And Not Make Dreams Your Master
Chapter 3

The Dreamcap was a burning itch around his skull as the dull whiteness of his cubicle materialized back into existence. Wayne had to fight the impulse to rip it off; instead, he lifted it gently off his head and placed it on the couch beside him as he sat up following his isometrics. Sometimes I wonder how I can stand that thing, he thought, knowing at the same time he'd hate living without it. As a Dreamer, he was as addicted to that Dreamcap--emotionally, if not physically--as any junkie was to his heroin. There was a special feeling that all Dreamers knew. Dreaming was a part of them; that's why they became Dreamers in the first place.

His stomach was rumbling, too, telling him how hungry he was. He'd eaten before starting his Dream, but not heavily; it distracted him from his performance if his belly was too full. And Dreaming itself took a lot out of him; even though the station amplified his signals so they could reach the thousands of viewers tuned in, he still had to project a large part of himself into his role. Any good actor knew the sensation of throwing himself so totally into his work that he came out of the experience as drained as though he'd spent a hard day at manual labor. Wayne was usually famished by the time he finished a Dream, and he never ceased to wonder how someone like Vince Rondel could make it seem so effortless.

Ernie White knocked on the door frame of the cubicle and called in, "It's a wrap, Wayne." The Dream was officially over, with no technical problems to worry about. If this were one of the networks, they'd be all set to start another Dream after the required fourteen-minute intermission, simply moving in a fresh Dreamer to start a new story. But Dramatic Dreams was just a small local L.A. station; they didn't have the manpower to run continuously all night. Sometimes they were lucky to stretch their resources just to do something every night. They could have used Wayne and Janet back-to-back instead of together in the same Dream, but that would have cut down on the audience in each case because of the gender identification factor. Bill DeLong, the program coordinator, had gambled on bolstering the ratings by using the two Dreamers together. It was a gamble he'd apparently lost.

The viewers at home did not have to wake up and readjust the settings on their Dreamcaps in order to change stations during the night. Each station published synopses and running times of its Dreams for the evening, both in the daily paper and on the Web; the viewer could plan the selection he wanted and program the schedule into his home set, which would then change stations automatically without waking the viewer up. Right now, twenty-two thousand Dreamcaps in L.A. were doing just that. Some of them would be turning off completely, though most would probably switch to a broadcast from another station.

As Wayne edged himself out of his cubicle, he found himself facing a short, balding man with worry creases permanently engraved on his high forehead. "Did everything go all right?" asked Mort Schulberg, the station manager. "Ernie said there was a little blooper in the next-to-last act."

"'Little' is the word for it," Wayne said irritably. He looked over at White, but the engineer was pretending to fiddle with his control board and didn't notice. "You don't have to get so upset."

"Sure, sure, that's easy for you to say." Schulberg paced around the office like a wind-up toy. "To you it's just a job. You don't have the FCC breathing down your neck. Their guy Forsch will be here day after tomorrow to check out the Spiegelman thing. When will you start to worry? After they've pulled our license?"

"There was only that one tiny mistake," Wayne repeated. It seemed that once again he was being compared, however implicitly, to the perfection of Vince Rondel. Rondel was a Masterdreamer. Rondel's timing was perfect. Rondel never made mistakes. Sure--Rondel was good, and Wayne was just a newcomer to the station, with a tainted background to boot. But that didn't give them the right to criticize every slight goof he made.

"I know I'm not Vince Rondel, but I do a damn good job of Dreaming," he went on, his voice getting louder as he continued. "Janet and I are getting our coordination down--and we'd do even better if we had our scripts a day or two ahead of time so we could go over them first."

"We are working well together, Mort," Janet said as she emerged from her own cubicle. She'd been listening to the discussion, and her cool tones interrupted Wayne in mid-rant. He realized she was trying to calm the situation down, and he was grateful to her for it. "That last act went like clockwork."

Schulberg had been prepared to answer Wayne with some yelling of his own, but he softened as he turned to face her. Janet knew how to play dainty and feminine, and could draw out Schulberg's fatherly instincts. "You're sure?"

"You want maybe I should have stopped everything and asked the audience?" Janet said, mimicking Schulberg's accent.

Wayne could see Ernie White laughing in the engineering booth, even though he had his back turned and was supposedly not hearing this conversation. Red-faced, but without rancor, Schulberg said, "Sure, go ahead, laugh at me, all of you. What am I, just the funny little man who signs your paychecks. I'd like to see how hard you laugh when the FCC shuts us down and you don't get any more paychecks. Then you'll see how hysterical unemployment is."

He left the room shaking his head, and walked down the hall to his office muttering just loudly enough for them to hear, "If I weren't around to run this place, they'd laugh themselves right out of a job...."

