The War of the Worlds Murder - By Max Allan Collins Page 0,23

to this untapped medium.... Not to just treat our material like a ‘play’—the less a radio drama resembles a play, the better it’s going to be!”

Welles thrust a finger at Gibson, who jumped in his chair a bit. “This man, who does not work in our medium on a daily basis...though I might point out his instincts about that medium only gave me the part that put us all on the map...immediately honed in on what will separate this show from all the rest.”

Houseman, sitting back, hands folded on his belly, said in a voice that tried too hard to be nonchalant, “And what would that be, Orson?”

For the first time, Gibson realized that behind Houseman’s mask was something else—insecurity, even fear....

With a weight-of-the-world sigh, Orson Welles picked up the chair he’d tossed aside, righted it and sat, shaking his head slowly, a man devastated by disappointment.

“I suggested that we use news bulletins,” Welles said quietly...too quietly, “and eyewitness accounts.”

“We did,” Koch said, pain in his voice.

“You did...at the start—exactly twice.”

Koch nodded. “Right. To get us into the piece.”

Again Welles exploded, exasperated. “Howard—it is the piece! We need newscast simulations, absolutely believable.... We need that dance-band remote broadcast not to be interrupted once, like our recent ‘Sherlock Holmes’ broadcast was, but again and again.... We need real names, details, we need the illusion of up-to-the-second reality. Why do you think I had you change it from London to New Jersey? Why did I insist you do it modern-day, not in turn-of-the-century London?”

“Actually,” Koch said, raising a timid forefinger, “that was my idea...”

“Does it matter whose idea it is? Good God man, this is a collaboration! And the goal of this collaboration is to execute my vision!...Flash news bulletins, eyewitness accounts, as the Mars invasion is happening. Keep that going throughout the entire hour!”

Stewart said, “That’s impossible—the story covers months. It has to be resolved.”

“Fine, but keep it immediate as long as possible—for the first half of the thing, at the very least.”

Houseman sat forward. “Orson—don’t you realize that if we present...fake newscasts, for a half hour or more...”

“Up until the station break midway, precisely.”

Houseman swallowed and tried again. “Don’t you realize, Orson, that listeners are apt to misunderstand.”

Stewart snorted a laugh. “What, and think Martians are really invading?”

Welles was sitting with his arms folded now, his expression that of a pixie—a damn big pixie, but a pixie.

“And why not?” he asked.

Everyone sat forward, except Welles.

Houseman said, “Surely, you don’t mean to fool our listeners into...”

“If that’s all the more intelligent they are, why in hell not? Let me tell you where I got this idea. Back in 1926, a BBC broadcast out of Edinburgh, Scotland, presented a false news report about an unemployed mob in London sacking the National Gallery, blowing up Big Ben, hanging the Minister of Traffic to a tramway post, and blowing up the Houses of Parliament.”

Everyone but Welles sat open-mouthed.

Welles, eyes twinkling, continued, “The ‘newscast’ concluded with the destruction of the BBC’s flagship station.... After the broadcast, the BBC—and the police and the newspapers—were besieged with frantic citizens calling to see what was happening, and to find out what they could do in this terrible crisis.”

Then he laughed and laughed, patting his knees like a department-store Santa Claus.

“You see it was a period of unusual labor strife—days before a general strike—and...what’s wrong? You all look as if your best friend died.”

Houseman held out a hand in the fashion of a traffic cop. “Orson, you surely can’t be suggesting—”

“Oh, Housey, if a few loonies buy what we’re doing, what’s the harm? It’ll make a wonderful Hallowe’en prank, and we’ll have terrific publicity.”

Koch, thinking aloud, said, “Well, we certainly can’t go on the air cold....”

“No, of course not!” Welles blurted. “We’ll have a standard opening. And is it our fault...” Welles smiled with infinite innocence. “...if after Charlie McCarthy’s opening monologue, listeners just happen to check around their dial for something more lively than Chase and Sanborn’s weekly guest singer, and happen upon our little charade?”

Stewart was starting to smile. “Well, I don’t think it will work—I don’t think anyone will fall for this. But it’s a hell of a good way to bring some extra punch to this yarn.”

Koch was nodding. “It would be easy enough to rework it that way, too.”

But Houseman was shaking his head, gloomily. “I don’t approve. I do think people might well be fooled, just as those British listeners were. It’s irresponsible, and it’s cruel, not to mention a risky venture for