“So what? I’ll get paid for ‘em. And I’ve been getting my regular weekly check as Story Editor. And they still have to pay me my royalties for each show, as the Creator.”

With a smile, Brenda asked, “You’re going to let them keep your name on the credits?”

“Hell no!” Gabriel grinned back, but it was a Pyrrhic triumph. “They’ll have to use my Guild-registered pen name: Victor Lawrence Talbot Frankenstein.”

“Oh no!” Brenda howled.

Oxnard frowned. “I don’t get it.”

“Frankenstein and the Wolfman,” Gabriel explained. “I save that name for shows that’ve been screwed up. It’s my way of telling friends that the show’s a clinker, a grade B horror movie.”

“His friends,” Brenda added, giggling, “and everybody in the industry.”

“Oh.” But Oxnard still looked as if he didn’t really understand.

Laughing at the thought of his modest revenge, Gabriel said, “Lemma grab my bags and take you both to dinner.”

“The restaurants are closed,” Oxnard said. “We checked. They ran out of food about an hour ago.”

Gabriel held up one hand, looking knowledgeable: “Have no fear. I know where the aircrews have their private cafeteria. One of the stewardesses gave me the secret password to get in there.”

Oxnard watched the little guy scamper back through the now-dozing security girl’s magnetic detector portal and head for his bags, by the window. It was still snowing heavily.

“Victor Lawrence Talbot Frankenstein?” he muttered.

Brenda said to him, “It’s the only satisfaction he’s going to get out of this series.”

“He’s getting all that money...”

She rested a hand on his shoulder and said, “It’s not really all that much money, compared to the time and effort he’s put in. And... well, Bill... suppose your new holographic system won the Nobel Prize....”

“They don’t give Nobels for inventions.”

“But just suppose,” Brenda insisted. “And then one of the people who decide on the Prize comes to you and says they’re going to name Gregory Earnest as the inventor. You’ll get the money that goes with the Prize, but he’ll get the recognition.”

“Ohh. Now I see.”

Gabriel came back, lugging his suitcase and typewriter. As they started down the corridor, Oxnard took the typewriter from him.

“Thanks.”

“Nothing to it.”

Brenda said, “Looks like we’ll be here a long time.”

“Good,” said Oxnard. “It’ll give me a chance to ask you some questions about a new idea of mine.”

“What’s that?” Gabriel asked.

Oxnard scratched briefly at his nose. “Oh, it’s just a few wild thoughts I put together... but it might be possible to produce a three-dee show without using any actors. You....”

“What?” Gabriel looked startled. Brenda pursed her lips.

Oxnard nodded as they walked. “After watching how pitiful Dulaq is as an actor, I got to thinking that there’s no fundamental reason why you couldn’t take one holographic picture of him—a still shot—and then use a computer to electronically move his image any way you want to... you know, make him walk, run, stand up, sit down. Some of the work they’ve been doing at the VA with hemiplegics....”

Gabriel stopped and dropped his suitcase to the floor. Brenda and Oxnard took a step or two more, then turned back toward him.

“Don’t say anything more about it,” Gabriel warned.

“Why not?” Oxnard looked totally surprised at his reaction. “You could do away with....”

“He’s right,” Brenda agreed. “Forget about it. You’ll produce nothing but trouble.”

Oxnard stared at them both. “But you could lower the costs of producing shows enormously. You wouldn’t have to hire any act....”

Gabriel put a hand over his mouth. “For Chrissake, you wanna start a revolution in L.A.? Every actor in the world will come after you, with guns!”

Oxnard shrugged as Gabriel took his hand away. “It’s just an idea... might be too expensive to work out in real-time.” He sounded hurt.

“It would cause more trouble than it’s worth,” Brenda said, as they resumed walking. “Believe me, a producer would have to be utterly desperate to try a scheme like that.”

: : : : : :

HONOLULU PINEAPPLES WIN EIGHTH STRAIGHT,

38-6

QB Gene Toho Passes For Three Scores

: : : : : :

Gregory Earnest stood beside the reclining plush barber chair, watching the skinny little old man daub Francois Dulaq’s rugged features with makeup.

“What is it this time, Francois?” he asked, barely suppressing his growing impatience.

Dulaq’s eyes were closed while the makeup man carefully filled in the crinkles at the corners and painted over the bags that had started to appear under them.

“I gotta leave early t’day. Th’team’s catchin’ the early plane to Seattle.”

Earnest felt startled. “I thought you were taking the special charter flight, later tonight. You can still be in Seattle tomorrow morning, in plenty of time for the game.”

“Naw... I wanna go wit’ th’guys. They’re startin’ t’razz me about bein’ a big TV star... and de coach ain’t too happy, neither. Sez I oughtta get t’ th’ practices... my scorin’s off and th’ guys’re gettin’ a little sore at me.”