Wayne gave Janet a weak smile. "Thanks for defusing me back there. I was starting to get a little carried away."

"Happens to all of us," Janet shrugged. "Especially coming out of a Dream--we're all a bit sensitive then. But you really shouldn't let Mort get to you. He didn't mean anything personal, he's just a professional worrier."

"I know. I just feel like the new kid on the block."

"So stay out of Mort's way until this FCC thing is finished. That's really turning him inside out, and I don't blame him for worrying. He'll be better when it's all over."

Wayne nodded. The so-called Spiegelman affair, and the FCC investigation that followed, were still the central topics of conversation around the offices, even a month after the event. In a way, Wayne had to be grateful; it was because of Spiegelman that he was hired here in the first place. But perhaps because of that, too, his every gesture was watched with suspicion by everyone around him.

Eliott Spiegelman had been a Dreamer on the staff here; worse yet, he was Mort Schulberg's son-in-law. About a month ago, Spiegelman had done a Dream, one that was supposed to be a routine detective story set in the 1930s, a la Raymond Chandler. The script was innocuous enough, and had been passed both by Bill DeLong and by the legal department--but every Dreamer knew that no matter how tight the script was, the Dreamer himself had enormous leeway to extrapolate on it.

Apparently Spiegelman had done just that. Beginning the next day, calls and letters started coming in to the station accusing Spiegelman of using the Dream to espouse his own economic and political theories, which were evidently somewhat to the left of center. Spiegelman only added fuel to the controversy by stating to a reporter that socialist movements were very popular in the 30s, and that all he was doing was accurately reflecting the period of the story. That brought even more letters and phone calls.

There was no objective way to determine what had happened, because it was impossible to record a Dream for subsequent viewing. Every Dream was performed live, and vanished into memory when it was done. It came down to a question of Spiegelman's word against that of the complainants. At that point, the Federal Communications Commission, always sensitive to the issue of political manipulation by the media, stepped into the picture.

Spiegelman was immediately suspended pending a review of the case. For a while, it looked as though Schulberg, Bill DeLong, and the writer who wrote the script might be suspended, too; some of the angrier citizens were demanding that the whole studio's license be revoked. The FCC decided not to go that far, but they did appoint a man named Gerald Forsch, a long-time critic of the Dream industry, to investigate the incident.

The studio was really buzzing when Wayne had first been hired to fill in for Eliott Spiegelman. The industry in general, and Dramatic Dreams in particular, were concerned that this case could have serious repercussions. To allay their worst fears, Forsch's investigation had moved with deliberate slowness. Forsch himself was due here in two days to hear the studio's side of the matter. On the advice of his attorney, Spiegelman was not making any public statements. The consensus of opinion within the Dream broadcast industry was that Spiegelman would be thrown to the wolves as a sacrificial victim. All the blame would be placed on his shoulders; he'd be barred forever from Dreaming, and Dramatic Dreams would get off with no worse than a stern reprimand. But poor Mort Schulberg couldn't win either way; even if he saved his company, he'd have to settle for seeing his son-in-law disgraced and kicked out of his profession forever. Yes, it was little wonder Schulberg was upset about the Spiegelman affair.

But the person Wayne really felt sorry for was Eliott Spiegelman. Dreamers turned to their profession because of inner visions they had to convey. In earlier days they might have been priests, or writers, or artists, or actors, or malcontents--those who saw things differently and tried to imbue others with their insights. Dreaming at long last was a way to accomplish that communication perfectly. Once having tasted that perfection, how could any Dreamer settle for less? Spiegelman's life was not over by any means; there were other ways he could express his feelings and emotions. But none of them would have the power and the glory that Dreaming carried with it. A Dreamer who was no longer able to Dream was less than whole, and the rest of his life would ring hollow.

Wayne shivered, and the involuntary action brought his thoughts back to the present. Janet had started out of the room, probably to go to her own office. "Hey," Wayne called after her. "I don't know about you, but I'm famished. Why don't we go downstairs and see if they've got anything left in the machines?"

Janet paused and turned to look back at him. She gave him the strangest look, as though she were trying to read some secret meaning into his words. "Uh, thanks, Wayne," she said at last, "but I'm not really all that hungry right now. Maybe some other time."

"That's what you always say." The words slipped out before he could stop them.

Janet sighed. "I know. I'm sorry. I appreciate the offer, really I do, but… but...."

She looked down at her feet, refusing to meet his gaze. "I really don't think I'm fit company for anyone these days. I've got a lot of things to sort out for myself, and it wouldn't be fair to inflict them on you."

Wayne stood there, uncertain how to reply. He wanted more than anything to say, "Please, I'd love you to cry on my shoulder, I'd love you to trust me with your problems"--but he didn't know her well enough to breach that gap of privacy. And if he tried to say that her problems wouldn't bother him, it would sound as though he didn't think they were serious enough to worry about, and she'd think he was callous.

