boucher book oct28.pdf - Index of

232 Anthony Boucher
“Yes, sir,” said Gan Garrett. There seemed to be little else to say.
Sacheverell Breakstone needed no prompting. “Yes, my boy,” he went on, “truth
is what we want from you. Truth and accuracy, but especially truth. Don’t spend too
much worrying on niggling little details. Supposing—mind you, I’m just thinking
aloud—but supposing we put a woman in the picture. Now you and I know that
there wasn’t any woman in Devarupa’s life. That’s accuracy. But he loved all humanity,
didn’t he? And aren’t women more than half of humanity? So if we show him say
loving a woman—you understand this is just groping with words—isn’t that truth
in the deeper sense? You understand?”
“Yes, sir. I am here to give the cachet of academic authority to all the non-academic
changes you wish to ring on the story of Devarupa.”
Breakstone hesitated, then burst out into a heavy laugh. “Good man. You do
understand me. No pretense about you. We’ll get on, we will. You can understand
the creative mind. Because that’s what I am, mind you. All this”—his broad gesture
included every bit of Metropolis—“is my creation. And the creative mind creates
its own truth which is higher than facts. All my life I’ve wanted to do a life of
Devarupa—with all due reverence, you understand, but still showing he was a real
man. A man of and for men. And I’m the man to do. They don’t call me the Little
Hitler of Sollywood for nothing.”
Garrett smiled to himself. No one with any knowledge of twentieth-century
history could well consider a “Hitler” the ideal interpreter of that saint among men,
the great Devarupa. But the evil that conquerors do may often be interred with their
bones; he remembered from literary study how Caesar and Napoleon had become just
such metaphorical figures of power, with no allusion to their manifold infamies.
“Well,” Breakstone announced, “it’s been wonderful having this talk with you,
Garner.”
“Garrett.”
“I said Garrett. It’s been a pleasure to hear your ideas on Devarupa, and that’s a
real suggestion of yours about the woman. You’re no hidebound academician, I can
see that. Now if you’ll take the left-hand walk for about two hundred meters, you’ll
find Uranov’s office. He’s working on the script today—his third day, in fact. He’s
lasting well. You talk it over with him. And enjoy yourself in Sollywood.”
Garrett let the swizard jangle as he shook hands with his boss. Breakstone glanced
at it. “Hm-m-m. Nice thing. Dinosaur of some kind, eh? Odd material; what’s it
made of?”
“Lovestonite.”
“Lovestonite? Well, well. What next? The motto of Metropolis, by the way;
remember that. What next? You understand? Always something new. Come see me
any time you’re in trouble, but you won’t need to. We understand each other. Good
luck.” Even as Garrett left, the Little Hitler of Sollywood had pulled several switches
and begun dictating a letter to the Department of Allocation, giving instructions to
a set designer, and receiving from his Calcutta exhibitor.
The few people that Garrett passed on his way down the writers’ corridor looked fretful
and hagridden—almost like men from the Twentieth Century. The responsibility
of turning out the major entertainment device of the world weighed heavily upon