[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Galaxy Science Fiction April 1955.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
A man has to have a place to confess a horrible
sin ... and this is as good as any other!
I can no longer keep my terrible secret, although the thought of what
will happen to me, when I tell my story, gives me a trembling from
head to toe. Without doubt, word will flash to the proper authorities
and stern-faced men with sympathetic eyes will bring straitjacket and
sedatives, and hunt me down to tear me from Mary's clinging arms. A
padded cell will be made ready for another unfortunate.
Nevertheless what we have just read in the newspapers has made us
fearfully agree that I must tell all, regardless of my own fate. So let
me say this:
If it is true that an expedition is being organized in London to go
to the cold and rocky wastes of the Himalayas for the purpose of
investigating that astonishing primeval creature called 'The Abominable
Snowman,' then I am forced to tell you immediately ... _the Abominable
Snowman is none other than Mr. Eammer, the famous movie magnate_.
And I am the one responsible for this amazing situation. I and my
invention which Mr. Eammer had hired me to develop, an invention which
would put 3-D and Cinemascope and the new Largoscope process so far
behind in the fierce Hollywood battle for supremacy that Mr. Eammer
would at last have complete control of the industry, and, for that
matter, television also.
You will say this is impossible because one or two glimpses of the
Abominable Snowman have shown it to be an apelike creature?
And the animal's body is covered with thick, coarse hair?
Well, did you ever see Mr. Eammer lounging beside his elaborate Beverly
Hills swimming pool? He looks as if he's just climbed down from a
tree. The last young movie lovely an agent had brought around to talk
contracts took one look, screamed and fainted. It is said she was
hysterical for two days.
* * * * *
But let me tell how it all started. Remember those awful days when
television, like a monster with a wild pituitary gland, grew until it
took the word 'colossal' away from filmdom? What a battle! Like two
giant bears rearing up face to face, roaring, screaming, swapping
terrible blows of mighty paws, the two industries fought, with the
film industry reeling bloodily, at first, then rallying with 3-D, then
Cinemascope, and television pressing home the fierce attack with color
TV.
And who was caught in the middle of all this, without _any_ protection?
Mr. Eammer. Why? Well, let me give you some background on that
character. When talkies killed the era of silent films, Mr. Eammer
nearly got shaken loose in the change. He'd scornfully dismissed the
new development.
"Ha," he'd said. "People come to my movies for one of two things. To
fall asleep, or to look at the pretty girlies."
When the movie industry began to look for good stories and material
that stimulated the mind as well as the emotion, Mr. Eammer had jeered.
"Ha. People are stupid, people are sheep. They don't want to think,
they just want to see the pretty girlies."
Six months later, Mr. Eammer had sent emissaries to England to try to
hire this guy Billy Shakespeare. "Offer him anything," ordered Mr.
Eammer grimly. "Tell him we'll fill the water cooler in his office with
gin, he can pick any secretary he likes from among our starlets,
and ... and ..." he swallowed, then recklessly added, "we'll even give
him screen credit."
Of course the men he'd sent out searching knew Billy Shakespeare had
kicked off, though they weren't sure whether it was last year or ten
years ago. But it was a fine trip on the expense account and after a
few weeks of riotous searching in London's gayer areas, they wired that
Shakespeare had caught a bad cold, the penicillin had run out and he'd
not lasted the night.
But Mr. Eammer pulled out of his situation. He bought up just the right
to use the titles of great classic novels, ignored the contents, and
had entirely different stories written.
"Not enough girlies in their versions," he explained, frowning. "Them
hack writers don't have stuff with real interest to it."
* * * * *
By the time the customers were in the packed movie houses, they were so
stunned with the spectacle of unclad femininity that they'd completely
forgotten what they'd come to see. Half of them had never read the
classics anyway.
So the dough rolled in and Mr. Eammer's estate was photographed in
color and published in "Beautiful Homes" magazines, and high school
newspapers sent nervous young reporters to ask advice for graduates
yearning to get into the movie business. How, they asked humbly, could
they carve a place for themselves?
Mr. Eammer beamed and said, "Girlies. Use plenty of girlies. It gets
them every time."
The printed interview, as approved and edited by high school faculty
advisors, did not contain this advice.
But the girlies weren't enough to save Mr. Eammer when television hit
the movies on its glass jaw. He didn't believe what was happening,
until it was too late. When his studio started hitting the skids, he
hastily withdrew funds and liquidated assets and rented a number of
safe-deposit boxes. Then he sat back and let his creditors scream a
symphony of threats.
It was at that time that Mr. Eammer heard that I, a young physicist
interested in optics, had stumbled across an oddity which might
revolutionize the movie industry. He'd heard of this through Mary,
whom I love with all my heart, and who will sometimes embarrass me by
proudly telling people how intelligent I am.
As Mr. Eammer's secretary, she let him know all about me, just as she
let me know all I have just told you about him. Mary is not a reticent
person; she is too loving of her fellow man to withhold even the
slightest information and perhaps I should have kept my astonishing
discovery to myself.
In any case the phone rang in my very small laboratory one day and
Mary's excited voice said, "Joe, darling. It's me. I told him about
your invention. Come down right away."
"Who?" I said. "Where? What are you talking about?"
"To the studio," she said impatiently. "To see my boss, Mr. Eammer. He
says if your invention is...."
"Now wait a minute," I shouted with indignation. "I told you not
to tell _anybody_ about it. It's not perfected. In fact, I don't
understand how it works exactly."
"Stop being so modest," she said firmly. "I know you. You're a genius
and genius is never, never satisfied. I read all about it. You want us
to get married, don't you?"
"Yes," I said, sudden longing surging through my heart.
"Can we afford to? No. So come on down. Anyway, I already told him.
Don't make me into a ... a liar," begged Mary. "If he likes your
invention, maybe he'll buy it."
* * * * *
The things we do for the women we love. I went there in fear and
was trembling with good reason. Not knowing quite how my invention
operated, it could be stolen from me, because it might not be
patentable. It was more _discovery_ than _invention_.
Oh, I can tell you, I went to see Mr. Eammer in a cold sweat of fear
that I might be losing my hold on the strange and accidental phenomena
across which I'd stumbled.