Delos 1 - Westworld Read online

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  Martin and Blane. Martin is still a little unconvinced about all this; his personal problems still preoccupy him. He’s not sure he’s going to have a good time, and he has a sort of sour I-know-this-isn’t-going-to-be-as-good-as-it’s-cracked-up-to-be expression on his face. Then he has a thought.

  MARTIN: Was she . . . ?

  BLANE: Probably.

  MARTIN (shaking his head) Amazing.

  BLANE: Supposedly, you really can’t tell. Except by looking at the hands—they haven’t perfected the hands yet.

  Martin nods, then turns forward.

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  The underground corridor. As the tram streaks forward, down a corridor lined with blue lights.

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  Another corridor and tram, this one going down a corridor with red lights. On it is the Middle-Aged Man.

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  Still another corridor and tram. This one goes down a corridor with yellow lights. On the tram is the businessman’s wife—in fact, the Roman World tram seems overpopulated with women.

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  Martin in his tram, watching as he comes to:

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  The underground locker room. It really looks part elegant locker room, part store. The half-dozen tourists going to Westworld including the Accountant, are taking off their clothes.

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  A montage, as they remove their own clothing, watches, jewelry, everything—and are given western clothes, boots, hats. And finally guns. Martin and Blane react to each step of the process. As their own clothes are locked away in a locker, there seems to be an irrevocable aspect that disturbs Martin. But as they strap on their guns, they smile at each other.

  Bring up fast-paced plunking banjo.

  DISSOLVE TO:

  A western street scene, as a stagecoach rumbles into town, spewing dust.

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  Martin looking out the window of the stagecoach.

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  A series of traveling points-of-view from the window: a man sitting back in a chair, smoking a cigar, a woman in bustle and parasol, walking down the boardwalk, a cowboy in chaps hitching up his horse.

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  Martin looking away from the window to Blane and grinning like a kid.

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  The street as the stagecoach rumbles up in front of the Grand Hotel, a misnamed place. It is really a two-story shack.

  The passengers climb out, coughing like greenhorns in the dust, and enter the hotel.

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  Inside hotel room. Martin’s suitcase is thrown down on a rickety bed, which groans with the weight. A disgruntled old bellhop who badly needs a shave explains with no particular interest:

  BELLHOP: Reckon that’s everything. Bathroom’s down the hall. Bath’ll cost you two bits for hot water. Dinner’s at seven sharp, breakfast at six-thirty. Git lunch on your own. Couple a places to eat in town. It don’t look like much here, but we got everything.

  Martin is staring in curious fascination at the Bellhop. Blane catches the look.

  BLANE: Can we see your hands, please?

  The Bellhop shrugs, holds open his hands, palms up.

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  The hands. They are perfectly lifelike except for a little prominent ridging at the finger joints. It’s not very noticeable, but it is wrong, and gives the whole thing away.

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  Blane and Martin.

  BLANE (tipping the Bellhop): Thank you.

  The Bellhop leaves. Martin stares after him.

  MARTIN: You mean to tell me he’s a robot?

  BLANE: That’s what I mean to tell you.

  Martin shakes his head in wonderment, looks around the room curiously, touching things.

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  He examines a chest of drawers. Then he goes to the bed, his attention drawn by a paperback dime novel on the nightstand. He sits down on the bed; it creaks loudly. He winces at its lumpiness, looks back at Blane.

  MARTIN: I paid a thousand dollars a day for this?

  BLANE: It’s authentic. The West of 1880.

  MARTIN (grumpy): They might have made it a little more comfortable.

  BLANE: But that’s the point. This is really the way it was . . . If you wanted comfort, you could have stayed in Chicago.

  Martin turns away, his attention absorbed by the novel. He opens it.

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  The paperback. It reads: “Pub. 1869.”

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  Martin. He closes the book, sets it down, notices an enameled pitcher on the bedstand. He picks it up; it has a rather graceful shape.

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  The pitcher. Imprinted on the bottom: “Stevens Ironworks, Pennsylvania, 1874.”

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  Martin. He holds the pitcher in his hands, runs his fingers over its curve.

  MARTIN: Julie would love all this. She was always interested in antiques . . . (smiling warmly) . . . poking around for hours in all those funny shops, looking for—

  BLANE: Peter, I don’t believe it.

  Martin stops. After a beat:

  BLANE: You’re a lawyer, you know better than anybody else what a ride she took you for.

  MARTIN: Well, there’s the kids—

  BLANE: —Fine, the kids, but here you are six months later, still thinking about her.

  MARTIN: No, not really. She just came to mind, is all.

