Some people think that when it comes out, silent movies will be finished."
Dan Pierce laughed.
"Malarkey! Movies are movies.
If you want to hear actors talk, go to the theater, that's where talk belongs."
Norman turned to Nevada, his voice taking on a fatherly tone.
"Look, Nevada, have we ever steered you wrong?
From the day you first came here, we've treated you right.
If it's a question of money, that's no problem. Just name the figure."
Nevada smiled at him. "It isn't the money, Bernie. You know that.
Ten thousand a week is enough for any man, even if income taxes have gone up to seven per cent.
It's this script. It's the first real story I've ever read out here."
Norman reached for a cigar. Nevada leaned back in his chair.
He remembered when he had first heard of the script.
It was last year, when he was making Gunfire at Sundown.
One of the writers, a young man with glasses and a very pale skin, had come over to him.
"Mr. Smith," he asked diffidently. "Can I trouble you for a minute?"
Nevada turned from the make-up man.
"Why, sure- " He hesitated.
"Mark Weiss," the writer said quickly. Nevada smiled.
"Sure, Mark, what can I do for you?"
"I’ve got a script I'd like you to read," Weiss said quickly.
"I spent two years researching it.
It's about one of the last gun fighters in the Southwest.
I think it's different from anything that's ever been made."
"I'd be glad to read it."
That was one of the hazards of being a star.
Everyone had a script they wanted you to read and each was the greatest ever written.
"What's it called?"
"The Renegade." He held out a blue-covered script.
The script felt heavy in his hand.
He opened it to the last page and looked at the writer doubtfully.
The script was three times standard length.
"Pretty long, isn't it?"
Weiss nodded. "It is long but there was no way I could see to cut it.
Everything in there is true.
I spent the last two years checking old newspaper files through the entire Southwest."
Nevada turned back to the make-up man, the script still in his hand.
"What happened to him?" he asked over his shoulder.
"Nobody seems to know. One day he just disappeared and nothing was ever heard about him again.
There was a posse after him, and they think he died there in the mountains."
"A new story's always good," Nevada said.
"People are getting tired of the same old heroes.
What do you call this guy?"
The writer's voice seemed to hang in the air. "Sand," he said. "Max Sand."
The script slipped from Nevada's fingers.
He felt the blood rush from his face.
"What did you say?" he asked hollowly.
Weiss stared at him. "Max Sand.
We can change it but that was his real name."
Nevada shook his head and looked down at the script. It lay there in the dust.