The Machineries of Joy. Ray Bradbury
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screen where his friends lumbered into oblivion, from butcheries wrought on architectural scales. For the first time he examined his possible employers.
“Beautiful stuff.”
This praise came from an old man who sat to himself far across the theater, his head lifted forward in amaze toward that ancient life.
“It’s jerky. Look there!” The strange boy in the middle loge half rose, pointing with the cigarette in his mouth. “Hey, was that a bad shot. You see?”
“Yes,” said the old man, tired suddenly, fading back in his chair. “I see.”
Terwilliger crammed his hotness down upon a suffocation of swiftly moving blood.
“Jerky,” said Joe Clarence.
White light, quick numerals, darkness; the music cut, the monsters vanished.
“Glad that’s over.” Joe Clarence exhaled. “Almost lunchtime. Throw on the next reel, Walter! That’s all, Terwilliger.” Silence. “Terwilliger?” Silence. “Is that dumb bunny still here?”
“Here.” Terwilliger ground his fists on his hips.
“Oh,” said Joe Clarence. “It’s not bad. But don’t get ideas about money. A dozen guys came here yesterday to show stuff as good or better than yours, tests for our new film, Prehistoric Monster. Leave your bid in an envelope with my secretary. Same door out as you came in. Walter, what the hell you waiting for? Roll the next one!”
In darkness, Terwilliger barked his shins on a chair, groped for and found the door handle, gripped it tight, tight.
Behind him the screen exploded: an avalanche fell in great flourings of stone, whole cities of granite, immense edifices of marble piled, broke and flooded down. In this thunder, he heard voices from the week ahead:
“We’ll pay you one thousand dollars, Terwilliger.”
“But I need a thousand for my equipment alone!”
“Look, we’re giving you a break. Take it or leave it!”
With the thunder dying, he knew he would take, and he knew he would hate it.
Only when the avalanche had drained off to silence behind him and his own blood had raced to the inevitable decision and stalled in his heart, did Terwilliger pull the immensely weighted door wide to step forth into the terrible raw light of day.
Fuse flexible spine to sinuous neck, pivot neck to death’s-head skull, hinge jaw from hollow cheek, glue plastic sponge over lubricated skeleton, slip snake-pebbled skin over sponge, meld seams with fire, then rear upright triumphant in a world where insanity wakes but to look on madness—Tyrannosaurus Rexl
The Creator’s hands glided down out of arc-light sun. They placed the granuled monster in false green summer wilds, they waded it in broths of teeming bacterial life. Planted in serene terror, the lizard machine basked. From the blind heavens the Creator’s voice hummed, vibrating the Garden with the old and monotonous tune about the footbone connected to the … anklebone, anklebone connected to the … legbone, legbone connected to the … kneebone, kneebone connected to the …
A door burst wide.
Joe Clarence ran in very much like an entire Cub Scout pack. He looked wildly around as if no one were there.
“My God!” he cried. “Aren’t you set up yet? This costs me money!”
“No,” said Terwilliger dryly. “No matter how much time I take, I get paid the same.”
Joe Clarence approached in a series of quick starts and stops. “Well, shake a leg. And make it real horrible.”
Terwilliger was on his knees beside the miniature jungle set. His eyes were on a straight level with his producer’s as he said, “How many feet of blood and gore would you like?”
“Two thousand feet of each!” Clarence laughed in a kind of gasping stutter. “Let’s look.” He grabbed the lizard.
“Careful!”
“Careful?” Clarence turned the ugly beast in careless and non-loving hands. “It’s my monster, ain’t it? The contract—”
“The contract says you use this model for exploitation advertising, but the animal reverts to me after the film’s in release.”
“Holy cow.” Clarence waved the monster. “That’s wrong. We just signed the contracts four days ago—”
“It feels like four years.” Terwilliger rubbed his eyes. “I’ve been up two nights without sleep finishing this beast so we can start shooting.”
Clarence brushed this aside. “To hell with the contract. What a slimy trick. It’s my monster. You and your agent give me heart attacks. Heart attacks about money, heart attacks about equipment, heart attacks about—”
“This camera you gave me is ancient.”
“So if it breaks, fix it; you got hands? The challenge of the shoestring operation is using the old brain instead of cash. Getting back to the point, this monster, it should’ve been specified in the deal, is my baby.”
“I never let anyone own the things I make,” said Terwilliger honestly. “I put too much time and affection in them.”
“Hell, okay, so we give you fifty bucks extra for the beast, and throw in all this camera equipment free when the film’s done, right? Then you start your own company. Compete with me, get even with me, right, using my own machines!” Clarence laughed.
“If they don’t fall apart first,” observed Terwilliger.
“Another thing.” Clarence put the creature on the floor and walked around it. “I don’t like the way this monster shapes up.”
“You don’t like what?” Terwilliger almost yelled.
“His expression. Needs more fire, more … goombah. More mazash!”
“Mazash?”
“The old bimbo! Bug the eyes more. Flex the nostrils. Shine the teeth. Fork the tongue sharper. You can do it! Uh, the monster ain’t mine, huh?”
“Mine.” Terwilliger arose.
His belt buckle was now on a line with Joe Clarence’s eyes. The producer stared at the bright buckle almost hypnotically for a moment.
“God damn the goddam lawyers!”
He broke for the door.
“Work!”
The monster hit the door a split second after it slammed shut.
Terwilliger kept his hand poised in the air from his overhand throw. Then his shoulders sagged. He went to pick up his beauty. He twisted off its head, skinned the latex flesh off the skull, placed the skull on a pedestal and, painstakingly, with clay, began to reshape the prehistoric face.
“A little goombah,” he muttered. “A touch of mazash.”
They ran the first film test on the animated monster a week later.
When it was over, Clarence sat in darkness and nodded imperceptibly.
“Better. But … more horrorific, bloodcurdling. Let’s scare the hell out of Aunt Jane. Back to the drawing board!”
“I’m a week behind schedule now,” Terwilliger protested. “You keep coming in, change this, change that, you say, so I change it, one day the tail’s all wrong, next day it’s the claws—”
“You’ll find a way to make me happy,” said Clarence. “Get in there and fight the old aesthetic fight!”
At the end of the month they ran the second test.
“A near miss! Close!” said Clarence. “The face is just almost right. Try