?" He
watched the boy's expression carefully.

Jimsy said, "To use one of your own expressions, Max--_pfui_. They
wouldn't scare a mouse." And then Jimsy shrugged and walked away.

Mr. Untz turned to his assistant. "Harold," he said in an injured
tone. "You saw it. You heard it. You see what I've got to put up
with."

"Sure," said Harold Potter sympathetically. He had mixed feelings
toward Mr. Untz. He admired the producer's occasional flashes of
genius, he deplored his more frequent flashes of stupidity. On the
whole, however, he regarded himself as being on Mr. Untz's side in the
war between Mr. Untz and the world and Hollywood. He knew Mr. Untz's
main trouble.

Some years ago Maximilian Untz had been brought to Hollywood heralded
as Vienna's greatest producer of musicals. So far he had been assigned
to westerns, detectives, documentaries, a fantasy of the future--but
no musicals. And now it was a psychological thriller. Jimsy played the
killer as a boy and there was to be a dream sequence, a nightmare full
of monsters. Mr. Untz was determined it should be the most terrifying
dream sequence ever filmed.

Only up to now he wasn't doing so good.

"I would give," said Mr. Untz to Harold Potter, "my right eye for
some _really_ horrible monsters." He gestured at the world in
general. "Think of it, Harold. We got atom bombs and B-29's, both
vitamins and airplanes, and stuff to cure you of everything from
broken legs to dropsy. A whole world of modern science--but nobody
can make a fake monster. It looks anything but fake and wouldn't scare
an eleven-year-old boy."

"It's a thought," agreed Harold Potter. He had a feeling for things
scientific; he had taken a B.S. in college but had drifted into
photography and thence into movie production. He had a wife and a
spaniel and a collection of pipes and a house in Santa Monica with a
workshop basement.

"I got to do some thinking," Mr. Untz said. "I believe I will change
my clothes and take a shower. Come along to the cottage, Harold."

"Okay," said Harold. He never liked to say yes for fear of being
tagged a yes-man. Anyway, he enjoyed relaxing in the office-cottage
while Mr. Untz showered and changed, which Mr. Untz did some three or
four times a day. When he got there Mr. Untz disappeared into the
dressing-room and Harold picked up a magazine.

There was a knock on the door.

Harold got up and crossed the soft cream-colored carpet and opened the
door and saw a g