She intimidated easy.
The airport said we could leave for Chicago any time on the hour, and change there for Los Angeles.
Mike wanted to know why she was wasting time on the telephone when we could be on our way.
Holding up the wheels of progress, emery dust in the gears.
One minute to get her hat.
“Call Pappy from the airport.”
Her objections were easily brushed away with a few word-pictures of how much fun there was to be had in Hollywood.
We left a sign on the door,
“Gone to Lunch—Back in December.” and made the airport in time for the four o’clock plane, with no time left to call Pappy.
I told the parking attendant to hold the car until he heard from me and we made it up the steps and into the plane just in time.
The steps were taken away, the motors snorted, and we were off, with Ruth holding fast her hat in an imaginary breeze.
There was a two-hour layover in Chicago.
They don’t serve liquor at the airport, but an obliging cab driver found us a convenient bar down the road, where Ruth made her call to her father.
Cautiously we stayed away from the telephone booth, but from what Ruth told us, he must have read her the riot act.
The bartender didn’t have champagne, but gave us the special treatment reserved for those that order it.
The cab driver saw that we made the liner two hours later.
In Los Angeles we registered at the Commodore, cold sober and ashamed of ourselves.
The next day Ruth went shopping for clothes for herself, and for us.
We gave her the sizes and enough money to soothe her hangover. Mike and I did some telephoning.
After breakfast we sat around until the desk clerk announced a Mr. Lee Johnson to see us.
Lee Johnson was the brisk professional type, the high-bracket salesman.
Tall, rather homely, a clipped way of talking.
We introduced ourselves as embryo producers.
His eyes brightened when we said that. His meat.
“Not exactly the way you think,” I told him.
“We have already eighty per cent or better of the final print.”
He wanted to know where he came in.
“We have several thousand feet of Trucolor film.
Don’t bother asking where or when we got it.
This footage is silent.
We’ll need sound and, in places, speech dubbed in.”
He nodded.
“Easy enough.
What condition is the master?”
“Perfect condition.
It’s in the hotel vault right now.
There are gaps in the story to fill.
We’ll need quite a few male and female characters.
And all of these will have to do their doubling for cash, and not for screen credit.”
Johnson raised his eyebrows.
“And why?
Out here screen credit is bread and butter.”
“Several reasons.
This footage was made—never mind wherewith the understanding that film credit would favor no one.”
“If you’re lucky enough to catch your talent between pictures you might get away with it.
But if your footage is worth working with, my boys will want screen credit.
And I think they’re entitled to it.”
I said that was reasonable enough.
The technical crews were essential, and I was prepared to pay well.
Particularly to keep their mouths closed until the print was ready for final release.