NightScape Part 6

THE SIREN BLARES, A SHRILL ATTENTION-GETTER.

She stiffens and glares toward the ceiling.

JAMIE.

I told you I promised!

With a frightened glance toward the door, she shuffles toward a section of the control room that we haven't seen.

There, she reaches a treadmill, breathes deeply, and straps what looks like a blood-pressure cuff to each arm. Wires lead out of the cuff to a monitor.

Nervous, she glances toward the door.

JAMIE.

If you'd just been honest...If you'd only prepared me...

THE SIREN WARNS HER. JAMIE cowers.

JAMIE.

I know! I know! I hear you! But why won't you talk to me?

With a frantic gaze, she studies the ceiling.

No answer.

Distraught, she steps on the treadmill and pushes a b.u.t.ton. The treadmill begins to move beneath her. She starts to walk.

CLOSE UP on the monitor to which her cuffs and wires are attached. Like an EKG, it shows FLAs.h.i.+NG RED NUMBERS-blood pressure, pulse, and other numbers that we don't understand.

Jamie walks in place, the treadmill moving beneath her.

A WHISTLE BLOWS.

Jamie presses another number on the treadmill.

The treadmill moves faster.

The monitor's numbers increase.

Jamie paces increasingly faster and begins to recite.

JAMIE.

My name is Jamie Neal. I'm an a.s.sistant professor of deep-s.p.a.ce psychology.

THE WHISTLE BLOWS AGAIN.

Flinching, Jamie presses another number on the controls. The treadmill moves faster. She hastens her pace.

THE FLAs.h.i.+NG RED NUMBERS go higher.

Despite the effort of her increased pace, Jamie continues reciting.

JAMIE.

Specialty - adaptation to confinement. Reactions to a limited environment. Potential aberrant behavior caused by the stress of...

When THE WHISTLE SHRILLS AGAIN, Jamie presses another number on the treadmill's console. She's forced to pace even faster.

JAMIE.

Claustrophobia.

Sweat beads on her brow.

JAMIE.

Five rooms. Two here in this central unit...

(a nervous glance toward the door) three others, an entrance bay, a solar power station, and sleeping quarters, linked to this central unit by corridors.

(swallows, wipes sweat from her brow) But I can't reach my sleeping quarters...

(an even more nervous glance toward the door) unless I pa.s.s through there.

ANOTHER SHRILL WHISTLE. Jamie hurriedly presses another b.u.t.ton. As the treadmill increases speed, she's almost forced to run.

JAMIE.

And we all know what's in there.

She shudders.

JAMIE.

You bet. For sure. We all know what I have to face in there.

(out of breath) After you've made me fulfill my bargain.

The FLAs.h.i.+NG RED NUMBERS on the monitor go higher.

Jamie's running now.

JAMIE.

After you've put me through my paces for today.

(wipes sweat from her brow) Or is this yesterday? I don't know anymore. Isn't that what you want to find out? How much stress can someone take?

On the monitor, THE RED NUMBERS FLASH as if out of control.

Instead of the whistle, THE SIREN ONCE AGAIN BLARES.

Breathing rapidly, Jamie presses another number on the treadmill's console. Her pace decreases. Nervous but relieved, she presses more numbers, reducing her speed until the treadmill stops and she steps off.

At once, after raising her Lakers sweats.h.i.+rt to wipe her face, she stares toward the ceiling, then the door, in apprehension.

JAMIE.

My name is Jamie Neal. I'm twenty eight. I've been here...I think...for sixty-four days. I think. Why didn't you give me windows? I want to see...

(paws at a wall) the stars. The sun sets even here. Not on the schedule I'm used to. But I could get used to that schedule. And I'd love to see it. After sixty-four days.

She squints toward the ceiling.

JAMIE.

Or nights. How can I know? If only I could see... I bet the sunset...no smog here...the colors must be...

(her voice drops) I remember...crimson...like a flower...a rose...in blossom...

(melancholy) beautiful.

In a sudden rage, she kicks the remnants of the habitat's model she earlier crushed.

JAMIE.

Never mind windows! Why didn't you give me...?

She spins toward the numerous consoles.

JAMIE.

Computers! Temperature gauges! Pressure readouts! Oxygen monitors! Humidity! Gravity! Even dust! I can measure everything! Except the single most precious thing in my life!

She slumps against a table.

JAMIE.

Time. Maybe it's only sixty-three days. Or maybe sixty-nine. Or maybe I've been here only a couple of weeks. But it feels like...

(despairing) Eternity.

BEEP.

JAMIE.

Why didn't you at least allow me to wear a watch?

She gestures frantically toward the consoles.

JAMIE.

Or let me have a clock?

Nothing fancy! No digital astro-time calculator. No computerized star-date monitor, with comparative readouts for here and home and the Gemini galaxy and... Just a plain old-fas.h.i.+oned clock, makes a twisting motion with one hand, pretending to hold an object in the other The kind you wind up at night, and it ticks, and the hands go around, and if you want to wake up at a certain hour, you set the alarm. And when it rings, you know it's tomorrow. And if you make a mark (pretends she has a pencil) on a page every time the alarm goes off...and if you count the marks, you're sure how many days you've been here. You don't feel as if you're...

(slumps against the wall) going crazy. Is that the point of the test? How would I react -not if but when I broke down? Because of...

She stares in horror toward the door.

JAMIE.

Time.

The SIREN WAILS.

JAMIE.

No.

A SECOND WAIL.

JAMIE.

Please! Don't make me go in there again!

A THIRD WAIL.

Tears stream down Jamie's face.

A FOURTH WAIL.

Jamie walks toward the door, as if hypnotized.

JAMIE.

Fulfill my contract. Obey my orders.

JAMIE's POINT OF VIEW-approaching the door.

JAMIE.

Go through my paces.

She pauses. OFF STAGE, we HEAR THE HISS OF THE DOOR SLIDING OPEN. We ZOOM TOWARD A CLOSE-UP OF Jamie's FACE: contorted, apprehensive, horrified.