“But this looks like the bridge of a ship... an ocean liner!” Oxnard protested.
Earnest nodded. “It’s been built to Mr. Finger’s exact specifications. It’s a replica of the bridge on his ship, the Adventurer.”
Oxnard puffed out an exasperated breath. “But a starship doesn’t sail in the ocean! It wouldn’t have a steering wheel and a compass for godsake!”
“It’s what Mr. Finger wants.”
“But it’s wrong!”
Earnest smiled his patient, infuriating smile. “We’re accustomed to you Yanks coming here and finding fault with everything we Canadians do.”
And no matter what Oxnard said, the Badger Studios executive dismissed it as Yankee imperialism.
Brenda met him for lunch and drove out to one of the hotel restaurants, away from the studio cafeteria.
“I’m beginning to see what you’re up against,” Oxnard told her. “They’re all going every which way with no direction, no idea of what the show needs.”
“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?”