While he stood frozen with indecision, Bill DeLong ambled into the room. The program coordinator was a tall, lanky man in his middle fifties. Any signs of age in his graying crewcut were countered by the twinkle of youth in his eyes. He dressed casually in sweater and slacks most of the time, but his easy-going friendliness could not conceal the sharp mind that lurked within him.

"Program coordinator" was a catch-all title that covered a multitude of sins. DeLong was the head writer, chief censor, program scheduler, and all-around consultant in the studio. While Schulberg handled the financial end of the business, DeLong masterminded the creative side. DeLong was not a Dreamer himself, but he was a friend to all the Dreamers on the staff. He also functioned, when the occasion arose, as father-confessor to anyone who needed a friendly ear. If Schulberg was the head of Dramatic Dreams, DeLong was its soul.

"Janet, glad I caught you," DeLong drawled. He had an accent with traces of Texas and Oklahoma. "I've got your next script ready for you." He handed her a clipped sheaf of papers.

Relieved at being taken off the hook, she returned quickly to her normal bantering self. "I don't believe it. A script on time for once? I know it's not a birthday present, because my birthday was three months ago. Whatever did I do to deserve this?"

"Damned if I know. Helen turned it in this afternoon and said it was just inspiration that made her turn it out so fast. It's even good. Someone should inspire that lady more often; she's a good writer when she sets her mind to it."

"Great. I'll get right on it. Thanks." Janet smiled at DeLong, then turned and left the room, ducking out of the awkwardness that had been hanging in the air between herself and Wayne.

"Jack promised he'd have yours ready by tomorrow afternoon," DeLong said, turning to Wayne. "It's a Western, as I recall."

"Not another one," Wayne groaned.

"Well, we can't do Hamlet every time out. At least Westerns are quick and apolitical."

"I know. It's just that I feel I'm marking time. I'd like a chance to stretch myself, show you what I can do instead of spending all my energy on hackwork."

"Take it from someone who knows," DeLong said gently. "In any creative profession, the best people are the ones who started out doing hackwork and then moved on. Shakespeare, Dumas, Dickens, Michelangelo and daVinci were all hacks. You need a solid foundation before you can build larger things on it. I've seen plenty of superstars flash in from nowhere and dazzle everyone for a while; they usually end up flashing out again just as fast. This way may be slow, but it's a surer bet."

"But in the meantime, it's damned frustrating," Wayne said.

"Yeah, I know. Say, didn't I hear you say something about getting some food as I was coming in? I'm not as pretty as Janet, but I could use a bite about now if you'd like the company."

Wayne grinned. "Sure, why not? Let's go."

The two men left the studio and went out into the hall. The building in which Dramatic Dreams was located was neither new nor particularly old. The luster had worn off the floor's brown and white linoleum tiles, but they weren't yet so bad that they needed replacing. The bare white walls were scuffed and scratched, but it was damage that one quickly got used to and then never noticed. The plastic light panels overhead were cracked in a few places, and the fluorescent bulb two-thirds of the way to the elevator had a slight flicker to it. These details hardly registered in Wayne's mind any more after being here nearly a month. This was simply a place to work, and better than some he'd been in.

The only thing that really affected him was the silence. Most of the companies with offices in this building kept normal hours, and their employees had all gone home by now. Dramatic Dreams, on the sixth floor, was the exception. Since there was no method to record Dreams for later broadcast, they had to be done live. People who made their living in the Dream industry--except the writers, who could make their own hours--found themselves chained to an inverted lifestyle. Any Dreamer who couldn't accommodate himself to night work and empty buildings found some other occupation in a hurry.

Still, Wayne hated the stifling silence. It was a curtain between himself and the rest of humanity. He provided Dreams to pass the sleeping hours of the multitudes in the city, yet he had less and less contact with them as time went by.

As the footsteps of the two men echoed down the corridor, DeLong said, "Would you mind a piece of unsolicited advice?"

"Huh? About what?"

"Janet. She's coming out of a really bad time right now. Don't push. You're both young, you've got plenty of time to let things develop." They reached the elevator and DeLong pushed the down button.

Wayne blushed. "I didn't realize I was that obvious."

The car came quickly, and they stepped inside. "Maybe not so's a blind man would notice," DeLong said, "but I've got to keep track of everything around here. I can't have one of my Dreamers--and one of the most promising, at that--mooning hopelessly after one of my other ones. It's bad for morale, and it takes your mind off your job. Not to mention the fact that if it blows up in your face, I'd end up losing one or the other of you, which is something I don't want. You're both too good."

"I don't think I'd call it 'mooning,"' Wayne objected.

