1

R.B.: The Colt 45 was nicknamed the Peacemaker. Sometimes you need a standoff to have a stand-down.

G.R.: You mean like the Cuban Missile Mess in October. Just remember what the initials of Mutually Assured Destruction

spell. Without a Gort or a Klaatu, nothing can stop the Mad Men of this world from blowing up the earth and all of us on it.

R.B.: How about ten thousand Paladins – each armed with an equalizer . . . er, handgun.

G.R.: As long as it’s set to stun.

R.B.: You can do that?

G.R.: Not yet. But some day. (raising glass) To the future. (finishing drink)

R.B.: If only we had a crystal ball . . .

G.R. (examining glass in light): But at least we’ve got this crystal glass. (looking at clock)

Gotta go. Sorry we didn’t have more time to solve all the problems of Western Civilization.

R.B.: You can take care of civilization. I’ve got enough trouble just trying to handle this Western.

Gwyn’s voice on intercom: Richard . . . Mister Boone . . . a Johnny-somebody to see you.

R.B.: Speaking of Westerns . . .

G.R.: Oh. Is that Johnny Western, the song-writer? Didn’t he write the Paladin theme song?

R.B.: Yes, with a little help from Paladin himself. I want to see him about adding some lyrics.

(rummaging in desk drawer) I need to find them first. (to Gwyn) Gwyn. Give me a few minutes.

Gwyn’s voice on intercom (coldly): You’re the boss, Mister Boone.

G.R.: She doesn’t sound too pleased.

R.B.: She wants to be in show business.

G.R. (exiting): As the Bride of Frankenstein?

Maybe I can talk her out of it.

R.B.(calling after him): Good luck!

R.B.(finding notes in drawer): Aha!

Voice on intercom (garbled): “Your baby . . .”

R.B.: What, again? Is that you Hugh Mann?

2

Voice on intercom (garbled): “In danger . . .”

R.B.: My baby in danger? What baby? What danger?

Voice on intercom (garbled): “Charlie Mann’s Son . . .”

R.B.: Are you talking about yourself? Or Jack Ganelon?

Voice on intercom (garbled): “threatens . . .”

R.B.: Charlie Mann’s Son threatens? Threatens who? Clare? Peter?

Voice on intercom (garbled): “Your baby . . .”

R.B.: That’s nonsense. Gene is right. You’re a hallucination. Go away. (garbled “danger”) Go away, I say!

Gwyn’s voice on intercom: Are you telling me to send Johnny away?

R.B.: No, no. Sorry. Send him right in.

Gwyn’s voice on intercom: You won’t shoot him, will you?

R.B.: Very funny.

(As R.B. composes himself, a man in a cowboy hat carrying a guitar enters from stage right. It’s Johnny Western, the

actor/song-writer. He strides confidently over to Richard Boone and shakes his hand energetically.)

J.W.: What a pleasure it is to see you again, Mister Boone.

R.B.: Sure, sure. Have a seat. Can I get you a drink?

J.W.: Tang, eh?

R.B.: Not bad with a little vodka. Gene Rodenberry called it a “Gemini” ‘cause it’ll make you see double.

J.W.: Gene’s a writer for your show, isn’t he? Quite an imagination.

R.B.: Yeh. And now he’s into science fiction. (motioning to glass)

Want to give it a try?

J.W.: No. Thank you anyway. I know you’ve got a shooting session.

R.B.: You mean filming . . .

JOHNNY WESTERN

3

J.W.: Yes, of course. Though in your case they’re usually the same.

R.B.: Actually, my days as a gunslinger are probably numbered.

J.W.: They’re not going to kill you off, are they?

R.B. (laughing): I hope not. I’d prefer they send this old horse

to a stud farm.

J.W.: What?

R.B.: Just a joke. The truth is: it appears “Have Gun” is just about finished.

J.W.: No. They can’t. They wouldn’t.

R.B.: All good things must come to an end. That’s an old English proverb, attributed to Chaucer, I believe.

J.W.: But, but . . . What will you do?

R.B.: Continue acting, directing. And maybe this. (pulls out script)

J.W.: You’re writing a novel. Wow. That’s great.

R.B.: I suppose it would be great if it was a novel. But it’s a screenplay.

