"Hello Zack," Jason said.
"Oh, you're back with us," Zack said. He stared at Jason a long moment.
"One of these days," he said with a wry grin, "you're not going to make
it."
* * * * *
Bob Herschell came out of the magnificent crystal palace that was
U-Live-It's New York feelie showcase and searched the garden plaza. "Cy!
I thought I'd find you here wringing your hands."
"We should never have premiered cold like this," Lemson complained. "We
should have at least had one private running for the reviewers. We
wouldn't be dangling like this."
"Stop worrying, Cy. A first night lets the critics get caught up in the
excitement. And even if they go sick and thumb down 'Land' it won't
stand against the top power voodoo job the publicity gang is saturating
the public with. And bigger than all the critics is Jason Rowe. He's
filled six thousand couches in there with the biggest voluntary
celebrity turnout for any preem."
"Jason Rowe," Lemson sighed, rolling supplicating eyes heavenward. "He
jeopardized a ten million dollar feelie; almost gave _me_ heart failure
when he had that heart attack."
"Cy, for the sake of the studio don't let people hear you say that. It's
not true! It wasn't a heart attack. He just played the death scene too
fully. You know how deep he goes into a role. That's what makes him the
world's greatest actor."
"I don't care what you call it," Lemson said heatedly, "the guy's heart
_stopped_ and it was only because of Zack's alertness that they got to
him in time. He almost died. I don't want to be ghoulish about it, Bob,
but the studio's putting a lot of time, money and sweat into making that
boy a star--"
"Nobody's making him a star," Herschell cut in, "he was born one."
Herschell had spoken with such honest emphasis that Lemson replied,
greatly subdued, "Okay, okay, but we have ourselves a pretty shaky
investment if every time he dies in a feelie he's liable to really go
over the edge."
"Zack thinks he can work out a receptor circuit to keep it from
happening again. Sort of a subliminal survival monitor that won't show
on the strip."
Lemson looked nervously at the theater entrance. "They should be coming
out soon," he muttered.
"Ten minutes yet," Herschell assured him.
Inside the shining pleasure dome, six thousand Jed Carters lay dying on
an afternoon hillside. The war was gone to another hill and he was alone
now with the grass wind and the small summer sounds of the earth. His
pain was a soft ache like a child's secret tears and his life was
slipping reluctantly from him in a trickling red ribbon. He heard the
sweet sound of a bird and the song of it wrung his heart. There were so
many songs yet unheard, so much soft laughter unborn, so many caresses
yet to be shared; a lifetime of summers, waiting, now never to be
filled. His heart cried at the thought of them.
The sun warmed him like a great golden lover and filled him with an
ineffable sadness for the bright days to come that would never be his.
And now at the last he thought of her. His heart ached for her, craving
one more of those lost mornings when he had awakened in the dawn at her
sleeping side and with his eyes happily loved her sweet slumbering face,
haloed by the marvel of her wheat hair catching the first glints of the
new sun.
In a last languid movement he turned on his back and opened his eyes to
the bright sky. He felt her stir. Her arm brushed him and the vibrancy
of her being sang through him. She opened her eyes and her love smiled
out at him. The smile brightened her face until it spread across the sky
and grew brilliant like the sun. She reached out for him. He sighed with
a great breath of quiet happiness because she was the sun smiling down
at him and at last he rose up and went to meet her.
* * * * *
"It's time they were coming out," Herschell said. "Let's get back."
They entered the lobby, deserted except for a scattering of ushers, and
waited.
"Why aren't they coming out?" Lemson asked, more of the emptiness than
of his companion. "It's ten minutes since the scheduled ending. Do you
suppose the projection's broken down or maybe--"
"Relax, Cy, you know these preems. Always a bag full of delays, starting
with late VIP arrivals."
"There've been no delays. They started on time--"
The sound of sirens spiralled out of the night and whirled the two men
around to face the entrance. Lights raced frantically across the plaza
as a dozen turbine vehicles whined to a stop in front. More were
arriving. Medical teams and squads of policemen burst through the doors.
They ran past the slow float shafts to the elevators.
"What's happened?" Lemson screamed. "What's going on?" He tugged at a
uniformed sleeve but was thrust aside by the running man.
Herschell and Lemson followed, half running, to the elevators. Herschell
shouted an inquiry at a cluster of policemen surging into one of the
cars but the nearest grim-visaged man almost angrily waved them away
from the door as it closed in their faces.
"The manager's office!" Herschell cried and they ran for a private
elevator. Seconds later they dashed into the manager's office.
"He's not here," Lemson wailed.
Herschell snapped a switch on the desk and a harried, shocked face
appeared on the viphone screen. "Mr. Herschell! Mr. Lemson!"
"Pete!" Herschell exclaimed, "why've we got the police and medicos? An
accident?"