Weiss knelt swiftly and picked it up.
"Are you all right, Mr. Smith?" he asked in a concerned voice.
Nevada took a deep breath. He felt his self-control returning.
He took the script from the outstretched hand and forced a smile.
A look of relief came into Weiss's face.
"Thanks, Mr. Smith," he said gratefully. "I really appreciate this. Thanks very much."
For a week, Nevada couldn't bring himself to read it.
In some strange way, he felt that if he did, he'd be exposing himself.
Then one evening, he came into the library after dinner, where Von Elster was waiting, and found him deeply engrossed in this script.
"How long have you been sitting on this?" the director asked.
Nevada shrugged.
"About a week.
You know how it is. These writers are always coming up with scripts.
Is it any good?"
Von Elster put it down slowly.
"It's more than good. It's great.
I want to be the director if you do it."
Late that night, the lamp still burning near his bed, Nevada realized what the director meant.
Weiss had given depth and purpose to his portrait of a man who lived alone and developed a philosophy born of pain and sadness.
There was no glamour in his crimes, only the desperate struggle for survival.
Nevada knew as he read it that the picture would be made.
The script was too good to be passed up.
For his own self-protection, he had to make the picture.
If it escaped into someone else's hands, there was no telling how much further they'd delve into the life of Max Sand.
He bought the script from Weiss the next morning for one thousand dollars.
Nevada returned to the present suddenly.
"Let's hold it for a year," Bernie Norman was saying. "By then, we'll know which way to jump."
Dan Pierce looked across at him.
Nevada knew the look.
It meant that Pierce felt he'd gone as far as he could.
"Chaplin and Pickford had the right idea in forming United Artists," Nevada said. "I guess that's the only way a star can be sure of making the pictures he wants."
Norman's eyes changed subtly.
"They haven't had a good year since," he said. "They've dropped a bundle."
"Mebbe," Nevada said. "Only time will tell. It's still a new company."
Norman looked at Pierce for a moment, then back to Nevada.
"O.K.," he said. "I’ll make a deal with you.
We’ll put up a half million toward the picture, you guarantee all the negative cost over that."
"That's a million and a half more!"
Pierce answered. "Where's Nevada going to get that kind of money?"
Norman smiled. "The same place we do. At the bank.
He won't have any trouble. I'll arrange it.
You'll own the picture one hundred per cent.
All we'll get is distribution fees and our money back. That's a better deal than United Artists can give.
That shows you how much we want to go along with you, Nevada.
Fair enough?" Nevada had no illusions.
If the picture didn't make it, his name would be on the notes at the bank, not Norman's.
He'd lose everything he had and more.
He looked down at the blue-covered script. A resolution began to harden inside him.
Jonas' father had said to him once that it wasn't any satisfaction to win or lose if it wasn't your own money, and you'd never make it big playing for table stakes.
This picture just couldn't miss. He knew it. He could feel it inside him.