At least a contributing factor to the current cycle of science fictionmovies being made in Hollywood is the touchiness of minorities havingtheir nationals being portrayed as villains. Cinema-makers are now tryingto avoid further boycotts by using space aliens for villains. Butsuppose some of our Extraterrestrial neighbors are also a bit touchy?
Pity the poor purveyor of mere entertainment in today's world.He can't afford to offend a soul, yet must have a villain.
Twenty-five years ago CyrilBezdek and E. Carter Dorwinwould have met in a private railwaycar belonging to one of them.They might even have met in aprivate train. At any rate theywould have met in absolute privacy.But it being the present,they had to be content with aseries of adjoining rooms takingup less than one half of a car onthe Super-Sachem, fastest coast-to-coasttrain in the country.
Their meeting in private wasvery important. Upon its resultshinged the future of GiganticStudios, one of Hollywood's bigthree production companies.
Dorwin was the powerfulplenipotentiary of the ConsolidatedTrust Company of Manhattanand backer of Gigantic'smultimillion-dollar productions.He was on his way West to makesure that the interests of his bankwere being adequately served bythe studio.
Bezdek was Gigantic's supremeproduction boss. Former officeboy, writer, prop man, assistant-director,director, producer, andstory editor, he was the works—unlessDorwin decided otherwiseduring this meeting and pulled theprops out from under him. Hehad thought Dorwin's trip sufficientlyimportant to fly to KansasCity and get aboard the Super-Sachemto be with the bankerduring the remainder of his trip.
They had dined in the privacyof Dorwin's suite—Bezdek as befittedhis tortured duodenum onyogurt and Melba toast—Dorwinon caviar, consommé, a thicksteak with full trimmings, and agolden baked Alaska accompaniedby Armagnac.
"How do you manage to keepthin?" Bezdek asked him, honestlyenvious. "Polo, tennis? Golfwould never do it."
"I haven't exercised in tenyears," said the banker, biting offthe end of a Havana Perfecto. Hestudied the little movie-makerover the flame of his lighter. Outside,the flat expanse of Kansasrushed past through the night atclose to a hundred miles an hour.
"Some people are lucky," saidBezdek, adjusting the broad knotof his hand-painted Windsor tie.He was remarshaling his thoughtsand ideas. It was very importantthat he and Dorwin be in perfectaccord before they reached Hollywood.
The banker, who was new tothe movie-making branch of hisbusiness, spoke first. "I presume,"he said finally, "that you're awareof the current feeling in our NewYork office?"
The movie magnate gesturedcarelessly with a Saxony gun-clubsleeve, revealing a platinumwristwatch strap. "We hear rumorsnow and again," he said."It's about our science fictionfilms." Bezdek avoided making ita question. He was far too shrewdfor that.
The banker, finding himselfthus at a disadvantage, said amicably,"It's not that the fantasyseries isn't making money, understand."He paused, looking faintlydistressed. "It's just that, frankly,we feel they're getting too faraway from reality. Trips to Marsand Venus—strange creatures....It's not real—it's not dignified.Frankly, we question whether aninstitution like ours can afford tobe connected with anything so—soephemeral. After all ..."
He paused as sounds of ascuffle in the corridor penetratedthe room and something or somebodywas