"I need a miracle," Catherine said frankly. "I'm in charge of this, and I don't know what I'm supposed to be doing."
He grinned at her. "Welcome to Hollywood. I'm Tom O'Brien, the A.D."
She looked at him, quizzically.
"The assistant director. Your friend, the corporal, was supposed to direct it, but I have a feeling he won't be back." There was a calm assurance about the man which Catherine liked.
"How long have you worked at Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer?" she asked.
"Twenty-five years."
"Do you think you could direct this?"
She saw the corner of his lips twist. "I could try," he said gravely. "I've done six pictures with Willie Wyler." His eyes grew serious. "The situation isn't as bad as it looks," he said. "All it needs is a little organization. The script's written, and the set's ready."
"That's a beginning," Catherine said. She looked around the sound stage at the uniforms. Most of them were badly fitted, and the men wearing them looked ill at ease.
"They look like recruiting ads for the Navy," Catherine commented.
O'Brien laughed appreciatively.
"Where did these uniforms come from?"
"Western Costume. Our Wardrobe Department ran out. We're shooting three war pictures."
Catherine studied the men critically. "There are only half a dozen that are really bad," she decided. "Let's send them back and see if we can't do better."
O'Brien nodded approvingly. "Right."
Catherine and O'Brien walked over to the group of extras. The din of conversation on the enormous stage was deafening.
"Let's hold it down, boys," O'Brien yelled. "This is Miss Alexander. She's going to be in charge here."
There were a few appreciative whistles and cat calls.
"Thanks," Catherine smiled. "Most of you look fine, but a few of you are going to have to go back to Western Costume and get different uniforms. Let's line up, so we can take a good look at you."
"I'd like to take a good look at you. What are you doing for dinner tonight?" one of the men called.
"I'm having it with my husband," Catherine said, "right after his match."
O'Brien formed the men into a ragged line. Catherine heard laughter and voices nearby and turned in annoyance. One of the extras was standing next to a piece of scenery, talking to three girls who were hanging on his every word and giggling hysterically at everything he said. Catherine watched a moment, then walked over to the man and said, "Excuse me. Would you mind joining the rest of us?"
The man turned slowly. "Are you talking to me?" he asked lazily.
"Yes," Catherine said. "We'd like to go to work." She walked away.
He whispered something to the girls which drew a loud laugh, then slowly moved after Catherine. He was a tall man, his body lean and hard-looking, and he was very handsome, with blue-black hair and stormy dark eyes. His voice, when he spoke, was deep and filled with insolent amusement. "What can I do for you?" he asked Catherine.
"Do you want to work?" Catherine replied.
"I do, I do," he assured her.
Catherine had once read an article about extras. They were a strange breed of people, spending their anonymous lives on sound stages, lending background atmosphere to crowd scenes in which stars appeared. They were faceless, voiceless people, inherently too ambitionless to seek any kind of meaningful employment. The man in front of her was a perfect example. Because he was outrageously handsome, someone from his hometown had probably told him that he could be a star, and he had come to Hollywood, learned that talent was necessary as well as good looks and had settled for being an extra. The easy way out.
"We're going to have to change some of the uniforms," Catherine said patiently.
"Is there anything wrong with mine?" he asked.