The war was going to start in less than a year.

Franklin Delano Roosevelt had just begun his third term as President, Joe Louis had just knocked out a heavyweight pushover named Abe Simon. After a lull, the Luftwaffe was resuming its firebombing of London. Charles Lindbergh was getting ready to address a big America First rally in Chicago and Congress, after much debate and haggling, passed the Lend-Lease Bill. The "Pot o' Gold" radio show, in spite of its handsome $1,000 prize, was sinking in the Hooper ratings. Bob Hope, Kate Smith, "The Path to Love," and the Aldrich Family were doing fine. Hitler, the world's best-known vegetarian, was planning his spring campaign. Emperor Hirohito decided this was the year to annex all of southern Asia. Mussolini, another vegetarian, was celebrating his eighteenth anniversary as dictator of Italy amid rumors he was dying of syphilis. Boris Karloff was wowing Broadway in Arsenic and Old Lace. Gypsy Rose Lee, noted stripper, got a divorce. So did magician Blackstone, noted for his floating-lady illusion. A man named Joseph Lyman was granted a patent for something called radar.

It was a splendid spring night in Hollywood, warmed by a pleasant wind coming from the inland desert. Looking up through the leaves of the real, green palm trees, you could see a clear black sky rich with stars. From down at the Garden of Allah the sound of beautiful golden-haired actresses splashing in the big swimming pool came drifting, along with the sound of someone playing Cole Porter tunes on a piano with one dead key.

The front of the Club Zig Zag was all gleaming chrome panels decorated with flashes of ebony lightning. Tiny planted floodlights illuminated the miniature trees lining the white gravel pathway leading from the crowded parking lot to the wide silver door of the night spot. It looked even better than a Los Angeles funeral parlor.

The handsome door flapped open and Errol Flynn came out, grinning, wiping lipstick off his left cheek. He hesitated, swaying gently from side to side. He tilted his head, listening.

A block away a newsboy was shouting. "Extra . . . bomb . . . hundreds die . . . extra . . ."

You couldn't make it all out.

Flynn shrugged, stepped onto the white gravel path. A top-down Buick convertible, bright lemon yellow, swooped down and stopped. A lovely Chinese girl, clad in a suit of red silk pajamas, leaned across and opened the passenger door. Flynn, stumbling, got in. The yellow car gunned off, heading for Sunset.

"It doesn't fit," complained Pete Tinsley.

"It fits, it fits -- trust me," said Hix. "It fits adequately. You look absolutely swell."

They were standing just beyond the spot where Flynn had been, the dust of his swift departure settling on them.

"One shoulder is way up here," said Pete. "I look like I'm always on the brink of shrugging."

Hix pushed open the door of the nightclub, tugging Pete inside with him. They passed the hat-check room, in front of which a drunken Army colonel was trying on top hats which didn't fit.

"Come on, now, smile," urged Hix. "Act employed."

The lanky light-haired young man frowned. "I ought to be home working on that new novelette for Stimulating Science Stories instead of--"

"After tonight you can kiss off those cheapo markets. You are on the threshold of a bright new . . . Hey, there's Hedda Hopper, way over there. Hi, Hedda." Hix squinted. "I didn't quite catch what Hedda said by way of reply."

"Sounded like 'Up yours, Hix.' "

Scowling Hix brushed at the lapel of his dinner jacket. He was a moderate-sized man, fuzzy-haired and thirty-one. "What would motivate Hedda to say 'Up yours' to a screenwriter of my standing? Unless she's uneasy about that last item I gave her for her column, concerning my romance with Joan Blondell."

"You're not having any romance with Joan Blondell."

"Which could be what prompts Hedda Hopper to cry 'Up yours, Hix' smack dab in the middle of one of Hollywood's flashiest rendezvous . . . There's Ralph Bellamy over by the bandstand. Hi, pal. You were great in Footsteps in the Dark. Notice, Peter, how his tux doesn't fit much better than yours."

"That's why he never gets the girl," said Pete. "And his suit doesn't have bullet holes in it."

"Neither does yours. We got all those patched up, damn it, and there is absolutely not a thing to fret over."

"My back is chilly. I'm starting to suspect some of them have come unsewed."

