Double Star Page 2

  Dubois snorted. “How much money?”

  Broadbent frowned at him. “I think I understand your objection.”

  “To the artist, sir, kudos comes first. Money is merely the mundane means whereby he is enabled to create his art.”

  “Hmm… All right, so you won’t do it just for money. Would you do it for other reasons? If you felt that it had to be done and you were the only one who could do it successfully?”

  “I concede the possibility; I cannot imagine the circumstances.”

  “You won’t have to imagine them; we’ll explain them to you.”

  Dubois jumped up off the couch. “Now see here, Dak, you can’t—”

  “Cut it, Jock! He has to know.”

  “He doesn’t have to know now—and here. And you haven’t any right to jeopardize everybody else by telling him. You don’t know a thing about him.”

  “It’s a calculated risk.” Broadbent turned back to me.

  Dubois grabbed his arm, swung him around. “Calculated risk be damned! Dak, I’ve strung along with you in the past—but this time before I’ll let you shoot off your face, well, one or the other of us isn’t going to be in any shape to talk.”

  Broadbent looked startled, then grinned coldly down at Dubois. “Think you’re up to it, Jock old son?”

  Dubois glared up at him, did not flinch. Broadbent was a head taller and outweighed him by twenty kilos. I found myself for the first time liking Dubois; I am always touched by the gallant audacity of a kitten, the fighting heart of a bantam cock, or the willingness of a little man to die in his tracks rather than knuckle under… And, while I did not expect Broadbent to kill him, I did think that I was about to see Dubois used as a dust rag.

  I had no thought of interfering. Every man is entitled to elect the time and manner of his own destruction.

  I could see tension grow. Then suddenly Broadbent laughed and clapped Dubois on the shoulder. “Good for you, Jock!” He turned to me and said quietly, “Will you excuse us a few moments? My friend and I must make heap big smoke.”

  The suite was equipped with a hush corner, enclosing the autograph and the phone. Broadbent took Dubois by the arm and led him over there; they stood and talked urgently.

  Sometimes such facilities in public places like hotels are not all that they might be; the sound waves fail to cancel out completely. But the Eisenhower is a luxury house and in this case, at least, the equipment worked perfectly; I could see their lips move but I could hear no sound.

  But I could indeed see their lips move. Broadbent’s face was toward me and Dubois I could glimpse in a wall mirror. When I was performing in my famous mentalist act, I found out why my father had beaten my tail until I learned the silent language of lips—in my mentalist act I always performed in a brightly lighted hall and made use of spectacles which—but never mind; I could read lips.

  Dubois was saying: “Dak, you bloody, stupid, unprintable, illegal and highly improbable obscenity, do you want us both to wind up counting rocks on Titan? This conceited pipsqueak will spill his guts.”

  I almost missed Broadbent’s answer. Conceited indeed! Aside from a cold appreciation of my own genius I felt that I was a modest man.

  Broadbent: “…doesn’t matter if the game is crooked when it’s the only game in town. Jock, there is nobody else we can use.”

  Dubois: “All right, then get Doc Scortia over here, hypnotize him, and shoot him the happy juice. But don’t tell him the score—not until he’s conditioned, not while we are still on dirt.”

  Broadbent: “Uh, Scortia himself told me that we could not depend on hypno and drugs, not for the performance we need. We’ve got to have his co-operation, his intelligent co-operation.”

  Dubois snorted. “What intelligence? Look at him. Ever see a rooster strutting through a barnyard? Sure, he’s the right size and shape and his skull looks a good bit like the Chief, but there is nothing behind it. Hell lose his nerve, blow his top, and give the whole thing away. He can’t play the part—he’s just a ham actor!”

  If the immortal Caruso had been charged with singing off key, he could not have been more affronted than I. But I trust I justified my claim to the mantle of Burbage and Booth at that moment; I went on buffing my nails and ignored it—merely noting that I would someday make friend Dubois both laugh and cry within the span of twenty seconds. I waited a few moments more, then stood up and approached the hush corner. When they saw that I intended to enter it, they both shut up. I said quietly, “Never mind, gentlemen, I have changed my mind.”

