Sheldon Fad lay awake, staring at the ceiling as the sun rose over the Santa Monica Hills. Gloria snored lightly beside him, a growing mountain of flesh.
The baby was due in another month or so and Gloria had been no fun at all since she had found herself pregnant. No fun at all. Zero. Sheldon wondered, at quiet times like this, if it was really his baby that she was carrying. After all, she got pregnant suspiciously fast after moving in with him.
He frowned to himself. It all seemed so macho at first. An actress and dancer, lithe and exciting, Gloria had attached herself to Sheldon's arm when she could have gone with any guy in Los Angeles. They were all after her. He had ignored the stories about the vast numbers who had succeeded in their quest. That was all finished, she had told him tearfully, the night she moved in. All she wanted was him.
Yeah, Sheldon told himself. Just me. And a roof over her head. And not having to go to work. And a two-pound box of chocolates every day. And her underwear dripping in the bathtub every time he tried to take a shower. And her makeup littered all over the bathroom, the bedroom, even in the refrigerator.
A bolt, as the song says, of fear went through him as he realized that in a month—probably less—there'd be an infant sharing this one-bedroom apartment with them. What did Shakespeare say about infants? Mewling and puking. Yeah. And dirty diapers. A crib in the corner next to the bed; Gloria had already mentioned that.
Shit! Sheldon knew he had to get out of it. He turned his head on the pillow and gazed sternly at Gloria's face, serene and deeply asleep. It's not my kid, he told himself savagely. It's not!
And what if it is? another part of his mind asked. You didn't want it. She told you she was fixed. You believe her? And her line about hemophilia, so she can't have an abortion? Even if it is your kid, you didn't ask for this.
He sat up in bed, fuming to himself. Gloria didn't move a muscle, except to breathe. Her belly made a giant mound in the bedsheet.
No sense trying to go back to sleep. He swung his legs out of the bed and got to his feet. Stretching, he felt his vertebrae pop and heard himself grunt with the pain-pleasure that goes with it. He padded into the bathroom.
Twenty minutes later he was booming down the Freeway, heading for the Titanic Tower, listening to the early morning news:
" . . . and smog levels will be at their usual moderate to heavy concentrations, depending on location, as the morning traffic builds up. Today's smog scent will be jasmine . . . ."
It was still clear enough to see where you were driving. The automatic Freeway guidance system hadn't turned on yet. Music came on the radio and began to soothe Sheldon slightly. Then he saw the Titanic Tower rising impressively from the Valley.
"I'll ask Murray what to do," Sheldon said to himself. "Murray will know."
It was still hours before most of the work force would stream into the Tower. Sheldon nodded grimly to the bored guards sitting at the surveillance station in the lobby. They were surrounded by an insect's eye of fifty TV screens showing every conceivable entryway into the building.
As Sheldon passed the guard, a solitary TV screen built into the wall alongside the main elevator bank flashed the words: GOOD MORNING MR. FAD. YOU'RE IN QUITE EARLY.
"Good morning, Murray," said Sheldon Fad. Then he punched the button for an elevator.
The Multi-Unit Reactive Reasoning and Analysis Yoke was rather more than just another business computer. In an industry where insecurity is a major driving force and more money has been spent on psychoanalyses than scripts, Murray was inevitable. One small segment of the huge computer's capacity was devoted to mundane chores such as handling accounts and sorting out bills and paychecks. Most of the giant computer complex was devoted to helping executives make business decisions. It was inevitable that the feedback loops in the computer's basic programming—the "Reactive Reasoning" function—would eventually come to be used as a surrogate psychotechnician, advisor and father confessor by Titanic's haggard executives.
Sheldon Fad didn't think of Murray as a machine. Murray was someone you could talk to, just like he talked to so many other people on the phone without ever meeting them in the flesh. Murray was kindly, sympathetic, and damned smart. He had helped Sheldon over more than one business-emotional crisis.
