"Nay, mistress; of the Terran tongues, only a little Portuguese."
She turned back to Reith. "At least, we can discuss things in front of him. I don't want to write Vizman without the most careful thought—certainly not with this fellow fidgeting to begone ..." She turned back to the messenger. "Tell your master—"
"One moment, my lady," said the courier. From his belt pouch he brought out a notebook, made of a set of cardboard-thin wooden sheets, strung together and waxed. "Pray, speak slowly so that I can prick it down."
"Tell your master that, grateful as I am for his invitation, I am under a contract that will occupy all my time for another moon or two. Ask him to communicate with me again anon." The messenger scratched on his pad with his stylus.
"Alicia!" said Reith. "After the movie's shot, you wouldn't really go putting yourself into that character's power, would you?"
With chin up, she defiantly met his eyes. "I don't know. By then I may be on my way back to Terra, or I may be looking for a job here. If nothing better turns up, I'm sure Vizman would have work for me. I just might ..."
"But—but—" sputtered Reith.
The messenger bowed again. "I thank you, noble madam. God den, good my sir." He put away his pad, mounted, and trotted off. At the gate he broke into a canter.
Reith chewed his lip. She's putting me on notice, he thought. If I don't get off dead center soon, she'll start looking at other prospects. With forced composure he said: "How about our picnic and swim?" This time, he resolved, they would settle matters once and for all.
"Fine! We'll—"
Suddenly an earthshaking rumble quivered the ground beneath their feet. Reith looked up, startled. Alicia said: "Don't tell me a thunderstorm is coming up on a nice, fair day like this!"
"Thunder, hell! That's the São Paolo, coming in ahead of schedule! And we have to meet her. Hey, Simkash! Fetch the gig, byant-hao!"
They found White and Ordway among a crowd of Krishnanders milling about the waiting room of the Customs and Security Building. The São Paolo had already discharged its passengers, but none had yet come through the door from baggage inspection. A grinning Ordway said: "That fellow Kush—Kash—you know, the head copper—said he'd give 'em an exceptionally thorough screening, because everyone knows that Californians are crazy, and movie folk are a lot of drug smugglers and other delinquents."
The door opened, and the passengers began to file through. Most were from Cosmic Productions, and Ordway hailed them: "Hey there, Attila! Here we are, Kostis! Hi, Cassie!"
Ordway gathered his twenty-nine colleagues and began introductions in strict order of rank. Reith tried to fix each name and face in his mind. First Ordway introduced Kostis Stavrakos, the producer, a short, plump individual, well along in years.
Next came Attila Fodor, the script writer and director. This proved to be a huge man, half a head taller than the lanky Reith, and of rangy build. His craggy face bore a luxuriant mustache, whose ends hung down to his chin on either side of his mouth. In an age when a man could promote the growth of hair anywhere on himself that he wished, Fodor was bald. He had a bone-crushing handshake and a strong Magyar accent.
Cassie Norris, the leading lady, was a full-lipped, bosomy platinum blonde, wearing a scarlet, high-style jacket and skirt better suited to the boulevards of Paris than to the austerely functional Customs and Security Building.
Randal Fairweather, the leading man, was tall and impossibly handsome, with a built-in seductive manner. His first words to Alicia were: "My dear, how I've been looking forward to seeing you again! How simply smashing you look, in that great-outdoors getup!"
He bent to kiss her. She did not exactly dodge, but turned her cheek towards him. Cassie Norris, Reith noticed, viewed the interplay without pleasure. Reith, too, felt a surge of jealousy.
The head grip or property man, Ernesto Valdez, was small, dark, and intense. Bennett Ames, his assistant, was introduced as Cassie's husband. He was a big man with a bewildered look on his blunt features.
Hari Motilal, assistant script writer and assistant director, proved small-boned and chocolate brown; he wore what seemed to be a permanent sneer on his aquiline Hindi visage. He looked Reith over with an uncordial stare and remarked: "So you, Mr. Reith, are the old Krishnan hand Doctor Dyckman has been telling us about! To judge from her remarks, you must be some sort of superman."
"You'll have to judge that for yourself," said Reith. Thereafter, names and faces began to blur. All seemed to talk at once, paying no heed to the remarks of anyone else.
"Excuse me, please!" said Reith. He rounded up Krishnan porters with hand trucks and directed the loading of the new arrivals' baggage.
Stavrakos said: "Mr. Reith, that security officer says he wants to keep our equipment here until tomorrow, to make sure it complies with the regulations. Can't you speed things up?"
"No," said Reith. "In such matters, what Castanhoso says, goes."
"Would a little ..." The producer held out a hand, rubbing the thumb back and forth against the fingertips, "... help any?"
"Worst thing you could do. You may not believe it, but Herculeu is incorruptible."
"Hell of a place," muttered Stavrakos, turning away. "Can't even use an honest bribe."
Reith held up an arm and raised his voice. "Will everybody from Cosmic Productions please follow me?"
The next hour was spent in leading the movie crew to the Visitors' Building, assigning them rooms, sorting out hand luggage, and explaining the schedules of the cafeteria and the Nova Iorque bar and lounge.
When Reith's charges were disposed of, Alicia confronted him in the hallway. "Fergus," she said, "I hate to ask this of you; but will you go back to the ranch and fetch my things?"
"Why not come back yourself and change?"
"Oh, darling, how I wish I could! But starting right now, Kostis and the rest have me tied up in conferences practically every minute until we leave for location. They'll want you in on some of them, too."
"How shall I know—"
"I'll put a note in your mail box. That's a dear!"
She moved towards him, and Reith thought he was about to be kissed. But then she glanced down the hall, where several of the Cosmic crew were standing about chattering, and evidently thought better of the idea.
"Well," he said, "I wouldn't do this for any other woman. Até logo!"
A couple of hours later, Reith returned to Novorecife. A bag containing Alicia's possessions lay beside him on the seat of the gig. She was not in her room; but a note in his mailbox asked him please to attend a conference in Stavrakos's suite, beginning at the twelfth hour.
The next few days became a blur in his memory. Conference followed conference. Alicia was in the thick of it all, so that he had no chance to speak to her alone. He was called in on many conferences, mainly as a backup for Alicia when questions arose about Krishnan politics, topography, climate, and other matters where his knowledge surpassed hers.
By the time the meeting adjourned each night, Reith was glad to drive home, throw his clothes on the bedroom floor, and tumble into bed.
To entertain the Cosmic employees not included in the working sessions, Reith arranged for Timásh to take them on boat trips up the river to Rimbid and down to Qou. He hoped that, if they ever stopped chattering and admiring themselves long enough, they would learn something of the Krishnan countryside and its inhabitants.
During the first few conferences, Reith tried to lead the discussion around to things that he thought were wrong with the script and to suggest improvements. But Stavrakos, Fodor, and Motilal brushed all his objections aside.