We proudly enter a new name in the science-fiction sweepstakes. This isMr. Rubin's initial appearance in the field. His literary efforts to dateadd up quite handsomely, we think. QUOTE. I have sold to the TV show,TALES OF TOMORROW and two literary quarterlies have published my fiction.Last year I won the Stephen Vincent Benét Award for my one-act playsproduced at Stanford University. UNQUOTE. The reading pleasure is yours.
Spud, world-famous dummy, talksto Mars with surprising results.
Crawford completed the rehearsalin less than an hour. Helistened to the orchestra runthrough its selections, okayed thesong the guest vocalist hadchosen, then finished up with along dialogue between Spud andhimself. When it was over hechecked timing with the programdirector, made a few scriptchanges and conferred briefly witha Special Service Officer aboutthe number of troops the auditoriumcould hold. Everythingwas running smoothly. It wasgoing to be a neat, action-packedshow.
Backstage he looked at hiswatch. He had almost two hoursbefore the regular show began andhe was restless. Two hours atHarlow Field could seem like twoyears. Guards and restrictionsall over the place.
Harlow Field was the largestexperimental base in the world, averitable garden of atoms, theproving grounds for every secretweapon ever imagined. Thesecurity and the tight regulationsgave Crawford the jitters on eachof his visits.
He smoked a cigarette andtried making small talk with someof the soldiers on backstage detail.He posed for a picture andgave an interview to a reporterfrom an army newspaper, thenexcused himself and went to hisdressing room with Spud proppedin the crook of his arm.
He was used to it now; theapplause, the audiences, the pictures,the autographs, the fuss.Everywhere the response was thesame. They had either seen himin the movies or on television orin the nightclubs, where he firstbroke in his act. Now they wantedto establish an identity with him,to touch the merchandise, to standclose so that they could writehome about the visiting celebrity.Crawford was a realist. It was allpart of being a name.
It had taken him just five yearsto make the big time. Five yearsof road shows, coast-to-coasttours, one-night stands and adummy named Spud to make himthe hottest ventriloquist in thebusiness. His act was tight, well-pacedand popular. He had aweekly radio show, a televisionprogram and a seven-year contractwith a major Hollywoodstudio. He was riding high.
Still he hadn't forgotten thesoldiers. Two months each yearhe took time off to travel theUSO circuit. His agent tore hishair, reminding him of thefinancial losses, but the USO hadgiven him his first break so hehad always answered their call.He liked enthusiastic audiencesand the cheering of laugh-hungrymen made him happy. Entertainmentwas his business and heenjoyed exhibiting his talent. Thewider the audience the better heliked it.
His dressing room was locatedback of the auditorium. He closedthe door behind him, put Spud ona chair and began getting out ofhis rehearsal clothes. He lit acigarette and looked at himselfin the mirror. He was tired andneeded a shave. In the last weekthe pace had been fast. The USOtour still had a few days to run,but he was looking forward to itsend. A vacation, the luxury ofrelaxation would all be his then.
He opened a drawer of thedressing table and pulled out abottle of Scotc