Well, there was one machine-like quality to Murray that Sheldon recognized. And appreciated. His memory could be erased. And was, often. It made for a certain amount of repetition when you talked to Murray, but that was better than running the risk of having someone else "accidentally" listen to your conversations. Someone like Bernard Finger, who wasn't above such things, despite the privacy laws.
In all, talking to Murray was like talking to a wise and friendly old uncle. A forgetful uncle, because of the erasures. But somehow that made Murray seem all the more human. He even adapted his speech patterns to fit comfortably with the user's style of speaking.
At precisely 7:32 Sheldon plopped tiredly into his desk chair. He felt as if he'd been working nonstop for forty days and nights. He took a deep breath, held it for twenty heartbeats, then exhaled through his mouth. He punched buttons on his desk-side console for orange juice and vitamin supplements. A small wall panel slid open, a soft chime sounded and the cold cup and pills were waiting for him.
Sheldon swallowed and gulped, then touched the sequence of buttons on the keyboard that summoned Murray.
GOOD MORNING SHELDON, the desktop viewing screen flashed, chartreuse letters against a gray background. WHAT CAN I DO FOR YOU THIS MORNING?
"This conversation is strictly private," Sheldon said. He noticed that his voice was trembling a little.
OF COURSE. PLEASE GIVE ME THE CORRECT ERASURE CODE.
"'Nobody knows the troubles I've seen,'" replied Sheldon.
THAT'S FINE, Murray printed. NOW WE CAN TALK IN PRIVATE AND THE TAPE WILL BE ERASED BETTER THAN THEY DO IN WASHINGTON.
Sheldon couldn't help grinning. He had told Murray all about Washington politics long ago.
"This is a personal problem," he began, "but I guess it affects my work, as well . . . ."
A PERSONAL PROBLEM IS A BUSINESS PROBLEM, Murray answered.
Sheldon outlined his feelings about Gloria, omitting nothing. Finally, feeling more exhausted than ever, he asked, "Well?"
Murray's screen stayed blank for a heartbeat—a long time for the computer to consider a problem. Then:
ABOUT THE SEX I DON'T KNOW. I'M BEYOND THAT SORT OF THING, YOU KNOW. BUT IF THE GIRL ISN'T MAKING YOU HAPPY AND YOU'RE NOT MARRIED TO HER, WHY DON'T YOU JUST TELL HER YOU WANT TO SPLIT.
"It's not that easy. She'd make a scene. It'd get into the news."
OH. SO. AND THAT WOULD BE BAD FOR BUSINESS.
"That's right. B.F. doesn't like to hear about rising young producers making messes of their personal lives."
BUT YOU'RE ONE OF HIS FAIR-HAIRED BOYS!
"That was last season. I had the only Titanic show to be renewed for this year."
FORTY-SIX SHOWS TITANIC PUTS ON LAST SEASON AND YOURS IS THE ONE RENEWED. GOOD WORK.
That came from Murray's general business memory bank, Sheldon realized. "That's about average for the industry," he said defensively. "Titanic didn't do any worse than Fox or Universal."
WE'RE GETTING SIDETRACKED, Murray pointed out.
"Right. Well . . . in addition to trying to figure out what to do with Gloria, I've got this new project on my hands . . . and it's a crucial one. The whole future of Titanic depends on it."
SEE? THEY'RE DEPENDING ON YOU!
"Yes, but . . ." Sheldon felt miserable. "Look at it from my point of view. If I don't get rid of Gloria somehow, I'm not going to be able to give my best to this new show. If I do get rid of her and she raises a stink, and the new show flops, B.F. will blame it all on me."
YOU'RE IN A DOUBLE BIND, ALL RIGHT.
"There's more," Sheldon said. "The show's creator, Ron Gabriel, doesn't get along with B.F. at all. I'm in the middle on that, too. And Gabriel wants to put on the most extravagant space opera you've ever seen, while I've got to stay within a budget that won't even buy peanut butter!"
AGAIN IN THE MIDDLE.
