Even in this tight moment, his breath gave the familiar balloon-lurch
as Full-Projection Studio's top writer glided from the directors'
studio in her blue sheathe gown. Her wheat-blonde hair was dressed in
the latest style, a yard-long, loose-braided hank slung richly over her
shoulder; and her face was part cherubic, part perverse.
Another phone began ringing.
"June, I want a 30-second yak to give the viewers. You have 90 seconds
to get it on idiot cards; I'm going on with it right after the station
break. The scramblers failed. Gimme something soothing to say. Got it?"
She nodded and marched off. Otto cleared his throat. Archy spun. "What
are you waiting for? Get switched to auxiliary! We've got projections
prancing around living rooms in every suburb in the country."
Another phone was ringing. "General Cox for Mr. House," somebody
yelled. "Calling from Hawaii."
Archy wished these jackasses would all drop dead. He shook Otto.
"I tried the auxiliary," said Otto. "It's out."
"Holy volts," said Archy.
For the first time in his life he felt desperate. A cool head and a
habit of never being wrong had got him where he was--founder and top
banana of Full-Projection, sole owner of three TV networks using the
revolutionary 3-D devices perfected by Otto Kahler and patented by
Archy. In the present emergency, he tried to keep his head still cool
and continue to never be wrong.
A stagehand was running a phone out onto the set. Waiting, Archy
snapped instructions at Otto--put half the staff to trying to get
the scramblers operating, set the other half to slapping together an
emergency machine. Otto dashed off and the phone was slapped into
Archy's hand.
"Yes, Ben," he said assuringly to the President of the United States.
"What can I do for you?"
"You can get those projections out of my living room," snapped
the president. "They're still doing their acts from the circus
show--jugglers, acrobats, an animated cartoon. What happened?"
"Don't worry, Pops. An experimental commercial goofed. Stay tuned;
we'll have the scramblers on in ten minutes."
"You'd better," crackled President Conklin. "I have guests--this could
be an international incident. And don't call me Pops."
"Sit tight. And now excuse me, Ben, I'm going on the air. Just keep the
projections near the set, within scrambler range."
He was on. They used the conventional flatscreen cameras, and June's
script was as smooth as if she'd worked all day on it ... as smooth as
her satiny shoulders and not-quite-uncovered bust. It explained that
due to uncontrollable circumstances scrambler-power was temporarily off.
"Our advice is, stay calm," Archy read smoothly. "The projections are
not real people. They are harmless. They are merely images of people,
just as in old-fashioned flat TV, except that they are projected into
your home in full dimensions. Even with no scrambler to dissipate the
electro-magnetic configuration of which they are composed, they will
not last long.
"They are held together, energized, by the energy beamed from our
studios through your set. Without that power they will vanish, probably
within a few minutes."
Reassured by what he had just read, Archy took more phone calls.
The general in Hawaii told him the barracks were full of Pixie Owens
projections, Bikini-clad, and military discipline was shattered.
The mayor of New York reported that Central Park was teeming with Wild
West Theater projections, and armadillos in the streets had jammed all
traffic.
* * * * *
President Conklin made a furious repeat call. The Russian consulate
had sent a stiff note protesting the "degenerate practical joke"
perpetrated on a Soviet diplomat attending Conklin's soiree.
The skipper of a battleship said his men proposed tossing all
projections overboard, and he wanted to know if this would constitute
murder.
Archy said it wouldn't, instructed his staff to take no more calls, and
went to find Otto. June went with him.
June was a person with a knack for making you think of something else
no matter what crisis you were embroiled in. In the elevator, Archy
slipped an arm around her. "I've got an idea," he whispered.
"I'll scream," she warned, "and this shaft is like a megaphone."
"That's not the idea--anyway, an elevator is too cramped. My idea is;
let's get married when this is over."
"Hmmm." She twisted back provocatively. "I've got another idea--give me
a raise and I might think about it."
"That's what you said the last three times, and now you're drawing a
thousand a week."
"And worth every buck of it."
"True, true. If I didn't pay you what you're worth, professionally,
some other outfit would steal you."
"You think I'd pull out just for a raise?"
"You'd be nuts if you didn't. Look, June--if you married me, a thousand
a week would be nothing--peanuts."