The thirteen-piece band, every man in spotless white tie and white tails, was midway through a dreamy version of "Blue Moon." The dance floor was packed with cheek-to-cheek couples.

"There's Dennis O'Keefe over there with Bert Wheeler and Billy Gilbert. O'Keefe's a cinch to hit it big."

"Next time you borrow a suit from your studio, Hix, see if you can--"

"You got -- trust me -- the only damn tux I could swipe from wardrobe on such short notice." Hix took hold of his elbow. "One of the batch they were just using in Chinatown Murders. What have you got on your hair?"

Pete scratched at his sand-colored hair. "Oh, I know what you're smelling. It's ketchup from this suit. They must have used it for blood."

"Naw, they don't use ketchup out at Star-Spangled Studios."

"Well, something with tomatoes in it."

"Hi, Lupe. You're looking just terrific. That was Lupe Velez. No undies -- did you notice?" Hix kept leading him deeper into the crowd.

"I noticed. All writers are observant," Pete said. "But we're kidding ourselves, Hix -- this isn't going to work."

"Sure it's going to work, kiddo -- it's a cinch. Trust me, Pete, you are on the brink of something big."

"Yeah, like a precipice."

"Listen, you're how old now? Twenty-seven, twenty-eight?"

"Twenty-eight."

"Been out here in sun-kissed California for three long years and you still don't have one damn screen credit. No, you drone away in the Laguna Vista Apartment Court, pulling down a penny a goddamn word from Manhattan pulps such as Stimulating Science, Overwhelming Western, and Devastating Terror, while--"

"Overwhelming Western has upped me to two cents."

"I'm offering you, for Christ sake, a chance to break out of your fetters, to get into the movie racket. Here's a golden opportunity to work with a seasoned screenwriter on a major script."

"I thought this was a serial."

"A major serial. And I'm going to get you a hundred fifty dollars a week -- a whole twenty-five smackers better than the Guild minimum."

"I'm not used to being paid by weeks instead of words."

"There's Charlie Ruggles. Hiya, Charlie, old buddy." Hix waved. "It's time for you to break loose, brother. You've got talent, Pete -- a terrific imagination. That opening you did on 'Vampires of the Venusian Void' was swell, the work of a born genius."

Pete said, "I still don't think even a producer like Milton Owls is going to be interested in a pulp magazine hack."

"Listen, pal, hordes of absolutely brilliant screen-writers have graduated from the cheesy pages of the pulpwoods. Dashiell Hammett, for instance. And look where he is today."

"I think I saw him sprawled flat on his face in front of the bar."

"Hi, Chester. You were beautiful in Meet Boston Blackie. Notice that one shoulder of his tux was higher than the other."

"He was shrugging."

"Ah, our goal at long last." Hix rubbed his fuzzy head.

"Maybe we ought to phone Owls at the studio instead of--"

"Hooey -- too much red tape even for me to cut. This is better -- trust me. When I heard he was going to hit this joint tonight, I knew it was absolutely the right way to . . . Here's the very guy you're looking for, Milt."

"Which guy?" Milton Owls was a hefty man, fifty-three, squat and wide, wearing gold-rimmed spectacles. He took these off, blinking, and breathed on the lenses before wiping them with his crisp white table napkin.

"The Mars guy I was telling you about," explained Hix.

Pete was noticing the pretty, slim auburn-haired girl who sat next to the producer. She was young, not more than twenty-one, wearing a simple white satin evening gown. Smiling up at Pete, she said, "Hit him for two-hundred bucks a week."

The other man at the table was too large for his tux. "Dames shouldn't talk money," he remarked, scowling, thick bushy brows tapping together.

Owls fitted his glasses back on. "So you know all about Mars?"

"Well, I've written about the planet quite a lot, yeah."

"Shit, I bet he don't even know where Mars is," said the large shaggy man.

Sitting down uninvited, Pete pointed at the ceiling. "Mars is up there." He offered his hand to the girl. "I'm Pete Tinsley."

"Tracy Flinn." She shook his hand; her skin was smooth and warm. "With an I in the middle."

"A fresh guy maybe," observed Owls.

"A wiseass," said the big man. "We ought maybe to give him the bum's rush."