"Exactly."
SO? WHAT ELSE?
Sheldon pondered for several moments, while the sickly greenish letters glowed on the screen.
"I guess that's about all," he said at last. "I've got a meeting with Gabriel and his agent later this morning. I know Gabriel's going to make impossible demands . . . and he . . . he's so . . . loud! He shouts and screams. Sometimes he hits!"
SO SUE HIM.
"I don't want him to hit me!"
WHAT DO YOU WANT?
For the first time since he had become acquainted with Murray, Sheldon felt some slight impatience. "What do I want? I want to get rid of Gloria without a fight that'll ruin my career. I want to make a hit of this stupid idea of Gabriel's without driving the company broke. I want to get out of the middle!"
ALL RIGHT. ALL RIGHT, DON'T GET SO WORKED UP. HIGH BLOOD PRESSURE AND ULCERS NEVER SOLVED ANY PROBLEMS.
"But what can I do?"
I'M SEARCHING MY MEMORY BANKS FOR A CORRELATION. AND AT THE SAME TIME USING MY ANALYTICAL PROGRAMMING TO ATTACK THE PROBLEM. AHAH! THAT'S IT.
"What?" Sheldon leaned forward in his chair hopefully.
GET OUT OF THE COUNTRY
"Get out . . . ." He sagged back.
IF YOU PRODUCE THIS SHOW OUTSIDE THE U.S., YOU CAN TELL GLORIA THAT YOU'LL BE AWAY FOR SEVERAL MONTHS. CAN'T BE HELPED. BUSINESS. CAREER. ALL THAT SORT OF STUFF.
"But she'll see through . . . ."
CERTAINLY SHE WILL. SHE WILL UNDERSTAND WHAT YOU'RE REALLY TELLING HER. BUT SHE WON'T BE ABLE TO DO MUCH ABOUT IT. AND IF SHE'S THE SORT OF GIRL YOU TOLD ME SHE IS, SHE'LL SEE THE WISDOM IN PICKING UP SOME OTHER MAN TO SUPPORT HER.
Wearily, Sheldon asked, "But who in his right mind would let an eight-months-pregnant woman grab him . . . . ?"
YOU'D BE SURPRISED. THERE ARE LOTS OF MEN RIGHT HERE IN THIS COMPANY WITH ALL SORTS OF HANGUPS.
"You think she'd really find somebody else?"
CERTAINLY. IN THE MEANTIME, YOU CAN FIND A REALLY CHEAPO OUTFIT TO PRODUCE YOUR NEW SHOW AND GET OFF THE FISCAL HOOK THAT WAY. PRODUCTION COMPANIES OUTSIDE THE U.S. WORK MUCH MORE CHEAPLY THAN OUR OWN UNIONIZED PEOPLE.
"Where?" Sheldon asked, suddenly eager to travel. "Yugoslavia? Argentina? New Zealand?"
NONE OF THE ABOVE. YOU'VE GOT TO BALANCE YOUR TRAVEL EXPENSES AGAINST THE EXPENSES OF PRODUCTION. CALCULATIONS ARE THAT CANADA WILL BE THE CHEAPEST BET.
"Canada?" Sheldon felt his enthusiasm sinking.
CANADA. MEXICO LOOKS CHEAPER ON THE SURFACE, BUT MY SUBROUTINES TELL ME THAT YOU'VE GOT TO BRIBE EVERYBODY IN THE GOVERNMENT, FROM THE CUSTOMS INSPECTORS TO THE TRAFFIC COPS, IF YOU WANT TO DO BUSINESS DOWN THERE. RAISES THE COSTS BEYOND THOSE OF A CANADIAN OPERATION. THE CANADIANS ARE HONEST AS WELL AS PRETTY CHEAP.
"Canada?" Sheldon repeated. His mind filled with visions of snow, sled dogs, pine trees, Nelson Eddy in a red Mounties jacket.
"Canada," he said again.