  Dubois looked relieved. “You don’t want the job.”

  “I mean that I accept the engagement. You need not make explanations. I have been assured by friend Broadbent that the work is such as not to trouble my conscience—and I trust him. He has assured me that he needs an actor. But the business affairs of the producer are not my concern. I accept.”

  Dubois looked angry, but shut up. I expected Broadbent to look pleased and relieved; instead he looked worried. “All right,” he agreed, “let’s get on with it. Lorenzo, I don’t know exactly how long we will need you. No more than a few days, I’m certain—and you will be on display only an hour or so once or twice in that time.”

  “That does not matter as long as I have time to study the role—the impersonation. But approximately how many days will you need me? I should notify my agent.”

  “Oh no! Don’t do that.”

  “Well—how long? As much as a week?”

  “It will be less than that—or we’re sunk.”

  “Eh?”

  “Never mind. Will a hundred Imperials a day suit you?”

  I hesitated, recalling how easily he had met my minimum just to interview me—and decided this was a time to be gracious. I waved it aside. “Let’s not speak of such things. No doubt you will present me with an honorarium consonant with the worth of my performance.”

  “All right, all right.” Broadbent turned away impatiently. “Jock, call the field. Then call Langston and tell him we’re starting Plan Mardi Gras. Synchronize with him. Lorenzo…” He motioned for me to follow and strode into the bath. He opened a small case and demanded, “Can you do anything with this junk?”

  “Junk” it was—the sort of overpriced and unprofessional make-up kit that is sold over the counter to stage-struck youngsters. I stared at it with mild disgust. “Do I understand, sir, that you expect me to start an impersonation now? Without time for study?”

  “Huh? No, no, no! I want you to change your face—on the outside chance that someone might recognize you as we leave here. That’s possible, isn’t it?”

  I answered stiffly that being recognized in public was a burden that all celebrities were forced to carry. I did not add that it was certain that countless people would recognize The Great Lorenzo in any public place.

  “Okay. So change your phiz so it’s not yours.” He left abruptly.

  I sighed and looked over the child’s toys he had handed me, no doubt thinking they were the working tools of my profession—grease paints suitable for clowns, reeking spirit gum, crepe hair which seemed to have been raveled from Aunt Maggie’s parlor carpet. Not an ounce of Silicoflesh, no electric brushes, no modern amenities of any sort. But a true artist can do wonders with a burnt match, or oddments such as one might find in a kitchen—and his own genius. I arranged the lights and let myself fall into creative reverie.

  There are several ways to keep a well-known face from being recognized. The simplest is misdirection. Place a man in uniform and his face is not likely to be noticed—do you recall the face of the last policeman you encountered? Could you identify him if you saw him next in mufti? On the same principle is the attention-getting special feature. Equip a man with an enormous nose, disfigured perhaps with acne rosacea; the vulgar will stare in fascination at the nose itself, the polite will turn away—but neither will see the face.

  I decided against this primitive maneuver because I judged that my employer wished me not to be noticed at
all rather than remembered for an odd feature without being recognized. This is much more difficult; anyone can be conspicuous but it takes real skill not to be noticed. I needed a face as commonplace, as impossible to remember as the true face of the immortal Alec Guinness. Unfortunately my aristocratic features are entirely too distinguished, too handsome—a regrettable handicap for a character actor. As my father used to say, “Larry, you are too damned pretty! If you don’t get off your lazy duff and learn the business, you are going to spend fifteen years as a juvenile, under the mistaken impression that you are an actor—then wind up selling candy in the lobby. ‘Stupid’ and ‘pretty’ are the two worst vices in show business—and you’re both.”

  Then he would take off his belt and stimulate my brain. Father was a practical psychologist and believed that warming the glutei maximi with a strap drew excess blood away from a boy’s brain. While the theory may have been shaky, the results justified the method; by the time I was fifteen I could stand on my head on a slack wire and quote page after page of Shakespeare and Shaw—or steal a scene simply by lighting a cigarette.

