The Darfsteller

The Darfsteller

By Walter B. Miller, Jr.

Great Actors Immortalized – that was one of Smithfield's little slogans. But they had discontinued on Mela Stone, the depot clerk had said. Overstocked.

The promise of relative immortality had been quite a bait. Actors unions had resisted autodrama, for obviously the pit players and the lesser-knowns would not be in demand. By making dozens – even hundreds – of copies of the same leading star, top talent could be had for every role, and the same actor-mannequin could be playing simultaneously in dozens of shows all over the country. The unions had resisted – but only a few were wanted by Smithfield anyhow, and the lure was great. The promise of fantastic royalties was enticing enough, but in addition – immortality for the actor, through duplication of mannequins. Authors,, artists, playwrights had always been able to outlive the centuries, but actors were remembered only by professionals, and their names briefly recorded in the annals of the stage. Shakespeare would live another thousand years, but who remembered Dick Burbage who trouped in the day of the bard's premiers? Flesh and bone, heart and brain, there were the trouper's media, and his art could not outlive them.

Thorny knew the yearnings after lastingness, and he could no longer hate the ones who had gone over. As for himself, the autodrama industry had made him a tentative offer, and he had resisted – partly because he was reasonably certain that the offer would have been withdrawn during testing procedures. Some actors were not “cybergenic” - could not be adequately sculptured into electronic-robotic analogues. There were the portrayers, whose art was inward, whose roles had to be lived rather than played. No polygraphic analogue could duplicate their talents, and Thornier knew he was one of them. It had been easy for him to resist.

An actor, the darfsteller. Photo by Elena.

At the corner of Eighth Street, he remembered the spare tape and the replacement pickup for the Maestro. But if he turned back now, he'd hold up the run-through, and Jade would be furious. Mentally he kicked himself, and drove on to the delivery entrance of the theater. There he left the crated mannequin with the stage crew, and headed back for the depot without seeing the producer.

“Hey, bud,” said the clerk, “your boss was on the phone. Sounded pretty unhappy.”

“Who... D'Uccia?”

“No... well, yeah, D'Uccia, too. He wasn't unhappy, just having fits. I meant Miss Ferne”.

“Oh... where's your phone?”

“Over there. The lady was near hysterical.”

Thorny swallowed hard and headed for the booth. Jade Ferne was a good friend, and if his absent-mindedness had goofed up her production -

“I've got the pickup and the tape ready to go,” the clerk called after him. “She told me about it on the phone. Boy, you're sure on the ball today, ain't ya – the greasy eight ball.”

Thorny reddened and dialed nervously.

“Than God!” she groaned. “Thorny, we did the run-through with Andreyev a waling zombie. The Maestro chewed up our duplicate Peltier tape, and we're running without an actor-analogue in the starring role. Baby, I could murder you!”