The Early Ayn Rand

"D'ya suppose we got time to monkey around with every one of ya?" the girl asked, swishing the hairpins in her mouth. "Ya can't have bobbed hair in this picture. It's the ancient times, this is. Take what ya get. We ain't gonna bother about the color of two hundred heads!"

"But it will look awful!"

"Well, who do ya think ya are? It will ruin the picture, I suppose, will it?"

The wig was too small. The hairdresser rammed it down till it squeezed Claire's temples like a vise. She wound a huge turban over it to keep it in place, and stuck a dozen hairpins inside with such violence that she skinned Claire's skull.

"Now ya're okay. Hurry up, ya got five

minutes left to get on the set."

Claire threw a last glance in the mirror. The black poodle fur hung in rags over her face; the huge turban slid down to her eyes; she looked like a mushroom with a lump in

the middle. She was safe; no one would recognize her; she couldn't recognize herself.

"Ef-fry-body on de set!" Werner von Halz roared through his megaphone.

Obedient as a herd, the huge crowd filled the stone-paved yard of Queen Lani's castle. Four hundred pairs of eyes rose expectantly to the high platform where Mr. von Halz's majestic figure stood among seven cameras.

In the solemn silence, Mr. von Halz's voice rang imperiously:

"Vat you haff to do iss diss. Der iss a var going on and your country she hass just von a great fictory. Your queen announces it to you from her castle vail. You greet de news mitt vild joy."

The mighty castle rose proudly to the clear, blue sky, a giant of impregnable granite and plaster in a forest of wooden scaffoldings and steel wires. An army of overalls moved swiftly through the castle, placing metal sheets and mirrors in, under, above the ramparts. The hot rays of the sun focused on the crowd. Hasty, nervous assistant directors rushed through the mob, placing extras all over the set.

Claire followed every assistant with an eager, hopeful glance. No one noticed her. She was not chosen for the best, prominent spots. And when, once, an assistant pointed her out to another, that other shook his head: "No, not that one!"

The cameramen were bent over their cameras, tense, motionless, studying the scene. Werner von Halz watched critically through a dark lens.

"A shadow in de right corner!" he was ordering. "Kill dat light on your left!... I vant sefen more people on dose steps... Break dat line! You're not soldiers on a parade!... Dun't bunch up like sardines on vun spot! Spread all ofer de yard!... All right!" he ordered at last. "Let's try it!"

Heddy Leland's slim, quick figure appeared on the castle wall. She spoke. The crowd roared without moving, only hundreds of arms shot vigorously in every direction, as though practicing their daily dozen.

"Stop! Hold it!!" Werner von Halz roared. "Iss dat de vay people iss glad? Iss dat de vay you vould meet your queen speaking of fictory? Now try to tink she iss saying dat you are going to haff lunch at vunce! Let's see how you vill meet dat!"

Queen Lani spoke again. Her subjects greeted her words enthusiastically. Mr. von Halz nodded.

"Diss vill be picture!" he announced.

Frantic assistants rushed through the crowd, throwing their last orders: "Hey, you there! Take off your spectacles, you fool!... Don't chew gum!... Hide that white petticoat, you, over there!... No chewing gum! They didn't chew gum in that century!"

"Ready?" boomed Werner von Halz. The huge set froze in silence, a reverent silence.

"Cam'ra-a-a!!"

Seven hands fell as levers. Seven small, glistening eyes of glass were suddenly alive, ominous, commanding the scene as seven cannons fixed upon it. Four hundred human beings in a panic of enthusiasm stormed like a boiling kettle of rags at the foot of the castle. On the wall, two thin, strong arms rose to the sky and a young voice rang exultantly through the roar of the crowd.

And Claire Nash felt herself torn off her feet, pushed, knocked, tumbled over, thrown to left and right by human bodies gone mad. She tried to act and register joy. Pressed between two huge, enthusiastic fellows, she could not tell on which side stood the cameras and on which the castle; all she could see was a piece of blue sky over red, sweating necks. She tried to fight her way out. She was thrown back by someone's elbow in her ribs and someone's knee in her stomach. A woman screaming frantically: "Long live our Queen!" was spitting into her face. A gentleman with the figure of a prizefighter stepped on her bare foot, taking the skin off three toes. She smiled pitifully and muttered: "Long live our Queen," waving a limp hand over her head. Even the hand could not be seen by the cameras...

When, at last, the piercing siren blew and assistants shouted "Hold it," when the cameras stopped, when Claire drew a deep breath and pulled the wig's hair out of her mouth, Mr. von Halz wiped his forehead with satisfaction and said:

"Dat's good... Vunce more, pleaz!"