"He died, didn't he?" asked the man from Quality Control, Building Eight.
"Who?" the man from Research asked. "Who died? Harry Simons?"
The man from Quality Control nodded at the eight-by-ten-foot transparency just inside Kodak Park's Ridge Road entrance, in an archway above three green-carpeted stairs that led down to The Park's personnel offices (almost always crowded with hopeful applicants for employment). Corridors branching to the left and right at the bottom of the stairs also led into the interior of The Park, into Emulsion Coating, where Harry Simons had had such a bad time, into Research and Development, into Films Technology, into Long-Term Storage, and a host of other departments that filled a total of twelve one-acre buildings. "No," the man from Quality Control continued. "Him-the guy who took that picture."
The man from Research looked at the transparency with smiling appreciation for several seconds. Then he said, "Yeah. A couple of years ago, I guess."
"Alfred Eisenstadt, wasn't it?"
"No," answered the man from Research. "Ansel Adams."
"Oh, yeah. Ansel Adams." A short pause; then, "Great shot, isn't it?!"
"None better. I shoot in black and white quite a bit, myself. There's lots more room for creativity in black and white."
The man from Quality Control nodded sagely. "That's true. I mean, look at that, you can almost reach right out and touch it."
"Uh-huh. Though I think it's a shame that it's been so de-romanticized."
" `De-romanticized'?"
"Sure. By the astronauts."
"Oh. Yes. I see."
"I mean, it's like we've dumped on it or something."
The man from Quality Control wasn't convinced. "Maybe, maybe not. It's still got a kind of aura about it, it's still got some power."
The man from Research thought about that, then conceded, "Yes, it does. I think it's in the kind of light, I think it's in the wavelength-"
"No," the other man cut in, "I don't think it's that so much as the quality -I mean, I don't want to start sounding mystical or anything, but-"
"Oh heck, there's nothing mystical here."
"I was only going to point out what's already been proved, and that is that the quality of the light is the determining factor in the kind of influence it has."
The man from Research was up for a discussion. He nodded briskly. "Maybe you're right, maybe you're wrong, but let me ask you this: Would that," and he pointed stiffly, "just as we see it, that, literally, have the same effect as the real thing?"
The man from Quality Control shook his head. "Not in a million years," he said. "Because it's not the real thing at all. It's chemicals and dyes and a remote light source. It's fake, it's an illusion."
The man from Research said, ending the discussion abruptly, "Sure it's fake, sure it's an illusion, but my God, it's such a true illusion," and they turned and walked out of the plant to Ridge Road, at the south side of The Park, and then to Jack Ryan's Grill nearby.
~* ~
Young, slim, vivacious Tammy Levine was on her way to see Smokey and the Bandit, Part Two. She'd seen it twice, but she'd decided that she could never tire of seeing it, because she could never tire of seeing Burt Reynolds. She'd seen Smokey and the Bandit (part one) twelve times, The Longest Yard ten times, and Smokey and the Bandit, Part Three four times. She kept such good track of the number of times she'd seen each movie because keeping track of things was her job, and she liked it. For the past five years she'd been keeping track of film in cold storage. She knew, at any given moment, just how much film-and its type (ASA, number of exposures, print or slide, black-and-white or color)-there was in each of the five cold-storage rooms in Building Nine. It was a job that, in most of the other buildings, took several people to do, but Tammy had always had an uncanny facility with numbers, facts, and lists. She considered it a kind of wild talent, and the Personnel Department considered her worth her weight in gold. Without her, two or three people would have to be hired (at a total of over $100,000 a year in wages and benefits) just to do her job.
The movie that Tammy Levine was going to see was being shown at one of The Park's five theaters. Getting to it from the building where she worked required a long and dreary walk through Building Nine's subbasement corridors. It was, Tammy had once told a friend, like walking through the inside of a weird kind of cereal box. The walls were close enough to touch with both hands at once, the ceiling so low that it sparked claustrophobia, and the lighting dismal at best. She'd made the walk at least a hundred times since coming to Kodak Park, and each time she'd told herself that yes, at last she was getting used to it. And each time she knew it was a lie. That she'd never get used to it.
Which, thanks to the thing walking the corridor with her that afternoon, was tragically correct.
~* ~
She had long ago begun talking to herself on her walks through Building Nine's subbasement corridors. She had a high-pitched but pleasant voice, and today, with thoughts of Burt Reynolds in her head, she said to herself, "Burt, baby, what I wouldn't do to you if I got you alone." She was going to say more, because she usually did-she usually lost herself in a string of amazing sexual daydreams-but the thing that was walking the corridor with her, several yards behind, let forth with a small half growl, half grunt that echoed loudly on the smooth walls. Tammy Levine stopped walking. She said, at a whisper, "Get away from me, okay?!" She had no idea what she was talking to, or even if it understood what she was saying; she had a vague idea that one of The Park's nighttime patrol dogs had gotten loose, although that was unlikely. The dogs were used only in Building Twelve, a high-security area, and were allowed out only for emergency trips to a veterinarian, or when Death paid them a visit.
Death was paying Tammy Levine a visit that afternoon. She had a vague idea that it was true; something in the half grunt-half growl, something desperate and unreasoning, had told her it was true.
"Get away from me," she said again, "and I mean it!" She thought she sounded pretty pathetic. She didn't want to sound pathetic, she wanted to sound like she was in control, even in charge. But the thing behind her in the cereal-box corridor let go with another half growl and grunt, but louder, and longer. And Tammy ran.
She got ten feet before the thing caught up with her and tore most of her throat away. The last image that flashed across her consciousness was Burt Reynolds's face, which made her smile a little. She would keep that image forever.
And Building Nine's subbasement corridor walls would, even after an extensive cleanup, hold traces of her blood for a very long time.