybody win a lawsuit by proving his demands were not unreasonable? We got him by the balls and he won’t know it until we go into production.”
“In Canada?”
“In Canada.”
Sheldon’s worried-hound face relaxed a little.
Someone tapped timidly at the door. Finger yanked it open. A waiter stood there, bearing a tray with three snifters of brandy and three cigars on it.
“S... sorry to take so long, Mr. Finger. Your special cigars were in the vault and...”
“Nah, don’t worry about it.” Finger ushered him in with a sweeping gesture of his arm. “It’s good timing. I’d hate to waste a good cigar on that little punk.”
It was dawn.
Finger sat on the edge of his bed and gazed down at Rita Yearling. Even under the bedclothes she looked incredibly beautiful.
Best money I ever spent, he told himself.
Her lovely eyelids fluttered and she awoke languorously. She smiled at Finger, stretched like a cat, then turned and looked out the porthole at the gray-white sky.
“Ain’t it kinda early?”
“I want to go up to the bridge and see the sunrise over the mountains. We’re almost back in port.”
“Oh.”
“How’re you feeling?”
She stretched again. “Fine. Not an ache or pain anywhere.”
He stroked her bare shoulder. “They did a beautiful job on you. When I had my Vitaform operations I was in agony for months.”
“You didn’t take good care of your original body,” she chided, almost like Shirley Temple bawling out Wallace Beery. “I may have been older than you, but I took care of myself. The girls always said I had the best-kept body since Ann Corio.”
“What about Mae West?” he joked.
“That hag!” Rita’s luscious lips pulled back in a snarl, revealing slightly pointed teeth. “Her and her deepfreeze. As if anybody’d revive her in a hundred years.”
Patting her in a fatherly way, Finger said, “I’m going to get dressed. I’ll call you in an hour or so. We can have breakfast up on the bridge.”
“Okay.” She turned over and pulled up the covers.
“I want to talk to you about Ron Gabriel. He’s going to be the head writer on the show, up in Canada.”
“He’s the Cagney that was in here last night?”
“Right. He can be troublesome....”
She smiled at him; there was no innocent little girl in her face. “I can handle him and a dozen more like him, any time.” Her tongue flicked across her sharp little teeth “Any time,” she repeated.
It was bracing up on the bridge. The sea breeze stirred Finger, invigorated him. Up ahead he could see the smog bank that marked the beginning of Los Angeles’ territorial waters and the oil rigs that kept the city supplied with fuel.
He paced the open deck of the flying bridge, glancing inside now and then to see how the ship was being handled. A solitary officer slouched lazily in a soft chair, toking happily, while the automated radar, sonar, robot pilot and computer steered the Adventurer toward its smog-shrouded pier.
It always unnerved Finger just the slightest bit to realize that the ship’s crew was more machine than human. And with the exception of the captain, who was a boozer, most of the crewmen were heads.
Finger turned his back on the lazing officer and stepped to the rail. Leaning over it slightly, he could see the white foam of the ship’s wake cutting through the oily waters. He looked up at his last glimpse of blue sky. Gripping the rail with both hands, he was suddenly on the deck of a whaling vessel out of New Bedford, an iron captain running a wooden ship.
Thar she blowst he heard in his mind’s inner ear. And with the eye of imagination he saw a wild and stormy ocean, with the spout of a gigantic whale off near the white-capped horizon.
After him, me hearties! Finger shouted silently. A five dollar gold piece to the boat that harpoons him!
He grunted to himself. Maybe a whaling show would make a good series. The econuts would object to it, but they object to everything anyway. Special effects would be expensive: have to make a dummy whale. Nobody’s seen a whale since the last Japanese expedition came back empty. Even the dolphins are getting scarce.
A frown of concentration settled on his face. The government would probably help with a series like that. They’re always looking for outdoor stuff, so people will stay home and watch their three-dees instead of messing up the National Parks. And it could be a spectacular show—storms, shipwrecks, all that stuff. Got to be careful of the violence, though; get those parents and teachers on your neck and the sponsors disappear. Maybe a comedy show, with a crew that never catches a whale. A bunch of schmucks.
No. Finger shook his head. A serious show. Iron men in wooden ships. Give the viewers some heroes to admire. He squared his shoulders and faced straight into the wind. Maybe I could do a sneak part in it, like Hitchcock used to do.
He drew himself up to his full height. Hell, he told himself, I could be the whaling ship’s captain. Why not? I’ve got the look for it now.
Why not do a whaling show instead of this science fiction thing with Gabriel?
Because, his business sense told him, it would be too realistic. Historical are dead. Nobody watched them. The Hallmark Hall of Fame killed them years ago and nobody’s had the guts to try them again. Too dull. And too realistic.
