“Don’t mention horses to me,” said Gadget, and he sank down to glare at the sides of Cahuenga Pass as they ripped by.
The studio would not permit Gadget to have his laboratory on the lot since it had twice blown up, menacing, they berated him, “the lives and properties of United Pictures,” to say nothing of the last blast’s having knocked the toupee from a producer’s head at an extremely unpropitious moment.
They had bought him a slice of Sherman Oaks on the theory that the people who lived around there didn’t matter and that a range of hills between their special-effects man’s dabbling and the property of United Pictures was a fine thing to have.
The Horch phaeton sliced on up Ventura Boulevard past Repulsive Pictures at Laurel Canyon and careened into the exclusive side road which led to Gadget’s personal domain. When they screeched to a halt at the door, old Angus McBane, complete with blacksmith’s apron, tobacco-stained walrus mustache and a paint-advertising cap, was on hand to hear the news.
McBane and Tony Marconio made up Gadget’s “family.” Angus was a Scotch master mechanic who had been reeducated, much against his will, by Engineer O’Dowd. In return he had done considerable educating of his own. Angus could make anything from a lady’s wristwatch to an atom bomb, providing Gadget gave him the general details.
“I suppose ye’ve failed,” said Angus.
“Nope,” said Gadget, getting out and looking speculatively at his laboratory. “They upped it to eighteen thousand.”
“Aye?” said Angus, hastily hiding his surprise. “But I suppose there was many a string attached to it?”
“There was,” said Gadget. “We have to take on an accountant.”
“An accountant!” cried Angus. “Ye mean I’ll have to account for every measly wee bit of tin, and cut the corners, and save string?”
“I’m afraid so,” said Gadget.
“It isna worth it, laddie. Where and away noo will we be getting the new wing for the shop?”
The three of them looked at the low rambling structure. It was painted white and had window boxes. It appeared to be as innocent as any rose-covered cottage. But this laboratory ran back into the Hollywood Hills for a good eighth of a mile. Its chambers and rooms were equipped with all manner of scientific bric-a-brac. The projected left wing was a long spur which would go underground far enough to permit an experimentation with gamma rays. It costs money to drill solid rock, particularly when it has to be reinforced against possible earthquakes. They had counted on this present job to complete the drifting.
“Let’s all go in and have a drink,” said Gadget. And they sadly filed into the main room which was a combination bar, museum and lounge. Tony mixed up three buttermilk flips, since the alcohol on the shelves behind was strictly for visitor consumption, by common consent.
“I know he tried,” said Tony.
“Well, I didna expect any more,” said Angus, wiping the buttermilk from his walrus mustache. “Noo, Chief, what onerous task begins this sad travail?”
“Well, it’s got to be a horse,” said Gadget. Something like inspiration came into his eyes. His stature grew. His red hair glowed. “It’s got to be a horse that will run and buck and break down a door and be fairly fireproof. I think maybe you’d better start in with a hide.”
He was thinking now. Like an artist who begins to conceive a great masterpiece, he forgot the financial worry and his own current project in the joy of pure creation. “I’ll take care of the skeletal structure as soon as I can get to the drawing board. There’s a plate of a horse skeleton around here someplace. I’ll use that new alphabattery motor we built for Frankenstein’s Mate. But the thing is, it has got to look real. It has got to act real. It’s got to be a masterpiece! Angus, first thing you do is find a hide. I’ll fireproof it; you just find a hide.”
“Who’s going to fireproof the stuntman?” said Tony.
“There isn’t any SPCA for stuntmen,” reproved Gadget. “Now, Angus, you get out and find me a horse.”
“We canna kill it,” said Angus. “There’s no difference between murderin’ one and burning another.”
“Well, now, don’t bother me with petty details,” said Gadget. “I’m thinking. You just get out and find me a good horse hide—head, ears, everything. We can use that blind-man radar from The Bat’s Return for his eyes. Now let me see . . .”
Angus hung up his leather apron behind the bar, removed his paint-advertising cap and got into an old tweed coat. “How much’ll I pay, laddie?”