Fad's office wasn't very large, considering he was an executive producer on the rise. Merely a couple of leatherite couches, a few deep chairs scattered here and there across the fakefur rug, his own desk and keyboard terminal and a few holographic pictures where windows would normally be. Sheldon preferred the holographic views of Mt. Shasta, San Francisco's Bay Bridge and Catalina Island to the view of a tinted smog that he could see through his window. He wasn't high enough in Titanic's hierarchy to be above the smog level.
When his secretary told him that Gabriel and Morgan had arrived, Sheldon carefully clicked on the record button on Murray's controls. A friendly blue light glowed steadily at him, from an angle that could be seen only from behind the desk. Sheldon felt as if he had a silent ally standing beside him.
His visitors were ushered into the office by his secretary, who discreetly went no further than the door. But Gabriel was already jotting down her phone number in the little book he always carried. She was giving him her most dazzling smile; he had apparently already turned the full force of his charisma on her.
Morgan was still wearing his same tired old red zipsuit; it had been out of style for a year or more. Gabriel, who was a style setter, wore tight black leather slacks and what looked like a genuine antique motorcycle jacket, complete with studs and chains.
Sheldon got up and came around the desk, arms outstretched. "Fellaaas . . . how are you?"
Morgan, who was tall enough to be a laughable contrast to the smaller, stockier Gabriel, backed away automatically. Gabriel aimed a mock punch at Sheldon's stomach. They ended up shaking hands.
"Isn't it great to be starting something new?" Sheldon enthused. "This is going to be the best series Titanic has ever done. I just know it!"
"Great. Great," said Gabriel, with something of a scowl on his face. "Where's Brenda? I thought she'd be here."
Retreating back to his desk chair, Sheldon answered, "Why no, she's not part of this project. She works directly for B.F., you know."
Morgan had taken the nearest deepchair and started to say, "We got all the financial arrangements ironed out with Les Montpelier last week. He says the legal department is drawing up the contracts."
Sheldon nodded. "That's entirely correct. Want some coffee? Juice? Anything?"
Gabriel was prowling around the room, still scowling. "I thought Brenda was going to be here. She was in on the beginning of this idea . . . ."
"Brenda," said Sheldon patiently, "is B.F.'s assistant She does not get involved in preproduction planning for a specific show."
"Lemme use your phone," Gabriel said, heading for the desk.
Sheldon quickly swivelled the phone around so that Gabriel could see the screen without coming around the desk and noticing Murray's recording eye. Gabriel sat on a corner of the desk and started punching numbers on the phone's keyboard.
Sheldon had to push his chair over a bit and lean sidewise to see Morgan.
"You and Les settled all the financial matters?" he asked, while Gabriel was saying:
"Brenda Impanema . . . whattaya mean she's not at this number? What number is she at? Screw information! You look it up, why dontcha?"
Morgan seemed to be taking it all in stride, the eye of Gabriel's hurricane. "There are a few minor matters that we're not happy with, but I'll straighten those out once the contracts are drawn up. Nothing to worry about. It's not as much money as we expected, though."
Sheldon shrugged. "Money's tight all over."
"Brenda! How the hell are you? Where've you been keeping yourself?"
"If money's so tight, how will this affect the production values on 'The Starcrossed?'" Morgan asked.
"That's what I wanted to discuss with you. I know Ron thinks big and I agree with him, I really do—but . . . ."
"Whattaya mean you think it's best if we don't see each other? Is this Finger's idea of getting even with me?"
"You know," Morgan said, "I've seen a lot of shows with great potential fold up because the producers didn't put enough backing into them."
"Yes, I know. But I think I've worked out a way to get the best production values and still keep the costs down . . . ."
"I don't care if Finger cancels the whole season!" Gabriel yelled at the phone. "I don't want you pussyfooting around because you think it'll make him sore if you see me. He can stick it . . . ."
"How are you going to do that, Sheldon?"
"Well, after an exhaustive computer analysis of the situation . . . ."
