Read Online Echoes of the Well of Souls by Jack L. Chalker - Free Book Online
Authors: Jack L. Chalker
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here?"
"Bananas," Juan Campos responded flatly. Terry rolled her eyes, and Lori had a hard time not laughing in spite of the danger. It was all too, well, comic book, real as it might be.
"Doc, you and John stand over there against the barn," Terry instructed. "We want to play with the lighting, and Gus wants a camera test. We'll have to adjust to get rid of some of the shadows. John, I'm going to talk to base and see what they want and when."
They were already getting bitten by all sorts of small insects—a medical crew had met them at the airport in Manaus and had filled them with shots, but in spite of that and liberal doses of industrial-strength bug repellent on the plane, Lori was still not sure what was biting her or how hard it would be to look into a camera and not keep scratching and swatting. Thoughts of assassin bugs and malaria mosquitoes came to her unbidden. Once in the lights, though, the little bastards seemed to gang up in swarms. It was going to be a very tough few minutes with those lights on.
Almost as surreal was the little Brazilian man with the pancake and small kit of makeup who actually came in and touched both of them up while Gus took his own sweet time doing his tests and also rearranging the lighting. Finally the main lights went off, leaving them with enough electric light to see but still giving an almost eerie sense of darkness after that brightness.
"Can't do with available light and get a decent shot here," Gus told them, "but I think we can manage with just the one portable light there."
He seemed oblivious to the bugs. "Aren't you getting eaten alive, Gus?" Lori asked him. "How can you keep that steady?"
"Aw, shucks, this ain't no worse than a Minnesota lakes summer," he responded casually. "Up there the bugs got to get in all their eating in a real short time. You catch 'skeeters in little teeny bear traps."
"Yeah. Sure." She remembered an old boyfriend once saying that anybody who started something with the words "Aw, shucks" should be closely watched and never totally trusted. Gus wanted everybody to think of him as just a country hick from the Minnesota backwoods, but this was a man who made a living as a free-lance cameraman for foreign correspondents. She couldn't help but wonder what that country hick act concealed. Perhaps he was the type of person nobody could ever really know.
It was amusing to watch Maklovitch at work. He'd stand there with his scribbled notes, lights on, camera running, and go through the shorthand script several times, often stopping and looking disgusted and then starting all over again. Occasionally he'd examine himself in the tiny monitor and call for somebody to adjust his hair or put a little makeup here or there, and then he'd also go back and forth with someone on the microphone as if he were on the telephone. It was a moment before she realized that he was sort of on the telephone; he had an earpiece connected to the large apparatus beneath the satellite dish just beyond and was clearly in direct communication with Atlanta.
Suddenly he looked around. "Doctor Sutton!" he called.
"Yes?"
"Get over here! We want to introduce you and go over the initial spot."
She hurried over, suddenly as self-conscious of her appearance as Maklovitch was of his, but it was too late to do much about it.
Terry came up to her and handed her an earpiece similar to the reporter's. She stuck it in her ear. A small microphone was clipped to the front of her blouse.
"Hello? Doctor Sutton? You reading us?" a man's voice came to her.
She was suddenly panicked, unsure of how to reply.
Maklovitch was an old hand at this sort of thing and said, "Just talk. That little mike you have on will pick you up. Just use a normal tone. It's pretty sensitive."
"Uh—yes, I hear you fine," she responded, feeling sudden panic and stage fright.
"All right. We'll be coming to your location after the next commercial spot."
"That can take twenty minutes," Maklovitch commented
"Bananas," Juan Campos responded flatly. Terry rolled her eyes, and Lori had a hard time not laughing in spite of the danger. It was all too, well, comic book, real as it might be.
"Doc, you and John stand over there against the barn," Terry instructed. "We want to play with the lighting, and Gus wants a camera test. We'll have to adjust to get rid of some of the shadows. John, I'm going to talk to base and see what they want and when."
They were already getting bitten by all sorts of small insects—a medical crew had met them at the airport in Manaus and had filled them with shots, but in spite of that and liberal doses of industrial-strength bug repellent on the plane, Lori was still not sure what was biting her or how hard it would be to look into a camera and not keep scratching and swatting. Thoughts of assassin bugs and malaria mosquitoes came to her unbidden. Once in the lights, though, the little bastards seemed to gang up in swarms. It was going to be a very tough few minutes with those lights on.
Almost as surreal was the little Brazilian man with the pancake and small kit of makeup who actually came in and touched both of them up while Gus took his own sweet time doing his tests and also rearranging the lighting. Finally the main lights went off, leaving them with enough electric light to see but still giving an almost eerie sense of darkness after that brightness.
"Can't do with available light and get a decent shot here," Gus told them, "but I think we can manage with just the one portable light there."
He seemed oblivious to the bugs. "Aren't you getting eaten alive, Gus?" Lori asked him. "How can you keep that steady?"
"Aw, shucks, this ain't no worse than a Minnesota lakes summer," he responded casually. "Up there the bugs got to get in all their eating in a real short time. You catch 'skeeters in little teeny bear traps."
"Yeah. Sure." She remembered an old boyfriend once saying that anybody who started something with the words "Aw, shucks" should be closely watched and never totally trusted. Gus wanted everybody to think of him as just a country hick from the Minnesota backwoods, but this was a man who made a living as a free-lance cameraman for foreign correspondents. She couldn't help but wonder what that country hick act concealed. Perhaps he was the type of person nobody could ever really know.
It was amusing to watch Maklovitch at work. He'd stand there with his scribbled notes, lights on, camera running, and go through the shorthand script several times, often stopping and looking disgusted and then starting all over again. Occasionally he'd examine himself in the tiny monitor and call for somebody to adjust his hair or put a little makeup here or there, and then he'd also go back and forth with someone on the microphone as if he were on the telephone. It was a moment before she realized that he was sort of on the telephone; he had an earpiece connected to the large apparatus beneath the satellite dish just beyond and was clearly in direct communication with Atlanta.
Suddenly he looked around. "Doctor Sutton!" he called.
"Yes?"
"Get over here! We want to introduce you and go over the initial spot."
She hurried over, suddenly as self-conscious of her appearance as Maklovitch was of his, but it was too late to do much about it.
Terry came up to her and handed her an earpiece similar to the reporter's. She stuck it in her ear. A small microphone was clipped to the front of her blouse.
"Hello? Doctor Sutton? You reading us?" a man's voice came to her.
She was suddenly panicked, unsure of how to reply.
Maklovitch was an old hand at this sort of thing and said, "Just talk. That little mike you have on will pick you up. Just use a normal tone. It's pretty sensitive."
"Uh—yes, I hear you fine," she responded, feeling sudden panic and stage fright.
"All right. We'll be coming to your location after the next commercial spot."
"That can take twenty minutes," Maklovitch commented
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