[Transcriber Note: This etext was produced from Imagination Stories of
Science and Fantasy April 1958. Extensive research did not uncover any
evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
[Sidenote: There was a reason why his scripts were smash hits--they had
realism. And why not? He was reliving every scene and emotion in them!]
It was really a pretty fair script, and it caught me at a moment when
every playwright worth his salt was playing in France, prostituting in
Hollywood or sulking in a slump. I needed a play badly, so I told Ellie
to get this unknown up to my office and have a contract ready.
When she announced him on the inter-com, my door banged open and a
youngster in blue-jeans, sweatshirt and a stubbly crew-cut popped in
like a carelessly aimed champagne cork.
I said, "I'm sorry, son, but I have an interview right now. Besides we
aren't casting yet. Come back in a couple of weeks."
His grin never faltered, being of the more durable kind that you find on
farms and west of the Rockies. His ragged sneakers padded across my
Persian, and I thought he was going to spring over my desk like a losing
tennis player.
"I'm your interview," he announced. "At least I'm Hillary Hardy, and
your girl just told me you'd see me."
"You--are Hillary Hardy?"
"In the morbid flesh," he said jamming out five enthusiastic fingers
that gulped my hand and jack-hammered until I broke his grip with a
Red-Cross life-saving hold.
"Spare the meat," I groaned. "I have to sign the contract, too."
"I did it! I did it! They said I was crazy, but I did it the first
time."
"Did what?"
"Sold the first play I wrote."
"This--is--your first work?"
"My very first," he said, splitting his freckles with a double row of
white teeth a yard wide. "They said I'd have to go to college, and then
I'd have to write a million words before I'd produce anything
worthwhile."
If he hadn't owned such an honest, open face I'd have thrown him out as
an imposter right then. The ream of neatly typed pages on my desk would
have fooled any agent, editor or producer like myself, on Broadway. The
format was professional, the plot carefully constructed, the dialogue
breezy as a May afternoon in Chicago and the motivation solidly adult.
"How old are you?" I asked.
"Nineteen."
"And you'll sign an affidavit that you wrote this play, and it's an
original work?"
"Certainly!" The smile faded a little. "Look, Mr. Crocker, you're not
just kidding about this contract, are you? Is the play really okay?"
"That," I said trying to restrain my own enthusiasm, "is only determined
on the boards. But I'm willing to risk a thousand-dollar advance on your
signature to this." I shoved the papers at him with my fountain pen on
top.
He didn't uncap the pen until he had read the whole thing, and while he
pored over the fine print I had time to catch my breath.
His play competed rather well with the high average output of most
professionals I knew--not exactly terrific, but a relatively safe
gamble, as gambles go on the street of bright lights. Well, I made a
mental note to pass the script around a bit before I signed the contract
myself. After all, he might have cribbed the whole thing somewhere.
He finished reading, signed the contract and handed it back to me with
an air of expectancy. I stalled, "I, uh, will have the check for you in
a few days. Meanwhile, you'd better get yourself an agent and an
attorney and fix up that affidavit of authorship. Normally, I don't deal
with free-lance playwrights, you see."
"But I don't need any agent," he protested. "You be my agent, Mr.
Crocker--" He was studying my reaction, and after a moment he said, "You
still don't quite believe that I wrote _Updraft_, do you, sir? Now that
you've met me you want more time to check up, don't you?"
I said, "Frankly, yes, Hardy. _Updraft_ is a mature piece of writing,
and unless you are a genius--well, it's just business son."
"I don't blame you," he said smiling that fresh-air smile. "And I'll
admit I'm no genius, but I can explain everything. You see, I've read 38
books on how to write plays--"
"Tut!" I said. "Format technique is just a fraction of producing an
appealing play."
"Perhaps," he admitted. "But _I've memorized all 38 books_. What's more,
I've been reading and memorizing plays, novels, poetry and history since
I was 13. I have a storehouse of--"
"Memorizing?"
"Yes, sir. I'm a student of _mnemonics_, you know, the art of memory
perfection. My real ambition is to develop absolute recall. All my
reading and memorizing have been just exercises to expand my power of
complete recall."
"You mean that playwriting is just a hobby?"
"Not--exactly. I need money, lots of it, to continue my research.
Psychiatrists come high."
Well, I suppose good plays have been written for screwier reasons, and I
was in no mood to look a gift-author in the mouth. I did pass _Updraft_
around to a brace of critics, and none of them could hang a plagiarism
charge on Hardy. So I wrote out his check and started the wheels going
on the production.
The boy prodigy dropped out of sight for the time being, taking no
further interest in his brain-child. _Updraft_ did all right in the
sticks, but it was when we opened on Broadway that it began to coin
money.
* * * * *
In ten performances we were playing to capacity crowds, and within a
month we had to take in the S. R. O. sign. A lucky hit? I thought so at
the time. _Updraft_ had a dash of humor, a bit of adventure, a dollop of
romance and a gentle little heart tug at the conclusion, but damned if
the critics could put their fingers on its money-making essence. They
gave it pleasant little reviews and mild compliments, but no more. The
cash customers, however, came and kept coming and _kept coming_!
The morning after the 100th performance I told Ellie to hunt up Hardy
and see what he was doing about another play. I could stand to have
another hit ready when _Updraft_ petered out.
That afternoon my secretary reported, "He's in a sanitarium over in
Hoboken."
"Nuts! I knew we should have held back on his royalties," I exclaimed.
"I suppose he's drunk himself into a--"
"It's a mental hospital," Ellie said, "but Mr. Hardy told me he is just
there for some experimental psycho-therapy. He sounded quite normal and
cheerful."
Hillary Hardy showed up next morning at my request, and he did, indeed,
appear in good spirits. I demanded, "What's this business of locking
yourself up in a looney-bin? Don't you realize that's bad public
relations?"
He chuckled. "I thought of that. So I'm going under an assumed name.
Your girl said you had something very important to tell me."
"Sure. I want another play," I told him. "_Updraft_ won't run forever,
you know."
"Oh, I have plenty of money now, so I won't have to bother. The people
at the sanitarium have become interested in my project, and all I'm
spending is board and room there. Thanks to your royalty checks I've got
quite a pile in the bank."
"Won't have to bother?" I yelled. "Here I launch you on Broadway, and
that's all the gratitude I get. Now's the time to cash in on the
reputation of your first play. It's setting attendance records."
"Sorry, Mr. Crocker," he said. "I'm in a critical stage of my
experiments. I just can't afford the time at the moment."
"Experiments! Experiments! What is this business?"
He brightened. "Would you believe it? I've contacted memories back to
three months after my birth. And at this rate I'll reach birth itself
within a few weeks."