“Steal it if possible. When that accountant gets here we’ll tell him—”
A cool voice behind them said: “You’ll tell her what?”
They whirled to find themselves looking at a girl who could have been a stand-in for Hedy Lamarr. She was beautifully gowned and coiffed. She had everything about her to add charm and femininity which Hollywood could devise. But for all that, there was a grim precision which came from something unseen. It made her, as Gadget estimated in the first glance, about as lovable as one of his special effects for The Ghost Rider.
“I am Miss Franklin, from the front office,” she said, extending her hand.
Gadget took it as though he expected it to carry thirty or forty thousand volts. “That was just a joke,” he said weakly.
“I’m sure it was,” said Miss Franklin. “At least I hope so. I have been looking over your budget and various expenditures, Mr. O’Dowd. The office has warned me to be very careful.”
“Have some buttermilk,” said Gadget hastily.
“Dishonesty,” she announced, “is a thing I cannot tolerate.”
“Miss,” said Angus, bristling, “this lad dinna have a crooked hair on his head.”
“Well,” said Miss Franklin, “I shouldn’t think it would be necessary for a man who already draws two thousand dollars a week.”
“Miss,” began Angus, ends of his mustache sticking straight up, “I—”
Whatever it was he would have said was drowned in a clank and roar from the far side of the room. Tony, behind the bar, had pressed a remote control button and now the Moloch, used in The Lost Tribe, with a yard of flame shooting out of his face, stepped away from the wall with a sound like scrunching bones. He reached out his arms toward Miss Franklin.
Any normal human girl, as they had many times in the past, would have fainted then and there. But not Miss Franklin. She cuffed Moloch soundly on the jaw and sat him down with a dreadful clatter of jarred parts.
“That was very effective on the screen,” said Miss Franklin, “but I think it rather childish of you to keep it around. May I ask where my office is?”
Struck dumb, Gadget escorted her through a door into a chrome-and-mahogany cubicle which he usually turned over to visiting engineers. He left her to spread out her account books and pencils on the desk. He noted that she did it in a disgustingly precise manner. Now he would never make any progress with that “gamma room” tunnel.
Moloch, used in The Lost Tribe, with a yard of flame shooting out of his face, stepped away from the wall with a sound like scrunching bones. He reached out his arms toward Miss Franklin.
In his own office, Gadget stared unseeing at the rows of pinup girls which had been drawn especially by his muralist. He did not even notice when Tony removed his coat and slid him into his turquoise working jacket. He sank down at his drawing board and picked up his pencil.
“Well, there’s other grafts,” said Tony.
“Not that pay two thousand a week,” said Gadget.
“Well, you don’t have to keep on wit’ the project,” said Tony.
Gadget looked at him, suddenly stricken. Tony recoiled, realizing his heresy.
“I’m sorry!” said Tony. “I know what we got to do. I was just kiddin’, Chief.”
Gadget shafted out another glare and looked back at the board. Tony said no more about it. It was, in fact, entirely against the law to mention it around here. But all this slaving and sweating and dollar-grubbing was on the high road t
o as gallant and daring a project as mankind could conceive. The three of them were dedicated, soul and pocketbook, to an endeavor which would have made even Samuel Goldwyn dizzy.
They weren’t going to make a supercolossal epic. They weren’t going to overthrow United Pictures. They weren’t going to elect a president. No, their dreams had no such finite limits.
Gadget and Company were headed for the moon!
And after that, Mars!
And after that, stars!
Real stars. Not boomp girls.
Lying in the labyrinths of this workshop, woven into every plan, staring out of each scheme, was the nose of the Voyageur I,a spaceship destined to make history!
No two-bit research job for Gadget like chief of Westinghouse Laboratory; no little niche like head of the Army or Navy; no peanut-sized job like the presidency of the United States or the boss of the United Nations. This Irishman had slightly larger plans. He intended to make a test voyage around the moon and then a full jaunt to Mars. Following which he was going to break the “wall of light” and get out there where they had some man-sized planets.
