Free Shuteye for the Timebroker by Paul di Filippo

(Due to the generational nature of the tale, almost everyone had dual roles.) He chafed under the rigors of filming, resented having to obey the director’s orders, and was constantly on the verge of blowing up.
    Billy found Goodnight at last sulking in the dreary basement of the Mowbray house and convinced him to come up to the parlor, where the current scene was to be filmed. There, Natasha Kaprinski, a smoldering, dark-eyed beauty dressed in eighteenth-century clothing, awaited her costar among the imported furnishings. When Landisberg saw Billy and Goodnight, he began to issue instructions.
    “All right, Natasha, remember that in this scene you’re not playing Phoebe, but her ancestor, Alice. Goodnight has just propositioned you, and you’re suitably shocked. Got it?”
    Kaprinski looked offended, her lush lips twisting in a pout. This moue of distaste was her favorite expression, and she was seldom encountered without it. “This isn’t my first movie, Luke. Of course I know my part. I just hope these amateurs do.”
    Goodnight bristled at this aspersion and seemed ready to retaliate in some dreadful way, until Billy managed to calm him down. He convinced him to stand a few paces away from the actress.
    Landisberg shouted, “Places, everyone! OK? Roll!”
    Kaprinski assumed a look of shock and horror. Her expansive bosom heaved in righteous indignation. “Sir! How dare you!” she exclaimed. Then, without warning, she slapped Goodnight across the face.
    Landisberg had said nothing to Goodnight about this. His theory was that certain reactions would be truer if the actor was not forewarned. Once he had dropped a snake on an actress without first alerting her. That time, he had gotten the results he wanted.
    Today, his luck wasn’t holding.
    Goodnight reared back in angered disbelief. From beneath his eye patch a malevolent glow diffused, sickly blue in color. Before anyone could stop him he raised his arms and gestured. A searing radiance flared, blinding everyone.
    When Billy’s vision cleared, Goodnight was gone. So, it appeared, was Kaprinski. Then her voice could be heard, a few inches from the floor.
    “Oh, Luke,” the once-sultry voice moaned, “I don’t feel so good …”
    Billy looked down. All he saw was a big slimy newt.
    Then he noticed it was pouting.
     
    * * *
     
    Free for the moment from the exigencies of his new job, Billy was reading aloud to the womandrake when he sensed someone entering the clearing behind him. At last, he thought, they’ve decided to intrude. With a feeling of mixed sorrow and relief that the wait was over at last, Billy shut his book and turned to face whoever was coming.
    It was Landisberg. The man smiled, his eyes unreadable behind his mirrored lenses.
    “Hey, Budd, I need you to hold Goodnight’s hand for another scene.”
    Since asserting himself in the incident with Kaprinski, Welcome Goodnight had, surprisingly, become more tractable, as if exhibiting his power had been enough to mollify him. After he had restored Kaprinksi to her old self, he had cooperated fairly well with the director and his demands. Still, he needed cosseting now and then, which it was Billy’s duty to supply.
    Landisberg seemed to spot the plant for the first time. “What’s this?” he demanded.
    Before Billy could do more than stammer a few words, Landisberg had gone to the gate in the chicken wire fence and opened it. Billy rushed to his side, but he was too late to stop the director’s eager hands from gently parting the outer leaves of the tall plant.
    Revealed was the beautiful, pale green, heart-shaped face, framed with long blonde hair, belonging to Billy’s mate. Her eyes were closed, but as the sunlight hit them the long-lashed lids trembled and her lips quivered.
    Billy knocked the director’s hands away.
    “Don’t!” he said. “She’s not ready yet!”
    Landisberg seemed stunned by the revelation of what Billy was growing. He allowed Billy to conduct him out of the