It was. The next day an anorexic and pallid young man was brought to our rehearsal studio. Zach whispered in my ear. “I recognize him-that’s Barry Moyd Shlepper. He wrote a pop musical a couple of years back, “Don’t Fry for Me, Angelina.” He hasn’t had a success since.”
“I remember it. The show about the cook who marries the dictator.”
“That’s the one.”
“Welcome, Barry, welcome,” I said walking over and shaking his bony hand. “My name is Jim and I’m in charge around here.”
“Rooty-toot, man, rooty-toot,” he said.
“And a rooty-toot to you as well.” I could see where we would have to learn the argot of the musical world if our plan were to succeed. “Now-was this operation explained to you?”
“Like maybe sort of. A new recording company starting up with plenty of bucknicks to blow. Financing some new groups to get the operation off the ground.”
“That’s it. You’re in charge of the music. Let me show you what we have and you put it into shape.”
I gave him earphones and the player: I couldn’t bear listening to these dreadful compositions yet another time. He plugged in the cubes one by one and, impossible as it was to believe, his pallid skin grew even paler. He worked his way through them all. Sighed tremulously, took off the earphones and brushed the tears from his eyes.
“You want like my honest and truly opinion?”
“Nothing less.”
“Well then, like to break it to you gently, this stuff really sucks. Insufflates. Implodes.”
“Can you do better?”
“My cat can do better. And scratch dirt over it.”
“Then you are unleashed. Begin!”
There was little else I could do until the music was written, rehearsed, recorded. While all the others would play their instruments and sing, my work would be limited to throwing the switch before each piece. Then all of Zach’s drums, cymbals, horns, bells and molecular-synthesizer effects would burst forth from the loudspeakers in full gallop. While this was happening I would throw switches that did nothing, tinkle the keys on a disconnected keyboard. So while they got the music going I looked into the special effects.
This required watching recordings of all of the most popular groups, bands and soloists. Some of it was enjoyable, some horribly dreadful, all of it too loud. In the end I turned off the sound and watched the laser beams, exploding fireworks and physical acrobatics. I made sketches, mumbled to myself a lot, spent a great deal of the university’s money.
And built an incredible amount of complicated circuitry into the existing electronics. Reluctantly, the Admiral produced the extras I asked for and I modified everything in the machine shop. It was altogether a satisfactory and fulfilling week. I also prodded the Admiral until he produced the promised payment of three million credits.
“Most kind,” I said, jingling the six glowing five-hundred-thousand-credit coins. “A decent fee for a decent job done.”
“You better put them in a bank vault before they go missing,” was his surly advice.
“Of course. A capital idea!”
A singularly stupid idea. Banks were for robbing and for the tax authorities to keep track of. So first I went into the machine shop where I did some crafty metalwork before I packed wrapped and labeled the coins. Then I went for a walk and, as a precaution, I exercised all of my considerable talents at avoiding observation to shake off any possible tails the Admiral had put on me. I was risking my life-in more ways than one!-for this money. If I came out of it all in one piece I wanted to have it waiting.
I finally reached a small country post office, selected at random, some distance from the city. It was manned by a nearsighted gentleman of advanced years.
“Spatial express and insured for offplanet delivery. That ain’t gonna be cheap young feller.”
“Do it, daddy-o, do it. I’ve got the gilt.” He blinked and I translated back to his native language. “Payment is not a problem, dear sir. You must assure me that this gets to Professor Van Diver at the Galaksia Universitato at once. He is expecting these historical documents.”