  Martin puts the pitcher down gently and walks to the window. As he goes, he puts his hands in his pockets—a modern gesture—and looks out.

  MARTIN (slowly): It’s an interesting place . . .

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  An angle down on the western street from Martin’s point of view. A few riders are going by leisurely, their horses kicking up little spurts or dust; a couple of old-timers across the way are talking. Two women discuss a new dress that one wears. One of the women is quite handsome.

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  Martin at the window.

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  The gossiping women.

  MARTIN: There’s a lot to do here.

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  Inside the hotel room. Martin takes a deep breath, looks back into the room.

  MARTIN: Well . . . where do we go from here?

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  The western street. Blane and Martin come out of the hotel and walk down the boardwalk, smiling, nodding. A lady passes them; Blane tips his hat. Martin notices. A pair of ladies pass them; this time they both tip their hats. They continue on.

  Angle down on the western street from a second-story room.

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  The Accountant’s hotel room. He turns away from the window, looks around the room, hitches up his gun and holster, then looks at the mirror over the highboy. He tries a couple of quick draws—clumsy at first, then a little better. As he gets into the rhythm of it, he begins to smile. And then suddenly, on his next quick draw, his gun accidentally discharges, and he shoots out the mirror. He is startled.

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  Blane and Martin as they enter a saloon. A honky-tonk piano plays. There are dusty men playing cards, and a couple of slick gambler-types. One or two solitary gunslingers with bottles in front of them. No women at all. Blane and Martin enter, go up to the bar. The Bartender comes over.

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  BARTENDER: What’ll it be?

  BLANE: Whiskey.

  BARTENDER: (to Martin): What about you?

  Martin has been looking around the room. He turns and says without thinking:

  MARTIN: Uh, a very dry vodka martini on the rocks, please.

  The Bartender blinks.

  BLANE: Just bring him whiskey . . . he’s new in town.

  The Bartender moves off.

  BLANE: Look, you got to get into the feel of the thing.

  MARTIN: I feel silly.

  Blane turns and leans back on the bar, resting his elbows. He surveys the room.

  BLANE: Why?

  MARTIN: It’s like a joke.

  BLANE:
It’s not a joke, it’s a toy. It’s an amusement park—the best amusement park in the world. All you have to do is have fun.

  Martin also turns.

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  What Martin sees.

  A slow pan around the room.

  MARTIN (over): Some pretty rough customers here. How many of them are, uh . . .

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  Blane and Martin as Blane pushes back his hat.

  BLANE: Guests like us? Who knows? Maybe five, maybe none. That’s the beauty of this place. It doesn’t matter.

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  The room. A closer pan showing details of the men playing cards, drinking, lounging. They’re flawless western types.

  BLANE (over): It may look rough, but it’s still just a resort.

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  Blane and Martin. Their drinks come. Blane gulps it down.

  BLANE: There’s no way you can get hurt here. Just enjoy yourself.

  Martin picks up his drink, gulps it down, and is overcome with explosive coughing. Tears come to his eyes. Blane tries to keep from laughing. Martin is coughing and wiping his eyes, finally gets control of himself.

  MARTIN: What is that stuff?

  BLANE (picking up unlabeled bottle): Doesn’t say.

  MARTIN (breathing deeply): Good God . . . gimme that.

  BLANE: Puts hair on your chest.

  Martin is now glancing around the room in embarrassment as he pours himself another shot. He picks it up to drink it and is nudged—the drink spills all over his shirt.

  The man who has nudged Martin is a gunslinger, a good six inches taller than Martin, dressed in black, and exceedingly mean-looking. He is the kind of man who gets going in the morning by shooting somebody the way other people get going with a cup of coffee. He has stepped up to the bar and has obviously taken no pains to avoid nudging Martin. But he ignores him.

  GUNSLINGER (low): Whiskey.

  The Gunslinger disdainfully tosses a gold coin on the bar counter. Then he turns to look at Martin. Martin is just standing there, staring.

  GUNSLINGER: Sloppy with your drink.

  Shaking his head, he turns away. The Bartender brings a bottle and a shot glass. The Gunslinger pours a drink, knocks it back with a satisfied sigh.

  Martin stares at the Gunslinger. Blane nudges Martin: go ahead and take him on. Martin looks angrily at Blane: you stay out of this.

  The Gunslinger himself is apparently oblivious, staring forward across the bar. Then he says:

  GUNSLINGER: You momma’s boys are all alike. Need a bib to keep your shirt clean. We got a bib for this boy?

  Scattered laughter around the room. The Bartender, who is drying glasses with a towel, smiles indulgently. Martin still stares.

  Blane is looking at Martin, who is carefully not looking at Blane.

