I’m commencing to love your troubled wife at home angle.”
“Sure, it’s another good women’s angle,” said Shifty Gonzer, smiling. “That never hurts our box office.”
“We put that together with the crippled daughter and we’ll—”
“Wait now,” said the blond young man. “There weren’t any handicapped people in the King family. My great-grandfather’s only daughter was, in point of fact, a famous tapdancer on the planet Barafunda in her day. She was graceful as a—”
“She’s only lame actually,” said the handsome Gonzer. “Then when Captain King recites this little prayer given to him by the Tin Mahatma we cut to her at home and she throws away her—”
“Sir,” said Professor Bleistift, clearing his throat, “a certain amount of license is certainly tolerable. However, I must remind you that Captain King and the Tin Mahatma were sworn enemies. Also, please recall, the religion the Tin Mahatma preached was not a gentle or forgiving one. A typical prayer among his followers ran …hum …‘Oh, Evil and Bloody Goddess of Death and Terror, send Swift and Painful Death to All who oppose our Sacred Cause! Aiiieeee! Kill! Kill!’ Hardly the thing to cure a lame tapdancer.”
“Granny Alice wasn’t crippled, she wasn’t even lame,” protested the King great-grandson.
“You people don’t, yet, understand the women’s angle,” Hock told them, scratching his copper nose with an aluminum finger.
Gonzer was scowling in his chair at the table’s head. “If we stun his schmuck during a story conference, does that futz up any of our agreements with the King family?”
Hock glanced around the big table. “We could put Bunker King, Jr. to sleep, Shifty. Legally, that is,” he said. “With these press people here sitting in, though, we better go easy. Don’t you think so, Jack?”
Summer said, “Right, Gunner. We wouldn’t be favorably impressed.”
“It’s bad enough you put poor Mr. Grzyb into a stupor,” said Vicky, angry. “I happen to have read several of the novels he wrote before he sold out to your people and he’s a brilliant writer. His I Have No Perch, Yet I Must Sing is the best bird novel written on our—”
“Bird novels?” Gonzer bounced once in his chair and gazed at her. “We’re trying to save a 90,000,000 trubux production and this skwack is giving me bird fiction.”
“Nugent,” said Hock, leaning in the producer’s direction.
“Hum?”
“She’s Victoria Nugent. Youngest daughter of Eli ‘NewzNet’ Nugent.”
After three seconds Gonzer turned his scowl to a smile. “Excuse my illiterate remarks, Miss Nugent.”
“If you ask me,” said Vicky, avoiding Summer’s mild nudge in the direction of her ribs, “poor unconscious Mr. Grzyb’s great novel Dangerous Birdcages would make a heck of better vidmovie than this dippy yarn about Galaxy—”
“I don’t agree there, miss,” said Bunker King, Jr. “My great-grandfather’s life is one of inspiring and admirable incident, his story should inspire young and old alike all across this universe of ours.”
“Plus it’s got a great women’s angle,” added Summer.
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