The vidiot · OmniClassics

The Vidiot by Ib Melchior _To the best of our knowledge the Metropolitan Opera stage has never before cast its mantle of magic over the science fiction landscape. But with the coming of Ib Melchior to our pages with his first fantasy story its legendary spell has been widened. For Mr. Melchior is the son of a singer so famous that to mention his name would be redundant. Quite as important, Ib Melchior is a motion picture producer as well as a writer, with several TV shows behind him, including the Perry Como Show on CBS. Much of his background and experience as a producer-director is mirrored forth in this most exciting yarn._ =There are a good many startling surprises in TV camera work. But if the universe reels--will an eager lad get a second chance?= “Don Hartley!” The little blonde secretary’s eyes opened wide with curiosity as she repeated his name. _She knows, then_, thought Don. “Just--just a minute,” she said. She picked up the phone and pressed the inter-office button. “Mr. Don Hartley to see you, sir,” she announced. Then after a pause, “Yes, sir.” She replaced the receiver, and turned back to Don. “Won’t you please have a seat, Mr. Hartley. He’ll see you in a moment.” Don sat uncomfortably on the edge of one of the heavy, leather-upholstered chairs. He looked around the beautifully appointed ante-office. The little secretary was trying in vain to be inconspicuous in her curiosity about him. He shifted self-consciously on the chair. Was he in the right place? Had he really made the right decision? It was a damned difficult thing to figure out! For the umpteenth time he let his mind wander back twenty-four hours--a measly twenty-four hours--when.... * * * * * George Kenmore flipped the talk-back key: “Okay, everybody--wrap it up. That’s it for now. Be back here ready to go from the top in exactly one hour and a half.” He turned to the technical director, a large, comfortable man who sat worrying a dead cigar on his left. “And, Steve,” he warned, “don’t kill the cameras. Just cap them up so we don’t burn in. You and the boys be back here in one hour. I’ve got a little problem I want to fool around with. That duplicator effect on Ganymede.” He leaned across the control desk toward the row of monitors in front of him on the lower level of the video control room, addressing himself to the top of a crew cut. “And, Don,” he added, “be sure we have horizontal reverse scanning on Camera One. And I want to use the whipe--and also I want you to switch the matting amplifier into the circuit.” The video technician looked up over his shoulder. “Okay, George. You know me. A director’s wish is my command! But they sure handed you a tough one this time.” “What do you expect? After all we’re doing a space opera--on _live_ TV. There are bound to be technical difficulties. As long as they don’t ask me for a close-up with the feet in we’ll lick any problem they can dream up. Right?” “Right!” echoed Don brightly. “Anything the movie boys can do with process shooting and laboratory tricks we can do right here in the studio--and better. I’m with _you_!” George picked up his earphones from the desk and spoke into the tiny mike. “Bill! Bill Sanders! Are you still on cans?” Out on the studio floor one of the men waved his arm. George saw him through the double glass pane and continued: “Good! Tell the boys to let in the big black in two--in front of the spaceship set. And get the fog machine set. I’m going to use a half hour of fax rehearsal time when we get back for some experimenting. Has the dry ice arrived yet?” On the floor Bill waved “yes.” “Okay.” “Tell me, George,” the T.D. asked. “What exactly is the effect you want in that Ganymede scene?” George picked up a paper clip and absent-mindedly began twisting it around his pencil in a tight spiral. It was a silly habit of his, but an innocuous one. “It’s like this,” he began to explain. “We’re on Ganymede--that’s one of Jupiter’s moons. The ‘Planeteer’ has landed and is walking around on the satellite in his space suit. We’ll play the whole thing in front of the black drop and put in electronic stars.” He leaned over the desk. “Can do, Don?” “Can do!” “Fine! Now--the floor will be covered with dry ice fog. It’s supposed to be ammonia vapors or some such guck. So far so good.” He rolled his little paper clip spiral off his pencil and started on another one. “The ‘Planeteer’ is all alone, see? But suddenly another spacesuited figure joins him. It turns out to be _he himself_--and duplicated! And if that’s not enough, a third copy joins them--all three of them _he himself_. He’s supposed to look at himself, talk to himself, and walk in front of himself. We can’t use doubles because of those transparent space helmets. And what’s more, the three triplicated ‘Planeteers’ are supposed to make the exact same movements at the exact same time. The whole thing’s supposed to be some sort of hallucination.” He stood up. “And speaking about hallucinations--I’m so hungry _I’m_ going to get them if I don’t get something to eat. Coming, Steve?” “Fine,” said the T.D. The director leaned across the desk again. “And how about our _vidiot_? You want to join us, Don?” he asked. Don cringed mentally at the nickname. Even though he knew it was only a good-natured rib at the video technicians he always winced at the term “vidiot.” But he managed to sound unconcerned when he answered: “Guess not, George. I’m not hungry. Besides I’ve got a heavy date after the show. I’ll just stick around here.” “See you later, then,” the director said as he and his T.D. left the control room. On the studio floor Bill, the floor manager, let a last look of inspection sweep the stage. Then he too walked out. Studio 52 was deserted--except