She laughed, throaty but tinkling, a brook flowing through chimes. "And
you wonder why I won't marry you. My friend, I won't marry you until
you figure out _why_ I won't."
The elevator stopped before he could ask for explanations. They found
Otto among his machines, seated at a table. There were sheets of paper
on it. There was also a small, furry body.
"Okay, Otto--when do we get a scrambler on? I've got the great American
public snowed, but I can't hold 'em forever."
"We just found the trouble," said Otto, brushing the hair off his
forehead. "It's crazy." He picked up the furred object. "A mouse got
into the auxiliary and shorted it."
"Number one," said Archy. "Tomorrow I fire the maintenance staff.
Mice--in my studio! Number two--how soon can you have a scrambler
going?"
"Fifteen minutes," said Otto proudly.
"Make it ten. Buzz me in the studio. We'll cut right into the program."
Back in the elevator, Archy crowed. "That's it, Baby--Archy House in
action, everything taken care of."
"No credit for Otto?"
"You kidding. Otto's smart enough to work for me, but I'm smart enough
to hire him. So who's smartest?" He juggled the mouse in his hand,
reflectively. "Without me, Otto'd be nowhere. Somebody else'd have his
idea. The smart guys are the promoters, chick. Why not marry one?"
She snorted wordlessly. He tossed the mouse in his palm and suddenly
swore.
"I hurt your feelings, promoter?"
"Look at this mouse!"
She eyed him quizzically.
"This mouse never crawled into any scrambler," said Archy. "It was
stuck in there, dead, and I've been sabotaged. It has a broken neck."
The elevator stopped, the door slid back, and Archy's mind left the
mouse. It was as though a mirror had popped up before him. He was
staring at a nattily-dressed, cocky replica of himself.
"Don't worry, about anything, Mac," said the projection. "I'll have
things tight in a jiffy."
"My God," said June. "The monitor sets were on. Projections must be
all over the studio."
"Hi, chick," said the projection. "Come on up to the office; there's
some things to talk about."
Archy swung. The blow slipped harmlessly through the projection's jaw.
"You're passe," said the projection. "Outmoded. Here, play with Andy.
Come on, June."
Archy cannoned a kick at the cartoon armadillo. His foot passed
through, trailing a filmy tatter which snapped back into Andy's body.
"Eat Teeny-Crunchy Peanut Butter, kids," sang Andy Armadillo.
Eight minutes later Otto rang the buzzer. June had the projections
doing a show in an office; when the scrambler kicked on they vanished.
But an hour after that the White House called Archy.
"You only nailed about ten percent of those characters of yours,"
shouted President Conklin. "The rest had wandered out of range--I mean
the ones all over the country. What are you going to do about it?"
"Don't worry, pops. All under control ... my best people are working on
it."
"Under control? With seven Pixie Owenses strip-teasing on the White
House lawn? You get down here, House, and bring your staff."
Conklin's receiver slammed before Archy could answer. He slowly rubbed
his ear. "This is getting bad."
* * * * *
A week later things were still bad. Archy, June and Otto were still in
Washington, and the President had called another conference. Of all
the projections, the one of himself distressed Archy the most. They
were insufferably arrogant. One had tried to pilot the plane that took
him to the capital. Dozens had congregated at Full-Projection Studios,
issuing orders to the staff. Twice, one had talked his way into a
Presidential conference. "The only way you can tell they aren't real,"
said a guard, "is to poke them. I should poke somebody coming to see
the President?"
"Can't people tell they aren't me by the way they act?" Archy asked
June. "Cheeky, bossy--OBVIOUSLY they aren't me."
"Obviously, huh?" said June. "Let's go, or we'll miss the conference."
President Conklin opened the discussion with general remarks.
"In the first place, the Attorney-General informs me that Mr. House is
legally responsible for the behavior of these projections--they are his
agents, insofar as they are beings; his possessions, insofar as they
are things. If Mr. House cannot rid the country of them, he is liable
to extremely grave consequences."
"Hold on," blurted Archy, with a dark glance at Otto. "My
master-scrambler was sabotaged. I can't be held responsible for that."
"Do you know who did it? Can you definitely prove it was sabotage?"