"I heard," Catherine replied.
"We start shooting at nine in the morning. If you could get here by about eight, I'd like to have you take a look at them. You know what the Army Air Corps wants."
"Right," said Catherine briskly. She had not the faintest idea what the Army Air Corps wanted, but she supposed that if one used common sense and picked out types that looked like they might be pilots, that would be sufficient.
"I'll have a car there for you at seven thirty A.M.," the voice was saying. "It'll only take you half an hour to get to Metro. It's in Culver City. I'll meet you on Stage Thirteen."
It was almost four o'clock in the morning before Catherine fell asleep, and it seemed the moment her eyes closed, the phone was ringing and the operator was telling her that a limousine was waiting for her.
Thirty minutes later Catherine was on her way to Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer.
It was the largest motion picture studio in the world. There was a main lot consisting of thirty-two sound stages, the enormous Thalberg Administration Building which housed Louis B. Mayer, twenty-five executives, and some of the most famous directors, producers and writers in show business. Lot two contained the large standing outdoor sets which were constantly redressed for various movies. Within a space of three minutes, you could drive past the Swiss Alps, a western town, a tenement block in Manhattan and a beach in Hawaii. Lot three on the far side of Washington Boulevard housed millions of dollars' worth of props and flat sets and was used to shoot outdoor spectacles.
All this was explained to Catherine by her guide, a young girl who was assigned to take her to Stage 13. "It's a city in itself," she was saying proudly. "We produce our own electricity, make enough food in the commissary to feed six thousand people a day and build all our own sets right on the back lot. We're completely self-sufficient. We don't need anybody."
"Except an audience."
As they walked along the street, they passed a castle that consisted of a facade with two by fours propping it up. Across from it was a lake, and down the block was the lobby of a San Francisco theater. No theater, just the lobby.
Catherine laughed aloud, and the girl stared at her.
"Is there anything wrong?" she asked.
"No," Catherine said. "Everything is wonderful."
Dozens of extras walked along the street, cowboys and Indians chatting amiably together as they walked toward the sound stages. A man appeared unexpectedly from around a corner and as Catherine stepped back to avoid him, she saw that he was a knight in armor. Behind him walked a group of girls in bathing suits. Catherine decided that she was going to like her brief fling in show business. She wished her father could have seen this. He would hav
e enjoyed it so much.
"Here we are," the guide said. They were in front of a huge, gray building. A sign on the side of it said "STAGE 13."
"I'll leave you here. Will you be all right?"
"Fine," Catherine said. "Thank you."
The guide nodded and left. Catherine turned back to the sound stage. A sign over the door read: "DO NOT ENTER WHEN RED LIGHT IS ON." The light was off, so Catherine pulled the handle of the door and opened it. Or tried to. The door was unexpectedly heavy, and it took all her strength to get it open.
When she stepped inside, Catherine found herself confronted by a second door as heavy and massive as the first. It was like entering a decompression chamber.
Inside the cavernous sound stage, dozens of people were racing around, each one busy on some mysterious errand. A group of men were in Air Corps uniforms, and Catherine realized that they were the actors who would appear in the film. At a far corner of the sound stage was an office set complete with desk, chairs and a large military map hanging on the wall. Technicians were lighting the set.
"Excuse me," she said to a man passing by. "Is Mister Allan Benjamin here?"
"The little corporal?" He pointed. "Over there."
Catherine turned and saw a slight, frail-looking man in an ill-fitting uniform with corporal's stripes. He was screaming at a man wearing a general's stars.
"Fuck what the casting director said," he yelled. "I'm up to my ass in generals. I need non-coms." He raised his hands in despair. "Everybody wants to be a chief, nobody wants to be an Indian."
"Excuse me," said Catherine, "I'm Catherine Alexander."
"Thank God!" the little man said. He turned to the others, bitterness in his voice. "The fun and games are over, you smart-asses. Washington's here."
Catherine blinked. Before she could speak, the little corporal said, "I don't know what I'm doing here. I had a thirty-five-hundred-dollar-a-year job in Dearborn editing a furniture trade magazine, and I was drafted into the Signal Corps and sent to write training films. What do I know about producing or directing? This is the most disorganized mess I've ever seen." He belched and touched his stomach. "I'm getting an ulcer," he moaned, "and I'm not even in show business. Excuse me.
He turned and hurried toward the exit, leaving Catherine standing there. She looked around, helplessly. Everyone seemed to be staring at her, waiting for her to do something.
A lean, gray-haired man in a sweater moved toward her, an amused smile on his face. "Need any help?" he asked quietly.