The War of the Worlds Murder - By Max Allan Collins Page 0,38
asking what that was about?”
Welles flashed a smile. “Not at all—I simply advised Mr. Readick to dig out from the news library the transcriptions of the Hindenburg crash at Lakehurst, New Jersey.”
“Why?”
“To use as a model! Remember how the reporter began to weep, as he reported the scores of people dying before his eyes? Well, our reporter should have that same response to the Martian death ray.”
Mournful-looking Paul Stewart—in a brown sport coat with a green tie loose at his neck—approached and, without a greeting, jerked a thumb over his shoulder and said, “I’ve got Ora waiting. We’ve got the sound gimmicks pretty well licked.”
Stewart, who seemed low-key by nature, had a touch of pride in his voice.
Gibson accompanied Welles over to the sound-effects station, where the middle-aged housewifely Ora waited with quiet but obvious anticipation. Again she wore a floral dress, with pearls as a Sunday touch. Her male assistant was on hand again, but Ora and Paul Stewart led the way in demonstrating to Welles the various acts of audio magic they’d assembled.
Using the two Victrola turntables, Ora and her assistant played crowd sounds, a cannon roar and a moody New York Harbor aural collage, after which Stewart said, “That’s the last survivors, putting out to sea.”
“Wonderful,” Welles said, eyes dancing. “What about the Martian cylinder opening?”
This was not prerecorded: Ora demonstrated the effect, which consisted of slowly unscrewing the lid off a large empty jam jar.
“Nice natural resonance,” Welles said with a nod. “But we could use an echo effect—might I suggest—”
“We’re ahead of ya,” Stewart said. “We’ve already run a wire to the men’s room.”
Welles noticed Gibson’s confusion, and he told his guest, “A john is a great natural echo chamber—we used it for the sewers of Paris in ‘Les Miserables.’ That, of course, was typecasting, whereas tonight the twentieth floor men’s room will display its versatility.... Terrific work, everyone. Ora, as usual, you are simply the best.”
She beamed, and Gibson suddenly realized the sound “man” was naturally pretty, once her expression of intense concentration took a break.
“I’m an old hand at science fiction, Mr. Welles,” she said, in a musical alto. “We used an air-conditioner vent on Buck Rogers for a rocket engine!”
Welles let loose of a short explosive laugh, then said, “Well, then, I’m sure you have contrived something incredibly grotesque for the sound these creatures make.”
Her expression fell. “Well, I did—it was actually my own voice, filtered and slowed down and...I could play it for you, but—”
“Do—please do.”
Stewart and Ora exchanged nervous glances.
Resting a hand on Welles’s arm, Stewart said quietly, “Orson, the network won’t let us use it.”
Welles’s forehead tightened. “Since when does the network preview our sound effects?”
The dark eyebrows raised and lowered. “Since,” Stewart sighed, “they read Howard’s script, and found it too believable and too frightening.... Dave Taylor was in yesterday and had me play everything for him.”
With a stern edge, Welles commanded of Ora, “Let me hear it!”
She swallowed, nodded, and found the platter and placed it on the turntable; dropped the needle.
“Ullia...ullia...ullia...ullia!”
Gibson found the sound excitingly creepy, and said so.
“I agree,” Welles said. “Lovely work, Ora...Paul, where is Dave Taylor?”
“I think he’s in the sub-control booth, waiting to hear the rehearsal....”
Within moments, leaving Stewart behind, Welles had stormed into the control booth to face a tall, reed-slender gentleman in an immaculate gray pin-striped suit that Gibson would’ve bet his next Shadow check was a Brooks Brothers. The moment Welles had entered the first and smaller of the interconnected control booths, this individual—seated at the desk from which Gibson had watched Thursday’s rehearsal—had calmly risen to a full six-two.
The man stood with folded arms and hooded eyes, smiling very gently, as Welles railed on about censorship and interference. The well-groomed scarecrow faced the bear of a man, arms hurled in the air, snorting his rage.
This went on for a good two minutes, concluding with, “David, the sounds those creatures make are vital to the performance, and if you insist on cutting them, I reserve the right to have my understudy take my role.”
The executive—his name, Gibson later learned, was Davidson Taylor—replied gently, in a voice touched with a cultured Southern accent.
“Orson, I remain your biggest fan. I have been your creative cheerleader from the very beginning, as you well know. And I think you and Howard Koch and Paul have done a remarkable job on what began as one of our weakest Mercury offerings.”
Somewhat placated, Welles said, “Thank you,” but his chin was up, defensively.