Who would trade the Earth and any job on it for the full possession of some king-sized satellites around some giant-class stars? Not Gadget. He was going to give Earth an empire that was an empire and become immortal in the bargain.
Every penny he could beg, chisel or even earn was tied up in the Voyageur I. Every one of his experiments was slanted to some improvement of that ship. Actual parts of it were scattered here and there through these laboratories, and its full design, constantly modified, was guarded by a safe in the floor so burglarproof that the FBI in full force couldn’t have cracked it.
This was the secret of Gadget O’Dowd and this was the plan to which his “family” was dedicated to the death. Top secret. Top!
Tony tiptoed out of there, knowing better than to say another word. He listened at the door and after a while heard Gadget’s sixty-cent fountain pen scratching away at the horse drawings. Tony drew off.
Peeking into Miss Franklin’s office he saw her sitting, making entries in her ledgers. He made a face at her back and went out to prune the orange trees. They were very special orange trees, mineralized artificially so as to produce super orange juice which, someday, would be condensed and canned for the larder of a spaceship to prevent, at one drop per day, any possible quantity of space scurvy.
A chipmunk chattered at him. Tony suddenly drew an imaginary gun from an equally imaginary shoulder holster and fired six death-dealing shots at the chipmunk.
“Take dat! And dat, you stinking swine!” said Tony. “I’ll massacre— Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!” But he was shot and he staggered to his knees to do a fine death scene he had witnessed in a Humphrey Bogart opus last night. Much cheered then, he got up, recovered his shears and clipped away at the twigs. He began to whistle the overture from Aida.
The following afternoon an incident occurred which sounded the general alarm loud enough to call both Gadget and Tony from a hasty lunch. They rushed into the first chamber of the workshop where electrical effects were ordinarily made and were startled into immobility by a very strange sight.
Miss Franklin, who, as far as Gadget could find out, had no first name, was there. She was dressed in a lovely afternoon gown with a stupefying pair of horn-rimmed glasses perched on her very smudged nose. Her pencil was poised militantly over a notebook. Facing her was Angus McBane, half covered by a horse hide which he had been in the act of dragging through the door. Angus saw with relief that reinforcements were approaching from the other entrance.
“Gadget, she’s taking an inventory!” said Angus.
If he had told Gadget and Tony that Miss Franklin had been caught dismembering a newborn infant, they could not have been more shocked. Gadget glared.
“Miss Franklin, I think this is going a little too far. After all, you will find a complete inventory in my office. I am sure everything is on it which is the property of United Pictures. This distrust is heartbreaking. I cannot understand how you might suppose that we would have been so remiss as to leave important objects off that inventory. Now, these chambers are no place for a lady. That equipment you are looking at was used to furnish the dead man’s scene in The Mad Doctor. It is rigged to jump a hundred thousand volts between those electrodes. Anyone coming in here is liable to get injured. Then how would I explain to the studio?
“I swear to you, Miss Franklin, that you will find our inventory—”
Her voice sawed into his speech like a sharpened icicle. “Mr. O’Dowd, I have already found twenty-five transformers, seventeen condensers, something which is labeled ‘an alpha pile’ and nine cathode-ray tubes which do not occur on that so-called inventory of yours. I suppose you can account for those satisfactorily?”
Gadget rallied. “They are my own equipment which I have loaned free of charge to United Pictures. I have not said one word—”
“Mr. O’Dowd, you know very well that we have rules against private property in a studio technical laboratory. It must be registered with the studio. How else could one keep these matters straight? If you have been so slack in registering your own property and accounting for how you came by it, I cannot help but suppose that there are other irregularities. I am afraid that I must conduct an entire inventory of everything here.”
Gadget looked as though he were on the verge of a ZaSu Pitts swoon.
“And how aboot my ain tools?” said Angus. “I couldna work wi’out them. And they are so numerous that ’twould take weeks just to list them.”
“I suppose you want me to list my driving gloves, too,” said Tony acidly. “See here, Boss. You want I should rub dis dame out?”
