Free Shuteye for the Timebroker by Paul di Filippo Page B

call him toward the end.
    When Goodnight—prevailed upon to summon up actual ghosts for one portion of the film—had accidentally brought back the spirit of his rival, Andrew Mowbray, and begun a titanic magical battle with it, punctuated by loose bolts of green lightning, Billy had emerged unscathed, although he had been caught right in the middle of the fighting.
    When the Viking-like Skandik brothers—they of the immense appetites—had kidnapped both Natasha Kaprinski and the ancient Dame Shabbycough, and Billy had been called upon to effect a rescue, he had somehow accomplished the release of the ravaged actresses without getting his head split by one of the Skandiks’ picks (which they always kept by their sides).
    When the temperamental and anti-establishment veteran actor, George C. Coates, had learned that the Film Academy was considering him for an Oscar for the role of Judge Pyncheon—on the strength of rumors alone—and had disgustedly stalked off the set, it had been Billy who had found him consoling himself with a bottle at Emmett’s Roadhouse and convinced him to return.
    And when Murray Roydack, in a pranksterish mood, had, despite repeated warnings, swum out to Big Egg and been plucked from his perch by the angered humanoid fish-god beneath it, it had been Billy who had run for Milo Musselwhite and ferried him out in a rowboat, whereupon the town coordinator had convinced his distant ancestor to release the actor unharmed.
    Yes, taken all in all, it had been quite a rough two months. Billy doubted if he would ever enter another spring with exactly the same idyllic feelings he had once brought to the season.
    But now it was over at last. The stars had all left as each finished their scenes. Today, the crew had restored the Mowbray manse to its former decrepitude (no one could figure out how they took down the big elm) and departed. Finally, Landisberg himself had been chauffered off, with Freddie Cordovan blusteringly accompanying him, as the fat man tried to weasel out word of the director’s next project.
    As for the town’s payment for hosting the filmmakers—well, it had come, after a fashion. The whale, after being reduced mostly to bones by the elements, had finally been hauled out to sea by the Coast Guard. The aroma still lingered, though, and there was talk of having to replace all the sand on the beach. Middenheap Mile had been paved, but in such a shoddy manner that it was already deteriorating, and everyone knew that by the end of the next winter the road would be almost as bad as before. And regarding the money the newcomers had, as promised, injected into Blackwood Beach’s few stores—as any Blackwooder would tell you, it was only money, and could hardly compensate for seven weeks of mass confusion.
    Luckily, thought Billy, his special project had not fared as badly as the town. The womandrake was now over five and a half feet tall and fully mature, as Billy had discerned from many timorous peeks. It seemed psychologically whole, too, no longer reacting so violently to Billy’s readings. He hoped that it would recall nothing of the filming that had been such a pernicious prenatal influence.
    And today—today was the first day the plant might be expected to open. Billy was ecstatic. He hardly believed his longtime dream was about to come true. Since planting the seed, he had been careful to distance himself, thinking of his mate as “it,” never knowing if something would go wrong and prevent the expected birth. But now, he dared to mentally say the crucial pronoun. She was almost ready!
    Striding happily through the once-again deserted yard around the Mowbray house, Billy came unexpectedly upon a familiar figure.
    Luke Landisberg stood there alone, a smile on his enigmatic features.
    “What are you doing here?” Billy asked, trepidation knotting his stomach. Had the film been lost or destroyed? Was the entire project about to start all over again?
    “I just wanted to be in on