They were Norvell’s own, featureless and bright, tiny and insubstantial. Where Norvell’s script called for the bodies of forty javelin-throwers in the flesh, the visualizing apparatus showed forty sprites of light jabbing at each other with lances of fire. No blood spilled; no bodies stained the floor of the Stadium; only the little bodiless fire-figures that disappeared like any other pattern of excited ions when the current went off.
Somehow, inside Norvell’s mind, it was here and not in the big arena that the real Field Days took place. He had heard the cries of the wounded and seen the tears of the next of kin waiting hopelessly in the pits, but they were not real; it was as mannikins that he thought of them always.
One of the production men looked up and said approvingly, “Good show, Mr. Bligh.”
“Thanks,” said Norvell gratefully. That was always a good sign; the technical crews had seen ’em all. Now the question was, what would Candella say?
He found out
What Candella said, gently at first, was:
“Bligh, the upcoming Field Day is important. At least, it seems to me that it is. It seems to me that everything we do is important. Don’t you think so?”
Norvell said, “Well——”
“I’m glad you agree. Our work is important, Bligh. It is a great and functional art form. It provides healthful entertainment, satisfying the needs of every man for some form of artistic expression. It provides escape—escape for the hardworking bubble-house class, escape for the masses of Belly Rave. For them, in fact, our work is indispensable. It siphons off then: aggressions so that they can devote their time to— uh—to comparatively harmless activities. Allotments and Field Days! Our society is built on them. You might call our work the very foundation of society, looked at in that way. Do you agree?”
Norvell’s voice failed him. He said in almost a whisper: “Yes, sir.”
Candella looked politely apologetic. “I beg your pardon?” “Yes, sir!” Norvell, too late, found he was almost beljow-
ing- \
Candella looked pained. “You needn’t shout.” he reproved —gently, smilingly. “There is nothing wrong with my hearing.” Norvell winced. You unutterable louse, he thought. But Candella was going right on. “—foundation of our society, as I say, but also an art form. The cultured classes appreciate our efforts on the artistic plane; the rabble of Belly Rave— with all respects, my dear Bligh, to the origin of your charming wife—need it on the glandular level. Every show we produce is important. But the Field Day——”
He hesitated, and the composition of his features changed. His thick brows came down like the ragged anvils of thunderclouds; his temples pulsed. His voice became a bass roar. He thundered, “The Field Day, you asinine little tin-eared incompetent, is the biggest day of the yeai! Not just because it draws the biggest audience—but because that’s the one / am judged by! The Board attends. The Mayor attends. The men from G.M.L. attend. If they like it, good. If they don’t—it’s my head that’s on the line, Bligh! And I don’t want it lopped off because of the idiotic blunderings of a half-witted ass like
you!”
Norvell opened his mouth; it hung open, wordless. Candella roared on, “Not a word! I want no excuses. You had the assignment, and you muffed it. Your notion of what constituted a Field Day was, of course, uninspired. But I thought that, with patching and improvising, we might get by. However, I no longer think so—not since examining the superb presentation that was handed me this morning—at nine o’clock, I might add.” He slammed a sheaf of punch-cards on the desk. “By a member of your own staff, Bligh! A brilliant boy whom you have evidently been holding down. Thank God for his guts! Thank God for his loyalty! Thank God he had the courage and sense to come to me with this masterpiece instead of permitting you to destroy it!”
There was a long pause. At last Norvell was able to croak,
“Who?”
Candella said triumphantly, “Stimmens.”
Norvell was speechless. The thing was not possible. Stimmens? Wet behind the ears, untried, incompetent even at
simple research? Stimmens who didn’t even want to stay with the firm, who had the infernal gall to ask for a contract release? Strlmmens?