Gladhand now nodded vaguely. "Oh yes. I've decided to have a few miracles and apparitions and such things take place when Duke Frederick gets converted by the holy man in the wilderness."
"But that's only referred to. How will—"
"I've written in a new scene so as to have it take place on stage. Plot's too rickety otherwise. Look, I'm pretty busy right now, but I want to talk to you later. Meet me… on the alley balcony right after the noon rehearsal, okay?"
"Okay."
Thomas wandered to the dining room and wheedled a late breakfast of coffee and sweet rolls from Alice. He sat down at one of the long tables and gulped the oily coffee. After she rinsed out the pots and wiped down the counters, Alice sat beside him with her own cup of coffee.
"You're a late sleeper these days," she remarked, searching her purse for a cigarette. "How are you and Pat getting along?"
"Horrible."
"Oh, you had a little fight? Well, don't worry, it—"
"We didn't have a fight," Thomas asserted. "We never have fights. We just have… bafflements. Each of us is certain the other has lost his or her mind." He shrugged.
"Well, maybe you two just aren't meant for each other."
"Yeah," Thomas admitted, trying not to gag as he sipped at the coffee. "Logically speaking, that's true. But when we do get along—and we do, sometimes— it's the greatest thing that's ever happened to me."
"Which is most common? Getting along or not getting along?"
"Oh, not. By a long shot."
Alice shook her head with mock pity. "Zee course of dee true luhv nebbah did run smoooth," she leered in some badly imitated accent, as she picked up the two empty cups and walked in a bizarre fashion into the kitchen.
Thomas stared after her, and then slowly rose to his feet and went below to hunt for his shoes.
Ten minutes later he was sitting in the greenroom, going over his lines with Skooney, who obligingly read all the other parts. After a while Pat came in and sat down, and Thomas regarded her warily out of the corner of his eye, trying to get a clue to her current mood.
"You're not paying 100 percent attention to this," Skooney said.
"Oh, I think I've got it down pretty well already. Thanks, Skooney."
"Any time," the girl said, rising to leave.
"Morning, Pat," he said when Skooney was gone.
"Hi, Rufus," she answered with a friendly smile. Aha! he thought, she's in good spirits. And in the morning! Absolutely unprecedented. The feeling that had spawned his sonnet began to evaporate.
"Hey, noon rehearsal in five minutes," Lambert called, walking through the hall.
Thomas inwardly cursed the interruption; but then reflected, after Pat had blown him a kiss and darted out of the room, that the rehearsal call had probably saved him from unwittingly puncturing her good mood. Anything, it seemed, could cast her into heavy depressions or smoldering anger—a kiss at the wrong time, the lack of a kiss at the right time, a careless sentence, a carefully considered opinion—and her good cheer was always slow to return.
It's too bad she's the first girl I ever really knew, Thomas thought. I have no way of knowing whether all girls are this way or if she's unique. Does every guy heave an instinctive sigh of relief when he's kissed his girl goodnight, and the door is shut, and he can go relax by himself?
The noon rehearsal passed quickly. Gladhand wasn't watching as closely as he usually did; his corrections were infrequent and brief, and he had the actors skip over two scenes he didn't feel needed any work. The theater manager seemed preoccupied. Staring into space he periodically ran his fingers through his thick, black beard.
By 13:30 h. everyone had wandered offstage, deciding whether to eat in the theater or at a restaurant somewhere, and Skooney switched off her treasured lights.
Ben Corwin was sprawled on the balcony when Thomas got there. The old man's mustache, beard and shirt were dusted with brown powder, and he was wheezing and sniffling so hard that he could only blink his wet eyes and wave at Thomas by way of greeting.
"That stuff is going to kill you," Thomas remarked. "Why don't you drink, instead?"
Corwin managed to choke, "Good enough for androids… good enough for me."
Thomas sat down, wishing he had a really cold beer. This blasted desert wind is getting tiresome, he thought. He'd never lose his cold while it kept up.
The plywood door dragged open after a minute or so, and Spencer stepped out onto the balcony.
"Howdy, Rufus," he said cheerily. "Clear out of here, Ben! Important conference coming up out here. You've got to move on." The old man muttered an obscene suggestion. "Will you leave for a five-soli bill?" Spencer asked, pulling one out of his pocket and holding it just out of reach of Ben's waving, clutching hands.
Finally the old man struggled to his feet. "Give it here," he said clearly.
"It's yours," replied Spencer, allowing it to be snatched from his fingers. "Go buy yourself a bottle of your favorite white port." Muttering incoherently, Corwin tottered down the stairs.
"A conference?" Thomas inquired as Spencer sat down.
"Yeah, sort of. I'll let Gladhand explain."
The door grated open again and Gladhand wobbled out on crutches, closely followed by Negri. "Two more chairs, Bob," the theater manager said. Negri ran to fetch them, and in a moment the four of them were seated facing each other.
"It's high time you learned something, Rufus," Gladhand began.
"Before it's too late, sir," Negri said, "reconsider. It's crazy to trust—"
"We've been through this, Bob," Gladhand interrupted, a little impatiently. "Be quiet. Robert, you see," he went on calmly, "doesn't want me to tell you. He doesn't trust you, Rufus."
"I have no idea what's going on here," Thomas said, truthfully.
"Let me explain," Gladhand began. "We are a theater company, are we not? But, lad, that's not all we are. The Bellamy Theater is a front—no, that's not quite right—is the secret, uh, center of the only organized resistance force in L.A. My employees are guerrilla soldiers as well as actors."
Thomas blinked and then nodded slowly, trying to assimilate the idea. "That explains one or two odd remarks and looks," he said. "Ah! And those 'special effects' are really weapons?"
"Some of them," Gladhand nodded. "Some really are special effects devices. Don't get the idea that the play is simply a mask, a cover. Our guerrilla efforts are no more important than our dramatic ones." He lit a cigar. "Would you leave us, Robert?"
Negri raised his eyebrows incredulously.
"Leave us," Gladhand insisted, and Negri stalked inside, pausing to give Thomas a look of pure hatred. "You showed good… aptitude," Gladhand continued, "in that foolish raid on the android barracks last week. I'd have taken you into our confidence right then, if it weren't for the fact that the police were devoting so much time and effort to catching you. I was afraid you'd be seized at any moment; so for security reasons I kept you in ignorance of the… other half of our activities."
"And what changed your mind, sir?" Thomas asked.
"Things are coming to a head quickly. A crisis nears. Majordomo Lloyd committed suicide this morning; Alvarez has certainly reached the Santa Margarita River by now; and every two-bit politico south of Glendale is trying to take the reins of the city. I need every good man I can get, and it would be the exaggerated caution of a madman for me to keep you in the dark any longer. By the way, do you gentlemen recall those half-matured androids you saw under glass in the android brewery last week?" Thomas and Spencer nodded. "Well Jeff told me at the time that the faces looked familiar. Today it struck him whose it was. He swears it was the face of Joe Pelias."