Clearing his throat, Hix settled into the only vacant chair. "Peter Tinsley is a man of science, Thompson. Naturally, a guy such as yourself, wrapped up in being a top-notch assistant producer out at Star-Spangled, you--"

"Could you honestly help Hix write this goddamn thing?" Owls asked Pete.

"The serial, you mean?"

"Sure he can," Hix said. "That's why I'm telling you you got to hire him to assist me on the script, Milt. You know damn well, after the terrific job I did on Guns of the Purple Rider and Six Golden Scorpions, that -- "

"Only five this schmuck puts in," said Owls, chuckling. "A great script mind, but sloppy. We get to where we're shooting the last chapter, Chapter Twelve, of Six Golden Scorpions, out on location near the frigging Springs, and Isaac says to me . . . You know Isaac Simplicissimus? Great director for a kraut. Anyhow, he says to me, "Mildon, I chust realize, ve got only fife dodgosted scorpions. Und not siggs.' Jesus, we had to haul this bum Hix out of some bordello down in Caliente to write in one more goddamn scorpion."

"Tell him," said Hix with a frown, "what that particular chapter play grossed."

Thompson muttered, "It didn't do so bad."

"Republic would love a serial that grossed like Six Golden Scorpions," Hix said, voice rising. "Columbia would dance up and down. Hell, Louis B. Mayer might think about teaming Clark Gable and Vivian Leigh again if he could get a script that terrific. 'Hix, come on over to MGM and you need provide us no more than five scorpions, my boy. Make it four. But get over here damn fast, so we can start stuffing your pockets with dough.' I hear, matter of fact, Mayer's looking for a hot property for Tracy and Hepburn. Maybe I'll--"

"Such a wise guy." Owls chuckled once more. "This goddamn thing takes place on Mars," he said in Pete's direction. "You could handle that?"

"Sure, I just finished a novel about Mars called 'Warrior Queen of the Red Planet,' " Pete replied. "It'll be coming out in Thrilling Wond--"

"Title stinks," said Owls. "What do you think, Thompson?"

The large man grunted. "Can't have queen in it -- people will think it's about pansies," he said. "Put red in the title, they figure it's a Bolshie flick."

Pete was watching the girl once more. "You work at Star-Spangled, too?"

"She's his secretary." Thompson pointed his thick thumb at the girl and then at the fat Owls. "Private secretary."

"I don't know, Hix." Owls sighed. "We got to start shooting in six, seven weeks. I absolutely got to have a scenario in two weeks and the whole frigging script in no more than five. My publicity people are already howling my production crew is having fits." He cocked his head at Pete. "Like the title?"

"Which title?"

"For the goddamn serial."

Hix said, leaning an elbow on the tabletop, "I told you back at your place, remember? It's going to be called Skyrocket Steele."

"Terrific title," said Pete. "Would you people actually pay me two hundred a week?"

"If I did I'd have to cut Hix. He's already holding me up for three hundred."

"You want quality, you have to pay for it," reminded Hix. "Hey, there's Ginger Rogers. Hi, redhead. That can't be Fritz Henzler she's dancing with, is it?"

"That bastard," said Owls, snarling. "Him and his frigging German-American Horseman League. They ought to put him on a boat and ship him back to the Nazis."

Tracy asked Pete, "Did you hear about the latest raid on London?"

"Hix barged in when the news was coming on," he said. "Worse than usual?"

"Supposed to be the roughest Nazi strike yet." She nodded, long auburn hair brushing her bare tanned shoulders. "I'm really worried England isn't going to be able to hang on."

"Screw England," said Owls. "They never understood Star-Spangled's best pictures over there. Wouldn't even book The Singing Bellhop. Anybody who don't understand tenors, who needs 'em. I'll give you a hundred fifty, kid."

"You better take it," advised Hix. "You can't expect to pull down what a seasoned writer gets the first crack off the reel." His hair had become fuzzier and wilder.

Pete said, "Okay, I accept." Owls offered his plump hand. "Come on out to the studio tomorrow with Hix. We'll sign some papers, then you can get cracking. I got to have something for my people goddamn quick."

"Would you," Tracy asked, "like to dance with me, Pete?"

"Yep, I would indeed." He stood and went around to her side of the white table. "I'll . . . oops! Stepped on your wrap."

Tracy smiled, getting up. "No, that was the chimpanzee."

