Hendriks grinned. "You know, this is the first time I ever heard of an
opening performance being managed right. I mean, thrown open for public
sale instead of being reserved for bigwigs."
"Damned public-spirited," the other agreed.
Suddenly the line began to edge forward.
"They're selling tickets!"
"The booth is open!"
About an hour later, Hendriks plunked down his twenty dollars before
the efficient-looking girl in the ticket-cage and was handed a bulky
envelope.
"These my tickets?"
"That's right, sir."
A little puzzled, but happy, he turned away and dug in the envelope.
He pulled out, not the familiar pasteboards, but two costly-looking
sumptuous engraved invitations on thick stiff paper. They said:
_You are invited_
_To the first showing anywhere in the world._
of
ULTRARAMA
the sensational new film process
realer than life!
Wednesday, April 25, 1973
at 8:00 PM
Clutching the invitations as if they were his leases on life, Hendriks
stepped into the quiktrans and moments later stepped out again just
outside the door.
His wife was waiting for him with an expectant look on her face.
"Did you get them?"
"I sure did! Two engraved invitations, at ten bucks a throw."
"They'd better be worth it," she said anxiously.
"Didn't you see that line when you brought me breakfast? _Eight
blocks!_ Hundreds and hundreds of people all trying to get to see the
first performance."
"That doesn't mean a thing," she said. "After all, no one's ever seen
the complete movie--"
"It's not a movie," he corrected.
"All right, the complete whatchamacallit. No one's ever seen the
complete thing--not even the people who made it. So how do you know
it's good?"
"Believe me, honey, this is going to be the greatest ever!"
* * * * *
On Wednesday, April 25, 1973, at 7:30 in the evening, the Hendriks
stood in the midst of a vast crowd that thronged the open plaza before
the Ultrarama Theater. The theater itself was a towering edifice that
had been built just for this production; it was one of the world's most
impressive buildings.
"All right, all right," a policeman shouted. "Ticket-holders come this
way. The rest of you stay back."
They cleared a channel through the mob and the Hendriks, along with
several hundred other early arrivees, followed along to the door of the
vast theater.
"What are all these people doing here?" Mrs. Hendriks asked.
Her husband shrugged. "Maybe they plan on crashing the gate--or
possibly they think there may be some tickets left. I tell you, we're
awfully lucky to be where we are right now."
He extended the invitations to a tall, haughty-looking doorman in a
resplendent uniform. The doorman merely nodded and gestured them inside.
"Don't they tear up the tickets?"
"Not on opening night," Hendriks said. "They're letting us keep them as
souvenirs."
They stepped inside and found themselves in a vast, almost boundless
vestibule carpeted with deep pile synthofoam of a lush purple color.
Vaulting arches of gleaming metal swept upward to the barely visible
ceiling.
"If this is just the foyer," Paul Hendriks said, "imagine what it must
be inside!"