Production Values

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Early in the twenty-first century a Broadway producer named

Brian Grendleton Clubfoot IV developed a consuming passion for the

science fiction of the previous century. He decided that the

contemporary audience, starved for live drama, enervated by dry

political wit and onstage copulation, was ripe for adaptations of

those fine old tales.

He chose one that had been successful both as novella and

cinema: A Boy and His Dog, by Harlan Ellison. An added attraction was

that Ellison was still alive, and still working in Hollywood.

Ellison agreed to do the stage adaptation, though technology

had made the job easier: live actors on Broadway had all been

replaced by androids-who required no rehearsal time, never showed up

late, and had no union-and so writers had to be programmers as well

as artists. Effison was up to the task, though. He wrote and

programmed, and programmed and wrote. B. Grendleton Clubfoot read the

Boy script as it developed and raved with enthusiasm, heaping praise

on Ellison.

But praise was all he heaped. At polite intervals Ellison

inquired as to the money that had been promised for the job. B.G.

Clubfoot IV always said the check was in the mail, or on his desk, or

his secretary had it, or this or that. What a great script, though,

Harlan-keep up the good work.

Suspecting that B.G. Clubfoot had no intention of paying,

Ellison developed a second script in secret, rather less brilliant

than the one he was showing Clubfoot. And sure enough, even on

opening night the scurrilous producer had not yet found the cash.

So as the audience assembled, Ellison went backstage and swapped

cassettes on the Mark Four Directorbot. Then he took his seat front

row center, and settled back with a smile.

With the new script, the play was an utter disaster. Characters

from Gasoline Alley coupled with dialogue from Nancy Drew.

It was nonsense, but it was dull nonsense. The audience fell

sound asleep, except for the critics who scribbled feverishly.

Supposed author of the play-Brian Grendleton Clubfoot IV. During

intermission Brian G.C. IV clumped down the stairs to front row and

railed and cursed and wept at Harlan, "How could you do this to me?

I'm ruined!"

Harlan stroked his white beard and gave the man a pitying smile.

"You poor fool. Haven't you figured it out? All work and no jack

makes Boy a dull play."