Glancing down, Pete confirmed it was a dozing chimp he'd put his foot on. "Yours?"

"Oh, no, he belongs to Hunneker. You know, he makes the jungle man movies for MGM. He insists on dragging the poor thing along with him when he's on the town, but then he gets to drinking or gambling and Toko is left stranded." She bent to stroke the slumbering animal behind an ear. "Toko, for some unexplained reason, is very fond of me." Taking Pete's hand, she guided him toward the immense circular ebony dance floor.

The band had just started playing "String of Pearls."

"Be easier to go over this way."

"I want to avoid June Maze's table. Know her?"

"No, but I've seen her in a couple movies Hix wrote."

"She'll be in Skyrocket Steele. She's okay, for a top-heavy nitwit, but those guys she pals around with . . ."

"That's right, she's supposed to be the girlfriend of Gypsy Shuster, the alleged mobster."

"She is, and there's nothing alleged about Gypsy. He's a fully accredited hoodlum and . . . oh, damn!"

"Hey, you told me you wasn't dancing." A big curly-haired man had left the June Maze party to come pushing over to Tracy's side. "Yet that don't seem to be the case." He gripped her bare arm.

"Ease off, Dime," the girl advised, attempting to free herself from him.

Dime Gallardo grinned. "We'll have us a couple dances, long as they don't play any more of that South American crapola. Then we can sit out a few in the--"

"Let her go." Pete clapped his hand over that of the mobster. There were a lot of big rings and bigger knuckles.

Dime ignored him. "We going to dance or ain't we, Trace?"

"I don't want to tangle with you in the middle of this damn place," Pete told him. "But I will if you don't turn her loose right now."

Very slowly, Dime took in Pete. Then he laughed. Snorting, he pushed the girl away. "Okay, jerk, we'll tangle private. Then, while you're picking your keester up off the linoleum, I'll get back to my girl." He jerked a finger in Tracy's direction. "Wait right here, honey."

"Pete, you don't have to--"

"Let's go sucker." Dime grabbed hold of Pete's shoulder.

The borrowed suit made some odd new ripping noises. "Damn, there go more of the bullet holes."

Dime, laughing in anticipation, tugged Pete across the ebony dance floor, around the ivory bandstand and into a shadowy corridor. "This'll do fine," he announced. "I decked a couple other punks here once."

He flat-handed Pete's chest.

The force of the shove was such that it caused Pete to smack the opposite wall. The collision shook the plaster walls; the one dim orange-bulbed overhead lamp jittered; all of Pete's teeth and bones rattled.

"You ain't going to dance no more." Hunched, massive arms swinging, Dime came stalking for Pete.

Pete was having considerable trouble getting several body functions -- ones he'd assumed were fully automatic -- to work. His breathing was choppy, irregular, threatening to shut off. His vision was furry and he had the impression his left eye was blinking twice as fast as his right.

But he had to meet Dime's charge. Biting at the air, struggling to breath in some at least halfway normal way, he willed his eyes to show him the approaching hood more clearly.

"Fun," Dime was murmuring, "this is going to be fun."

"Up yours," gasped Pete, borrowing from Hedda Hopper. Holding on to his balance as best he could, he swung a fist in the general direction of Dime.

The punch barely reached the big man's chest. Dime, however, gave a sudden surprised shout and went rising up to the ceiling. His head smacked the dappled plaster very hard, causing his jaw to snap shut with a bony crunch. Dime seemed to hesitate up there a few seconds before plummeting down. He slammed into the floor, groaned, spilled out like wax melting.

Shaking his head, Pete backed away from the unconscious man. Three more steps and he was aware Tracy was standing in the corridor. He put an arm around the girl, partly out of growing affection and partly to keep from falling over. "I didn't do that to him, Tracy -- make him jump that way," he said. "I hardly, I don't think, hit the guy at all. You must have done it . . . but how could you? He flew all the way to the ceiling . . . you didn't even touch him."

"Never mind, Pete," suggested Tracy. "Forget this and what you think maybe you saw. I couldn't let him hurt you, okay?"

"Yeah, sure, but how the--"

"Forget it, please." She twisted, pressed against him and kissed him. After a while she said again, "Forget."

"Okay," he promised, "I'll forget."