"Well, call it what you like, the effect's the same. When my son was fifteen, trying to get his first date, he showed more savoir-faire than you do. You're not some teenage kid trying to score. What's the matter?"

Wayne shrugged. "I don't know. She's a better Dreamer than I am; maybe I'm afraid she'll think I'm beneath her notice. Or maybe I'm afraid she looks down on me because of what I did before I came here."

DeLong gave a mild snort. "Janet's a professional, son. She knows what you have to do to survive when you're starting out. I really don't think she'd hold that porno against you."

"There's sure something keeping her away."

"Yes," DeLong admitted, "but it's nothing to do with you."

The elevator deposited them on the ground floor, and they walked through the darkened hall to the food dispensers. The commissary consisted mainly of a bank of food machines in a large room, lit with only one row of lights at this hour. Plastic tables sprouted from the floor like ghostly mushrooms, their stools attached around them like fairy rings. The men's footsteps clacked even more hollowly here as they walked over to study the selections in the machines.

"What is the problem, then?" Wayne asked.

DeLong pretended for a moment not to have heard, and inspected the dispensers critically. "Damn! You'd think those people who fill the machines would realize by now they could get some real business overnight if they left any decent choices in there. All we get is stuff the day shifts won't eat--and it's stale at that!"

The program coordinator finally settled on a pathetic ham and cheese sandwich and a cup of black coffee, but Wayne was hungrier than that, even though the selection was far from appetizing. He ended up with a heated can of tomato soup, a wilted salad, a root beer and a dish of spongy pudding to go with his own ham and cheese sandwich. Balancing the load gingerly on a tray, he walked over to the table where DeLong had already sat down.

DeLong picked up his sandwich and stared at it a long time before venturing it near his mouth. "You know, don't you," he said casually, "that Janet had an affair with Vince Rondel?"

Wayne paused with his soup spoon halfway up to his mouth. "I'd, uh, heard a rumor."

DeLong shook his head. "This isn't a rumor. Not only was it common knowledge around the station, but I got the whole story spilled firsthand on my lap over a tearful dinner with Janet. The relationship lasted about a year and a half, and it broke up just before the Spiegelman thing. Maybe if I hadn't been so busy trying to patch Janet up I might have paid more attention to what Eliott was doing--although I don't think I could have stopped him--"

"Why are you telling me about this?" Wayne asked. "Aren't you sort of betraying her confidence?"

"Probably," DeLong agreed, unconcerned. "But I think you can be trusted not to use this against her, and I definitely think you need to know about it."

"Why?"

"Because it'll show you what can happen when two Dreamers at the same station let their emotions get out of hand. Janet was a mixed-up young lady when she came to work here a few years ago--why aren't there ever any sane Dreamers?--but she had a lot of potential. Vince worked with her and built her into a major talent; he was great for her professionally, but I'm not sure how much he did for her as a person.

"She finally came to me in tears a month ago, saying she couldn't take it any more and she had to get away from Vince. I'll admit to some pretty selfish motivations; she's a damn fine Dreamer and I didn't want to lose her. Then the Spiegelman thing came up, and we couldn't afford to lose her. So I coaxed her and wheedled her and persuaded her to stay around here, even though it means she still has to see and talk to Vince almost every day. That isn't easy for her; I think a large part of her still loves him."

"What broke up the affair, then?" Wayne asked.

DeLong finally took a bite of his sandwich, and leaned back in his seat to chew pensively. "Vince's mother," he said at last. "Mrs. Rondel is the cause of a great many unhappy things, not the least of which is Vince himself. But that's neither here nor there, and I probably shouldn't even have brought it up. This food really is disgusting, you know that? I rediscover that fact every time I come here. You'd think I'd have learned by now."

He put the sandwich back down on the paper plate and looked Wayne squarely in the eye. "But after helping hold Janet together after one unfortunate relationship, you can see why I don't want to do it again. If anything went wrong, one or both of you would leave--and as I said, you're both too good. I don't want to lose either of you. You should feel flattered."

"I do, but--"

"I'm not one of those bosses who doesn't want his employees socializing after hours. I'm not saying you can't see Janet, or get friendly with her, or even marry her and have seventeen kids. All I'm saying is: don't push. Let it happen. There are still a few shards she hasn't glued back in place. However well-intentioned you may be, if you topple her over she may never recover. You're both very attractive people, and you may very well end up together in the fullness of time--"

"There you go again," Wayne said. "First you tell me to be patient with my career, now I've got to be patient with Janet--"

"It does start to sound like a broken record, doesn't it?" DeLong smiled. "But it's all true. There are people who've been known to climb the highest Himalayas, at great personal risk and expense, to consult the great yogis and receive the exact same advice I've given you. You're getting the wisdom of the Ancients for free, son. Show a little gratitude."

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