The Rocketeer by Peter David

held his breath. His eyes, along with those of everyone else on the set, were glued on the noblewoman.
    And to their utter shock, she said with breathless wonder, amazement, precision, and absolutely no trace of any accent except a perfect British one, “Oh, my prince! Would that you drink of my lips as deeply!”
    It was all the director and crew could do not to give a collective yelp of joy. As if galvanized by the hope of finishing the damned master take already, Sir Reginald leapt off the table into the midst of the palace guards, sword poised . . .
    And at that moment Cliff Secord discovered that the sturdy castle wall was made of plyboard. Overbalanced by his weight, the wall started to topple.
    A grip saw it first and, with alarm, he shouted, “Heads up!”
    The castle wall tore right down the middle and collapsed slowly but inevitably. Cast and crew dashed in all directions, screams filling the air, and the flat landed in the middle of the set with a massive thwap.
    Cliff stood there, feeling incredibly exposed. The eyes of a hundred people were staring at him. Ninety-nine, actually—Jenny, standing behind a pillar, had closed hers in pain and mortification.
    The confused flier looked around and then said, “Uh . . . sorry. Is Jenny here?”
    Victor felt as if his temples were about to explode. But he knew that if he lost control now, it would mean, at the very least, a stroke.
    “Jenny,” he said with great quiet. He turned and raised his voice. “Is there a Jenny here?” he asked, sounding sweet as pie.
    Jenny had been shutting her eyes even more tightly, hoping that when she opened them it would all turn out to be a bad dream. Such, however, was not the case. Slowly she emerged from behind the pillar and, wishing that she would simply die there and then because anything was preferable to this, she raised her hand.
    Victor made an elaborately gracious bow to Cliff, sweeping his hands toward Jenny in a be-my-guest manner. Cliff walked toward her, noticing how ashen she had become, and it was at that point that the director suddenly realized that the camera was still rolling. He glared into the camera and with a throat-slashing gesture—which was what he felt like doing at the moment—he said, “Cut!”
    A swarm of crew members were helping Neville Sinclair to his feet. He deflected their concern with good humor. “It’s all right,” he said. “I’m fine. Never let it be said that a Neville Sinclair performance failed to bring down the house!”
    This generated a round of laughter while the assistant director, Fred, went to the sprawled Sir Alec. “Charlie, you can get up now . . .” He prodded the actor with his toe. “Charlie?”
    Charlie Middleton rolled off and groaned, and Fred’s eyes went wide with shock. “Somebody call the nurse!” he bellowed, stumbling back. “Charlie’s been stabbed!”
    Immediately there was shouting and yelling as the crew rushed over. Sinclair and Victor pushed their way through the crowd, and Sinclair dropped to one knee next to Middleton.
    “Charlie, my God, forgive me!” he said. “I had no idea!”
    His voice gurgling with pain, Middleton nevertheless managed to force a weak smile. “Did you think I was stealing the scene?”
    Even though the director was master of the set, it was Sinclair who jumped to his feet, immediately taking charge. “John!” he called out to the second assistant director. “Use my car and driver! Get Charlie to the Queen of Angels!” To the nurse who had showed up and was quickly working on staunching the flow of blood, he said, “Gladys, you ride along with him. I’ll have my personal physician meet you there!”
    Sinclair pulled the director aside as everyone around rushed to do as he had instructed.
    And when Neville Sinclair had the director over in a private corner, the actor’s face changed. His expression hardened, his eyes brimmed with fury, and all the compassion vanished, to be replaced by a cold and icy demeanor.