Miller shook his head. "After filling himself that full of lead, he was
too dead to toss that gun. Furthermore, he was shot from greater than
arm's distance. No," said Miller, "someone 'done him in' and should
possibly be commended. Plain case of: 'Too bad, thank God!'"
* * * * *
Martha Evers watched her image on the stage in the studio theater.
Beside her was Martin Hammer who was watching the performance with
interest. Martha was watching with wonder; Hammer had seen this thing
at work before and was more concerned with the technical portions of
the opus than the wonder of watching a life-sized, living, breathing,
talking image perform.
On the other side of Martha Evers was Tim Woodart, who was just
watching. He was more or less out of a job since professional
photographers had taken over the job of making the performance.
"But how is it done?" she asked him.
"Same like any other of its kind," smiled Tim.
"But there isn't any other."
"Television is, sort of," he said. "Anyway, there is a three-way scan
taking in the volume to be reproduced. Each atom in the original
has its own characteristic charge and mass: this charge and mass is
registered. When the reproducer replaces the real people with the
image, the same scan forms real atoms where the real atom was in the
original. The follow-up scan wipes the atom clear to make room for the
next frame."
"How about this building atoms?" puzzled the girl. "Doesn't that make
for radioactivity?"
"Uh-huh," he said, "but the radioactivity is really energy that we use
to operate the machine."
The scene on the stage switched to a close-up of Martha and the
picture's villain, one Jack Vanders whose leer was known across the
continent.
The woman on the other side of Tim Woodart stood up and called "Cut
it!" in a low contralto.
The stage cleared in a twinkle and the lights went up.
Martin Hammer leaned across the seats and spoke to the standing woman.
"What's wrong, Mrs. Foster?"
"That won't do," she said. "Bad shot!"
Hammer thought for a moment. "There's nothing wrong with a close-up,"
he said. "It's done daily."
Jenny Foster smiled. "Yes," she agreed, "the screen fills up from top
to bottom with the face, and the eyes look softly into the camera lens
as the girl murmurs, 'I love you' and it is effective because in the
two-dimensional cinema, the trick of looking into the camera lens makes
it appear as though the girl were gazing softly into your own eyes--no
matter where you are in the theater. But this is solid, Hammer. When
the gal looks at you, I can tell that she's looking at you from here."
"So?"
"So I'm resentful of the guy who has the preferred seat," she said.
Martin Hammer smiled. "You can't have all the seats in the theater
within a two-foot circle," he said. "But there must be some way to lick
it."
"You'll remember what I had to say?" she asked.
Hammer nodded. "We'll work on it," he said. "Like all other media,
solid performances require their own techniques. But until we locate
the techniques, people will take to solids for their novelty."
They all sat down. Mrs. Foster turned to Tim Woodart and asked him how
it was done.
"You mean the whole thing?"
"No, the job of making enlargements."
"Easy," he said. "We just have a repeat-scan that repeats the same
atom in between true signals. Same like cramming a whole twelve-story
building on a busy street. We cut out certain patterns--sometimes every
other signal, sometimes every third, sometimes four out of five are
eliminated in the recording. The number cut is a definite statement of
the 'times-size' of the reproduction."
"Sounds simple when you say it fast," she smiled.
"I'll tell you about it later--?" he suggested.
"I'd like that."
He was too silent for a moment, and Jenny Foster knew it. "Tim," she
said, "if you're worrying about the ... the--"
"Well," he admitted slowly, "I was. Not that I care, but you--?"
She smiled bitterly. "It's often said that no one knows another person
until you've lived with them for some time. It was between our first
meeting and three years after I married Harry Foster that I was his
wife. That was when I found out about him. I--"
"Look," said Tim, worriedly, "there's been something worrying me ever
since we took these shots yesterday. Now I know what it is. Let's get
out of here and I'll buy you a drink."
"_Shhhhhh!_" insisted Hammer.
"Stop it," returned Woodart.
"Make notes," said Hammer. "I want to see these rushes to the close."
"But--"
"But nothing. Tell me later."
"Let's go," said Tim plaintively.
"It'll only be a minute. What are you worrying about?"
Tim looked at the stage. This was a comic shot. In it, the head of
the butler filled the stage and looked out at the audience through
half-closed eyes. A middle distance shot previously had shown the
butler taking a sniff of pepper, this was the aftermath--
"No!" yelled Woodart.
He was too late. His yell was covered by the explosive sneeze. A
hurricane of wind blasted at the tiny theater. A window went out in
back, and Martin Hammer's toupee left for Kansas.