To Gibson’s left, beyond the podium, a small orchestra was arrayed, seven pieces plus a grand piano; their leader, a bespectacled, rather odd-looking man, sat at the piano, frowning as he made notes on his score, paying no heed to the musicians filing in and taking their seats and going through little practice scales and other warm-ups.
Across the room, beyond and behind the carpeted MICROPHONE AREA, lurked a sound-effects station, including a table with two turntables for Victrola records, a wooden door on a heavy frame (for opening or closing as a script demanded), a bench with an odd assortment of items (saw and hammer, milk-bottle rack, coconut shells, etc.), a flat box of sand on the floor, and a rack of electronic gizmos. A statuesque middle-aged woman, who in her floral-print frock might have been a housewife, sorted through the inventory of this area, assembling things in order-cellophane for the crackle of fire, a bundle of straw for noises in underbrush, a large potato with a knife stuck in it-her pleasant face mildly contorted with intensity.
Though this was a fairly massive studio, it lacked audience seating. Gibson knew elsewhere in this building, the ground floor most likely, would be at least one theater-style studio, for programs like tonight’s Major Bowes Amateur Hour. Game shows and comedies benefitted from spectators: those presenting the dramatic fare The Mercury Theatre on the Air specialized in might find that a distraction.
A door adjacent to the one he’d come in opened suddenly, and Gibson-mildly startled-whirled to see a small, dark man with salt-and-pepper hair lean out, his striped tie hanging like the flag on a football play. Indeed, the entire manner of this fellow was that of a referee, calling foul at this stranger’s interference.
“Can I help you?” Though diminutive, the man had an intimidating bearing-including an actor’s strong baritone, and eyes that bored into you.
“I’m Walter Gibson-I had an appointment with Mr. Welles.”
The man-like so many here, in suspenders and rolled-up shirtsleeves-stepped onto the landing and his features softened but his eyes remained skeptical, a maitre d’ not convinced you should be seated.
“Mr. Gibson, I don’t doubt what you say…. Orson is fairly cavalier about not keeping me informed about guests he’s invited…but we’re about to rehearse and record Sunday’s show.”
“I take it Orson isn’t here.”
The man twitched a smile. “No. He always says he’s going to participate in these recorded rehearsals, and we always wait half an hour past the time he sets, before starting without him.”
“How often does he actually show up?”
“So far, never.” Gibson’s reluctant host frowned, the cacophony of musicians, actors and sound effects making it hard to converse. “Step in here, would you?…I’m Paul Stewart, by the way.”
The two men shook hands as they pushed through a portholed door. They entered a cubicle adjacent to the control booth, where a desk faced a window out onto the studio; this, Gibson knew, was where the network rep would likely sit.
With no rep present, however, this cubicle made a good place to talk.
Through a doorless doorway was the actual control booth, with its bank of slanted panels with switches and dials against a generous horizontal window onto the studio. An engineer in earphones was already seated there, ready to “mix” the show, i.e., bring voices and sound effects up or down. A chair next to the engineer, with a microphone and headset waiting, would be the director’s post, Gibson knew.
But what, then, was that podium out there for? And where was their famous “child” director? As if reading his guest’s mind, Stewart spoke.
“Mr. Gibson, I’m the program director, and my hands are going to be very full. Maybe you’d like to sit here and watch-there’s always an off chance Orson might stop by.”
“I wouldn’t mind at that. I’m a writer, by the way-you may know me better as Maxwell Grant.”
Stewart’s eyes narrowed. He sighed, shook his head, his expression softening with chagrin. “My apologies-Orson did mention you-the Shadow author. He’s planning a project with you, I’m told.”
“That’s right.”
Friendly now, Stewart put a hand on his guest’s shoulder. “You’ve made me a few pennies, Mr. Grant.”
“Gibson. How so?”
“I’ve played half a dozen villains on your Shadow show.”
“Ah.”
Stewart raised an eyebrow. “If this mug of mine ever gets in front of a camera, maybe I better get used to that. Gable doesn’t have anything to worry about.”
The ice broken, Gibson said, “Uh, I can either sit and be an eavesdropper for a few minutes…this is my first time at a major network setup like this…or I can head over to the St. Regis. Whatever’s you pleasure, Mr. Stewart.”
“Call me Paul, and I really would love to have you join us. Might even trouble you for an opinion or two-we’re having some real problems with this one.”
“This week’s program, you mean? Why, what piece are you doing?”
Gibson knew the Mercury usually adapted a famous literary work.
Stewart was lighting up a cigarette. “One by that other Wells…H.G. War of the Worlds.” He waved his match out, made a face. “I’m sure it seemed fresh and frightening at the turn of the century, but we’re having no little tough time making it something a modern audience can appreciate.”
“It’s a great story, Paul…and you people always do a fine job. I’m sure it’ll be a real crowd pleaser.”
“Let’s hope.” Stewart snapped his fingers. “You know, there’s a couple people who’ll want to meet you! We’re a good fifteen minutes away from starting this thing…. Mind if I send ’em up?”
“Not at all.”
Stewart disappeared out the door, and Gibson sat at the network rep’s desk and looked out the window where his host was approaching one of those actors milling around. The director pointed to Gibson’s window and did some explaining, and the actor-a mustached fellow with slicked-back black hair, who looked like he might specialize in slightly gone-to-seed gigolos-was nodding and smiling.
Then the actor-one of the few not in shirtsleeves, tie not even loosened-came Gibson’s way, heading up the small flight of steps, and within seconds the author was on his feet shaking hands with the man.
“At last we meet!” the actor said, in a silky baritone.
Gibson smiled a little. “I’m afraid you have the advantage on me, sir….”
“I’m the Shadow!..The first Shadow, that is.”
After a single laugh, the author said, “Frank Readick! The man who put me on the map. That voice and delivery of yours got me the Shadow assignment in the first place.”
Readick chuckled. “Small world, huh? Two Shadows on the same show? And me, the original, working for my replacement, yet!..Ah, but I was just a glorified announcer, until you made a character of the guy, and then of course Orson brought him to life.”
“But they’re still using your laugh and your opening: ‘Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men!’ ”
“Well, the Shadow may know,” Readick said, head tilted, “but don’t bring that up with Orson. It’s a sore point.”
The two men sat, Gibson at the desk.
“What’s your role in ‘War of the Worlds,’ Frank?”
“Mostly I’m a reporter on the scene of the alien landing. I have a couple roles, actually, which is typical for voice actors on an ensemble show like this. But it’s a good part, the Carl Phillips reporter one, I mean. I’m the one describing the monsters, plus I get to be burned alive on the air!”
“What fun,” Gibson said, appreciatively. “Not just your ordinary death scene. But Mr. Stewart doesn’t seem as enthusiastic about the piece.”