It was Brenda. And Bill Oxnard. Grinning and waving at him.
Gabriel left his trusty suitcase and portable typewriter where they sat and hurried through the bundled bodies, crumpled newspapers, choked ashtrays and tumbled suitcases of the crowd, out past the security girl—who didn’t even look up from her Kookoo Komix—and out into the corridor.
“Hey, what’re you two doing here? You’re not trying to get out of town, are you?”
“No,” Brenda said. “We wanted to say goodbye to you at the hotel, but you’d already left.”
“I always leave early,” Gabriel said.
“And when we heard that the storm was expected to last several hours and the airport was closed down, we figured you might like some company,” Oxnard explained.
“Hey, that’s nice of you. Both of you.”
“We’re sorry to see you leave, Ron,” Brenda said; her throaty voice sounded sincere.
Gabriel shrugged elaborately. “Well... what the hell is left for me to stay here? They’ve shot the guts out of my scripts and they won’t let me do diddely-poo with the other writers and the whole idea of the show’s been torn to shreds.”
“It’s a lousy situation,” Oxnard agreed.
Brenda bit her lip for a moment, then—with a damn the torpedoes expression on her face—she said, “I’m glad you’re going, Ron.”
He looked at her. “Thanks a lot.”
“You know I don’t mean it badly. I’m glad you found the strength to break free of this mess.”
“I had a lot of help,” Gabriel said, “from Finger and Earnest and the rest of those bloodsuckers.”
Brenda shook her head. “That’s not what I’m talking about. I thought Rita really had you twisted around her little finger.”
“She did,” Gabriel admitted. “But I got untwisted.”
“Good for you,” Brenda said. “She’s trouble.”
Oxnard said, “I just hate to see you getting screwed out of the money you ought to be getting.”
“Oh, I’m getting all the money,” Gabriel said. “They can’t renege on that... the Screen Writers Guild would start napalming Titanic if they tried anything like that. I’ll get paid for both the scripts I wrote....”
“But neither one’s going to be produced,” Oxnard said. “Earnest has scrapped them both.”
“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.