  I was deep in the mood of creation when Broadbent stuck his face in. “Good grief!” he snapped. “Haven’t you done anything yet?”

  I stared coldly. “I assumed that you wanted my best creative work—which cannot be hurried. Would you expect a cordon bleu to compound a new sauce on the back of a galloping horse?”

  “Horses be damned!” He glanced at his watch finger. “You have six more minutes. If you can’t do anything in that length of time, we’ll just have to take our chances.”

  Well! Of course I prefer to have plenty of time—but I had understudied my father in his quick-change creation, The Assassination of Huey Long, fifteen parts in seven minutes—and had once played it in nine seconds less time than he did. “Stay where you are!” I snapped back at him. ‘I’ll be with you at once.” I then put on “Benny Grey,” the colorless handy man who does the murders in The House with No Doors—two quick strokes to put dispirited lines into my cheeks from nose to mouth corners, a mere suggestion of bags under my eyes, and Factor’s #5 sallow over all, taking not more than twenty seconds for everything—I could have done it in my sleep; House ran on boards for ninety-two performances before they recorded it.

  Then I faced Broadbent and he gasped. “Good God! I don’t believe it.”

  I stayed in “Benny Grey” and did not smile acknowledgment. What Broadbent could not realize was that the grease paint really was not necessary. It makes it easier, of course, but I had used a touch of it primarily because he expected it; being one of the yokels, he naturally assumed that make-up consisted of paint and powder.

  He continued to stare at me. “Look here,” he said in a hushed voice, “could you do something like that for me? In a hurry?”

  I was about to say no when I realized that it presented an interesting professional challenge. I had been tempted to say that if my father had started in on him at five he might be ready now to sell cotton candy at a punkin’ doin’s, but I thought better of it. “You simply want to be sure that you will not be recognized?” I asked.

  “Yes, yes! Can you paint me up, or give me a false nose, or something?”

  I shook my head. “No matter what we did with make-up, it would simply make you look like a child dressed up for Trick or Treat. You can’t act and you can never learn, at your age. We won’t touch your face.”

  “Huh? But with this beak on me—”

  “Attend me. Anything I could do to that lordly nose would just call attention to it, I assure you. Would it suffice if an acquaintance looked at you and said, ‘Say, that big fellow reminds me of Dak Broadbent. It’s not Dak, of course, but looks a little like him.’ Eh?”

  “Huh? I suppose so. As long as he was sure it wasn’t me. I’m supposed to be on… Well, I’m not supposed to be on Earth just now.”

  “He’ll be quite sure it is not you, because we’ll change your walk. That’s the most distinctive thing about you. If your walk is wrong, it cannot possibly be you—so it must be some other big-boned, broad-shouldered man who looks a bit like you.”

  “Okay, show me how to walk.”

  “No, you could never learn it. I’ll force you to walk the way I want you to.”

  “How?”

  “We’ll put a handful of pebbles or the equivalent in the toes of your boots. That will force you back on your heels and make you stand up straight. It will be impossible for you to sneak along in that catfooted spaceman’s crouch. Mmm… I’ll slap some tape across your shoulder blades to remind you to keep your shoulders back, too. That will do it.”

  “You think they won’t recognize me just because I’ll walk differently?”

  “Certain. An acquaintance won’t know why he is sure it is not you, but the very fact that the conviction is subconscious and unanalyzed will put it beyond reach of doubt. Oh, I’ll do a little something to your face, just to make you feel easier—but it isn’t necessary.”

  We went back into the living room of the suite. I was still being “Benny Grey” of course; once I put on a role it takes a conscious effort of will to go back to being myself. Dubois was busy at the phone; he looked up, saw me, and his jaw dropped. He hurried out of the hush locus and demanded, “Who’s he? And where’s that actor fellow?” After his first glance at me, he had looked away and not bothered to look back—“Benny Grey” is such a tired, negligible little guy that there is no point in looking at him.