Miss Franklin looked coolly at Gadget’s man. “Corn,” she said. “Pure corn. No wonder you aren’t even a bit player anymore. For your information, your driving gloves should be registered. According to paragraph three of section five of the accountancy regulations, everything which is used in the execution of studio business is either the property of the studio or must be registered with it for proper rental fees.”
Gadget instantly brightened. “Well, then, Miss Franklin, I fear we shall have to stop work on this horse long enough to carry out the inventory which you will require.”
“On the contrary, Mr. O’Dowd, I do not think that will be necessary. I have here a breakdown of past budgets. Checking back to the inventory I find that there are many items included in past budgets which do not appear on the inventory. I would suggest that you get on with your horse. I shall continue the business of protecting United’s property. If there is any discrepancy, you can take it up with me later.”
Gadget leaned his head up against the door jamb and beat a futile fist against the wall. “Give ’em control of money and you make czars out of ’em. No wonder the Russians revolted.” He faced her again and put out a beseeching hand. “Miss Franklin, I am a scientist. You are an accountant. You are an expert in such matters. How could I help it if I made a few mistakes here and there? You—”
“A hundred and fifty thousand dollars is a lot of mistakes,” said Miss Franklin. “But go on with your work. I am sure that after proper adjustment is made on these books, no word of it will reach the studio. But you have equipment here which should be sold and it is up to me to take care of that.”
“Over my dead body,” cried Angus. He threw down the horse hide. “Lady or no lady, I—”
Gadget quickly stepped forward and slipped his arm through Miss Franklin’s. “Let’s go into the outer office,” he said smoothly, “and talk this thing over quietly.”
Miss Franklin wavered and then reached out her hand for the bill which Angus had been gripping. “I suppose that’s the bill for the thing you are carrying?” said Miss Franklin.
Angus surrendered it. And Gadget was able to lead the militant accountant into the main room. He was trying to distract her attention, but she read the bill anyway.
“My,” she said, “that’s a little bit high fo
r a horse hide, twenty-eight hundred dollars. And he has even added taxi fare.”
Gadget looked at it, puckering his brow. “Why, see here, he couldn’t have a horse killed for the purpose. The only thing he could do was to get a stuffed horse out of the museum. That’s natural now, isn’t it? See? It says right here at the top, ‘The Santa Ana Museum, stuffed relic of Stardust sired by Man o’ War.’ You remember Stardust. She was a famous racer. Now you wouldn’t expect to buy her for a measly twenty-eight hundred dollars, would you? She won a hundred and ninety thousand dollars in just one season. And,” he added with some satisfaction, “after she goes through that fire, I’m afraid her hide won’t be worth very much.”
“Well—” said Miss Franklin, doubtfully, “I am not interested in the cost of individual items but only in the entire budget. I have no wish to obstruct your work, Mr. O’Dowd. I am afraid, however, that I shall have to pursue that inventory.”
“Please,” said Gadget, “let it go until a time when I can help you with it. Many of the items you will find are alive and dangerous. Why, just last week we had a truck driver executed by a short circuit in a dinosaur from Cave Man.” He got her back to his office and was shortly able to rejoin Angus.
Gadget picked up the horse hide.
“Why, it does look like Stardust,” said Tony.
“Sure, and it is,” said Angus. “Me and the curator was howlin’ savage drunk half of the night. Somehow, in the scuffle, Stardust came oot at the seams.”
“What will happen to the voucher?” said O’Dowd.
“Whin the studio pays it, the curator will pay us back all but the ten percent that’s to be his squeeze. After all, this is Hollywood.”
“Movie business,” said Tony with a sage nod. He followed his two conspirators into the blacksmith’s shop where Gadget had already sketched out on the wall the structural devices necessary for the skeleton. Angus resumed his apron and blew up the forge so hot that his testing spit sizzled into steam a foot before it touched the fire. He picked up a bar of fine manganese steel, glanced at the skeleton, and began to bend it.