"I know you're doing it for me," Gabriel was shouting now, "but I'd rather see you than win an Emmy. Yah, that's exactly what I said."
"You were saying?"
"Our analysis shows that the optimum choice for producing the show . . . ."
"This is just a stall, isn't it? What you're really saying is that you can't stand the sight of me! Right?"
" . . . would be outside the U.S., away from the high rates that all the unions here charge."
"Okay, kid. Maybe you're protecting me. But I think it's a Pearl Harbor job and I don't like it!"
"And where do you want to put it?"
"Goodbye!"
"In Canada."
"Canada?"
"Canada!" Gabriel leaped off the desk corner. "Who the hell's going to Canada?"
"We are."
"You are?"
"No, you are."
Morgan said calmly, "He wants to shoot the show in Canada."
Gabriel looked as if he was ready to lead a bayonet attack. "Canada! I can't go to Canada! What in hell is there that you don't have more of here? And better?"
Sheldon sank back in his chair. It was going to be just as rough as he had feared. Only the friendly stare of Uncle Murray's steady blue eye gave him the courage to go on.
Two hours later, Sheldon was still in his desk chair. His jacket was crumpled on the floor and had Gabriel's boot-prints all over it. His suppshirt was soaked with sweat. Morgan hadn't moved at all during that time, nor hardly spoken; he still looked calm, relaxed, almost asleep.
But the walls were still ringing with Gabriel's rhetoric. Two chairs were overturned. Both couches had been kicked out of shape. One of the holographic pictures was sputtering badly, for reasons unknown. The Bay Bridge kept winking and shimmering . . . or maybe, thought Sheldon, it was merely cringing.
"This is the dumbest asshole trick I've ever heard of!" Gabriel was screaming. "I don't want to go to Canada! There's nothing and nobody in Canada! All the good Canadian directors and actors are here, in California, for Chrissakes! We've got everything we need right here. Going to Canada is crazy! With a capital K!"
He was heading for the phone again when Morgan lifted one hand a few centimeters off the armrest of his chair. "Ron," he said quietly.
Gabriel stopped in midstride.
"Ron, the decision's already been made. It's a money decision and there's nothing you can do about it."
Gabriel frowned furiously at his agent.
"That's the way it is," Morgan said blandly.
"Then I want out," Gabriel said.
"Don't be silly," Morgan countered.
"I'm walking."
"You can't do that!" Sheldon protested.
"No? Watch me!"
Gabriel started for the door. Halfway there, he stopped and turned back toward Sheldon. "Tell you what," he said. His face still looked like something that would stagger Attila the Hun. "If I have to go to Canada, I'm going first class."
Sheldon let his breath out a little. "Oh, of course. Top hotels. All the best."
"That's not what I mean."
"What then?"
"I'm not going to let this show get stuck out in the boondocks, with no pipeline back to the money and the decision makers."
"But I'll be there with you," Sheldon said.
Gabriel made as if to spit. "I want personal representation from top management, right there on the set every goddamned day. I want one of Finger's top assistants in Canada with us."
"Ohhh." The clouds began to dissipate and Sheldon could see a Canadian sunrise. "Maybe you're right. Maybe I could get Les Montpelier . . . or Brenda Impanema . . . ."
Gabriel pointed an index finger at him, pistol-like. "You've got the idea."
Nodding, Sheldon said, "I'll ask B.F. tonight, at the party . . . ."
"Party?"
That was a mistake! Sheldon knew. Backtracking, "Oh, nothing spectacular. B.F.'s just giving one of his little soirees . . . on the ship, you know . . . just a couple of hundred people . . . ." His voice trailed off weakly.
"Party, huh?" was all that Gabriel said.
After he and Morgan left the office, Sheldon went to his private John and took a quick needle shower. Toweling himself off, he yelled through the open door to Murray:
"Well, what do you think of our star writer and creator?"
The computer hummed to itself for a few moments, then the screen lit up:
SUCH A KVETCH!