  “What actor fellow?” I answered in Benny’s flat, colorless tones. It brought Dubois’ eyes back to me. He looked at me, started to look away, his eyes snapped back, then he looked at my clothes. Broadbent guffawed and clapped him on the shoulder.

  “And you said he couldn’t act!” He added sharply, “Did you get them all, Jock?”

  “Yes.” Dubois looked back at me, looked perplexed, and looked away.

  “Okay. We’ve got to be out of here in four minutes. Let’s see how fast you can get me fixed up, Lorenzo.”

  Dak had one boot off, his blouse off, and his chemise pulled up so that I could tape his shoulders when the light over the door came on and the buzzer sounded. He froze. “Jock? We expecting anybody?”

  “Probably Langston. He said he was going to try to get over here before we left.” Dubois started for the door.

  “It might not be him. It might be—” I did not get to hear Broadbent say who he thought it might be as Dubois dilated the door. Framed in the doorway, looking like a nightmare toadstool, was a Martian.

  For an agony-stretched second I could see nothing but the Martian. I did not see the human standing behind him, nor did I notice the life wand the Martian cradled in his pseudo limb.

  Then the Martian flowed inside, the man with him stepped in behind him, and the door relaxed. The Martian squeaked, “Good afternoon, gentlemen. Going somewhere?”

  I was frozen, dazed, by acute xenophobia. Dak was handicapped by disarranged clothing. But little Jock Dubois acted with a simple heroism that made him my beloved brother even as he died… He flung himself at that life wand. Right at it—he made no attempt to evade it.

  He must have been dead, a hole burned through his belly you could poke a fist through, before he hit the floor. But he hung on and the pseudo limb stretched like taffy—then snapped, broken off—a few inches from the monster’s neck, and poor Jock still had the life wand cradled in his dead arms.

  The human who had followed that stinking, reeking thing into the room had to step to one side before he could get in a shot—and he made a mistake. He should have shot Dak first, then me. Instead he wasted his first one on Jock and he never got a second one, as Dak shot him neatly in the face. I had not even known Dak was armed.

  Deprived of his weapon, the Martian did not attempt to escape. Dak bounced to his feet, slid up to him, and said, “Ah, Rrringriil. I see you.”

  “I see you, Captain Dak Broadbent,” the Martian squeaked, then added, “You will tell my nest?”

  “I
will tell your nest, Rrringriil.”

  “I thank you, Captain Dak Broadbent.”

  Dak reached out a long bony finger and poked it into the eye nearest him, shoving it on home until his knuckles were jammed against the brain case. He pulled it out and his finger was slimed with green ichor. The creature’s pseudo limbs crawled back into its trunk in reflex spasm but the dead thing continued to stand firm on its base. Dak hurried into the bath; I heard him washing his hands. I stayed where I was, almost as frozen by shock as the late Rrringriil.

  Dak came out, wiping his hands on his shirt, and said, “We’ll have to clean this up. There isn’t much time.” He could have been speaking of a spilled drink.

  I tried to make clear in one jumbled sentence that I wanted no part of it, that we ought to call the cops, that I wanted to get away from there before the cops came, that he knew what he could do with his crazy impersonation job, and that I planned to sprout wings and fly out the window. Dak brushed it all aside. “Don’t jitter, Lorenzo. We’re on minus minutes now. Help me get the bodies into the bathroom.”

  “Huh? Good God, man! Let’s just lock up and run for it. Maybe they will never connect us with it.”

  “Probably they wouldn’t,” he agreed, “since neither one of us is supposed to be here. But they would be able to see that Rrringriil had killed Jock—and we can’t have that. Not now we can’t.”

  “Huh?”

  “We can’t afford a news story about a Martian killing a human. So shut up and help me.”

  I shut up and helped him. It steadied me to recall that “Benny Grey” had been the worst of sadistic psychopaths, who had enjoyed dismembering his victims. I let “Benny Grey” drag the two human bodies into the bath while Dak took the life wand and sliced Rrringriil into pieces small enough to handle. He was careful to make the first cut below the brain case so the job was not messy, but I could not help him with it—it seemed to me that a dead Martian stank even worse than a live one.