  BLANE (hissing): Go on!

  Martin shakes his head quickly.

  GUNSLINGER: Yeah . . . Some guys aren’t much without momma around, to hide behind her skirts.

  Martin is, if anything, more terrified by this than goaded into action. Blane whispers into Martin’s ear. Martin shakes his head. Blane grabs his arm and whispers again.

  Camera begins to move in on Martin.

  MARTIN (very low): You talk too much.

  The Gunslinger turns his head slowly, indolently, like a lazy lion.

  GUNSLINGER: You say something, boy?

  MARTIN (louder): I said, you talk too much.

  Around the saloon, people are beginning to sense the tension; they are losing interest in their drinks and card games. The Gunslinger is still lazy.

  A slow smile spreads across his face. He steps away from the bar.

  GUNSLINGER: Why don’t you make me shut up?

  Martin steps away from the bar, nodding. Blane moves backward.

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  The saloon as chairs scrape back and people dive for cover. Blane vaults over the bar. Martin and the Gunslinger square off.

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  The Gunslinger

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  Martin

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  GUNSLINGER: Your move.

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  Martin, having a shade of last-minute doubt.

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  The Gunslinger’s face. Snap zoom in on his eyes, which we see are plastic and electronic, and in that moment of recognition

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  Martin drawing his gun and

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  The Gunslinger drawing and he is cut down and

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  Martin, guns blazing

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  The Gunslinger spinning, twisting in slow motion, and blood spurting from shoulder and chest as the bullets hit him and

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  Martin still firing and enjoying the hell out of it and

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  The Gunslinger slamming against the bar, and then slumping to the floor, slowly. Silence. It’s incredibly realistic.

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  Martin, frozen in sudden horror, holding his smoking pistol in front of him. He stares at the dead man.

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  What he sees: the Gunslinger, blood pouring from his chest.

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  Martin looking around as people in the saloon warily take up their old positions.

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  Blane rising above the bar, smiling.

  BLANE: Pretty realistic, huh?

  Martin, raising his eyebrows: hell yes. Blane comes around and claps him on the back. The honky-tonk piano begins to play again. Martin knocks back a drink, then turns to look over his shoulder.

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  What he sees: two men hauling the Gunslinger’s body out of the saloon, feet first. The body is dragged roughly across the floor, leaving a wavering trail of blood.

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  Martin, turning back to Blane.

  MARTIN: Blane, are you sure he was—

  BLANE: Of course. You don’t think you really shot anybody, do you?

  Martin thinks it over, then grins and shakes his head.

  MARTIN: Wow.

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  Blane and Martin’s hotel room. They are changing clothes prior to dinner. As Martin hitches on his gunbelt:

  MARTIN: Say, John . . . (taking out his gun) How do I know I’m not going to kill another guest with this thing?

  BLANE (grinning): Try it.

  Martin looks confused.

  BLANE: Shoot me.

  Blane is standing at the mirror, adjusting his shirt. His back is to Martin.

  BLANE: Go on. Shoot.

  Martin aims, but hesitates.

  BLANE: Shoot!

  Martin shoots. There is a click; no gunshot. Blane smiles. Martin looks closely at his gun.

  BLANE: The gun has a sensing device. It won’t fire at anything with a high body temperature. Only something cold, like a machine.

  MARTIN: They thought of everything.

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  The gun. We can see that it’s a little strangely shaped; a peculiar lump under the barrel.

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  The dining room of the Grand Hotel. Dinner is being served, family style, in heavy porcelain dishes that are somehow reminiscent of chamber pots. A half-dozen guests, including the Accountant, are eating.

  Among them are Blane and Martin. They eat heartily in silence for a while.

  BLANE (turning to elderly hostess): What do people do for companionly entertainment in this town?

  HOSTESS: I wouldn’t know about such things. I’m just runnin’ the hotel.

  Blane looks at Martin.

  ACCOUNTANT (timidly): Miss Carrie’s got a real nice saloon, down end of the street.

  HOSTESS: I won’t have talk of that woman in this house. Not over my dinner.

  MARTIN (quickly): Real good food, ma’am.

  HOSTESS: Thank you, stranger. I can see you’re a gentleman of some breedin’.

  Blane nudges Martin.

  BLANE: Isn’t she terrific?

  Martin blinks.


  BLANE: Notice the hands.

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  The hostess passing the potatoes. We see her hands; there are odd ridges in the fingers.

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  Martin, frowning.

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  A close shot of the hostess’s face: it’s flawless down to the last detail.

  HOSTESS: Been mighty hot lately in these parts. I expect we’re due for some rain.