for Don Hartley. Fine! That would give him a chance. He was pretty sure he knew what the director had in mind, and how he would solve his problem of triplication. If he could have everything set up when George returned the director was bound to send a note of commendation to Barnes, the big brass in the front office. Don was ambitious. He had his eye on the T.D. chair, even on that of the director himself. And who could know? Everything was possible. Now. He’d use three cameras. Take the first picture of the “Planeteer” on Camera III--normal scanning. Then he’d split the screen vertically on the whipe amplifier, putting the image from Camera III on the right half of the screen. Then on Camera I he’d take another picture of the “Planeteer” and reverse the scanning horizontally so that right became left, and vice versa. Then he’d put the image from Camera I on the left half of the screen, and he’d have two identical “Planeteers” looking at each other. That would work out all right. Now. On Camera II he’d take yet another picture of the “Planeteer,” and using the matting amplifier with primary picture on Camera II he could put the third “Planeteer” in front of the two others. It would work. He’d have to try it out. Don walked out on the stage. From the prop room he got a space suit in a light blue color and propped it up on the Test Pattern stand in front of the black backdrop. That would be the “Planeteer.” Next he lined up his two pedestal cameras and swung in the huge boom camera so that all three had a full figure shot of the space suit. * * * * * He returned to the control room and completed his intricate hookup. It worked. One space suit “Planeteer” had become three! He reached up behind him to punch up his montage picture on the studio monitor so he could watch it out on the floor while he moved around in front of the cameras. As he swept his arm across the desk to the master switchboard there was a tiny scratching sound. This became the sound of an object rolling--and then falling off the desk. There was a sharp crack and an acrid puff of smoke as one of George’s little paper clip spirals fell down into the exposed mass of tubes and wires of the matting amplifier. For a split second Don’s world stood still. His first reaction was a quick glance at the line monitor. The picture was still there, but--something had happened to it. The matting amplifier worked by “punching” a hole in the image taken by one camera the exact shape of the image taken by a second camera and putting this second image into the hole. The hole was there all right. It was the exact shape of the propped-up space suit. But it was a hole without an image. It was a hole of utter jet black. Don knew he ought to kill his B Plus before any more damage was done, but there was something about the total blackness of that hole in the picture on the monitor tube which fascinated him. It simply wasn’t possible to get such a perfect black, even if you dug for it. He began cautiously to turn the brightness control. Slowly the blackness became lighter. All of a sudden an image appeared in the hole! Don worked the contrast control. The picture came swiftly into focus. It was _not_ the image of the space suit as it should have been. Through the hole shaped like the space suit Don was looking into the interior of a spaceship! At once Don’s mind supplied an answer. Something had happened to his hookup when that metal spiral had fallen into the matting amplifier and fused certain connections! Now he was actually able to pick up images from an extra-terrestrial spaceship! He must be excused, however. He had worked a long time on that TV space opera. And it wasn’t long before he realized that what he was actually seeing in the hole was merely the spaceship set built for “The Planeteers.” He was about to kill his power when it struck him like a 1000-volt camera shock. How could he _see_ the spaceship set? It was _behind_ the big black backdrop! He studied the image on the monitor intently. That was it, all right. No mistake about it. He was looking right through the heavy, black duvetyne backdrop with Camera II. Or--He suddenly had a thought. Don ran out into the studio. Bill usually kept a piece of chalk for floor markings near his cans. There! He went over Camera I. Carefully he drew on the floor a straight line at a 90-degree angle to the lens from the camera over to the black drop. Then he went to Camera II and did the same. The lines did not converge in front of the drop. He ran behind the black, lifted up the bottom to orientate himself and continued the lines on the other side. They crossed each other right smack in the middle of the spaceship set. There could only be one answer. But Don had to be sure. He went back to Camera II and carefully swung it a little to the right. Now the two imaginary lines would cross about 100 feet further out. He ran back to the control room. And there--in the spacesuit-shaped hole in the monitor image he watched the traffic on the street outside the studio roar silently by! He was seeing through the backdrop, through the scenery stored at the rear of the studio, through the wall itself, and into the street. Wherever the lines from the two cameras would cross--_he saw!_ He estimated the focal depth of the picture to be about ten feet on either side of the actual crossing point of the vitally important imaginary lines. He sat back. He was trembling a little. His hands felt clammy. But he soon got hold of himself. He looked at the control room clock. One thirty-three. The guys would be back in about twenty minutes. He had to hurry. He killed the power, switched on his work lamp, and peered into the innards of the fused, mutilated matting amplifier. From the storing