About Paladin.

J.W.: A movie then. And you’ll need music, of course. (pulls up his guitar)

R.B. (laughing): My, aren’t we anxious to keep the residuals coming.

J.W. (laughing): Yes. But they’re yours too. And Sam’s.

R.B.: But you wrote the original “Ballad of Paladin.” Ever resent sharing your fame and fortune with the editors?

J.W.: Oh, no. Not at all. It’s been the best thing that ever happened to me. Opened so many doors. Before “Have Gun,” I

was just a two-bit actor struggling to make a buck. Then you gave me a break on that episode in ’58.

R.B.: I believe it was called “The Return of Doctor Thackeray.”

J.W.: You remember. June Lockhart was in it. What a classy lady.

R.B.: Now she’s a “lassie” lady, playing Timmy’s mother in “Lassie”

for three years now.

J.W.: But back in ’58 she played Doctor Phyllis Thackeray.

JUNE LOCKHART AND LASSIE

4

R.B.: A character both smart and beautiful. The closest real love interest

Paladin ever had.

J.W.: The network execs didn’t want to ruin your TV eligible-bachelor status.

R.B.: Yeh. I guess sex sells. And Paladin always had a new flame every week

at the Carlton Hotel.

J.W.: I was never so lucky.

R.B.: You were very lucky as I recall. You drew on me and I only winged you. One of the few who survived a showdown

with Paladin.

J.W. (laughing): Yes, you’re right. But I was lucky in other ways. That part inspired me to compose “The Ballad of Paladin”

as a thank-you tune for your help during my one and only appearance on “Have Gun.”

R.B.: You could have had more roles.

J.W.: And get shot again? Believe me, once was enough. Besides that

hit single gave me the chance to be what I always wanted to be . . .

R.B.: A singing cowboy.

J.W.: Right. From as far back as I can remember I wanted to be Gene Autry -- dressed like him, sang like him. When I grew

up I got to play with Roy Rogers and the Sons of the Pioneers. Then one day at a party I met my childhood hero, the real

Gene Autry. And we hit it off and I worked for him on his TV show for a couple of years. That opened more doors for me

including playing with Johnny Cash and then the movie this year.

R.B.: “Night Rider.” And once again you played a young buck with an itchy trigger finger.

J.W. (laughing): You’re right. I’ve been typecast. But fortunately I’ve kept my day job as a song-writer-performer.

R.B.: “Have guitar, will travel” reads the card of a man . . .

J.W. (sings): . . . Of a man named . . . Westerlund.

R.B.: That’s right. Westerlund was your real name, wasn’t it?

J.W.: I prefer to call it my “original” name. One day a DJ changed it

at the last minute and I’ve been known as Johnny Western ever since.

R.B.: So who are you? I mean, are you Westerlund or Western?

J.W.: A strange question. They’re only names. I’m both. Or just Johnny.

ROY ROGERS GENE AUTRY

5

R.B.: And you don’t think of yourself as two different people at the same time?

J.W.: Not really. I suppose it’s a lot like you and Paladin. There’s the real person and then

there’s the role.

R.B.: Yes. But sometimes there might be just a fine line between the person and the persona.

And if that line becomes blurred . . .

J.W.: I think I know what you mean. Sometimes I imagine myself back on the prairie a hundred years ago, sitting by a

crackling campfire, the smell of hickory in the air, cattle and horses all around, a full moon above, and a lone coyote

howling in the distance. In that exact moment, a new song might pop into my head – maybe an old song lost for a century

but now found again by a connection made to some long-dead cowhand, strumming his guitar at the end of a long day and

a supper of beans and grits.

R.B.: It sounds like you’re channeling.

J.W.: Channeling?

R.B.: Yeh. It’s what Bill Conrad said I’m doing with Paladin.

J.W.: But Paladin’s a fictitious character, isn’t he?

R.B.: It doesn’t matter, does it? I mean, how do you know you’re not connecting to some fictitious cowboy you created in

your own mind. You put yourself in the mood by imagining you’re in the same environment as your character. I do the

same thing with Paladin. Only I play dress-up. I put on this shirt, tie, mustache. Then I strap on my holster – like this . . .

(puts on gunbelt). Now I look in the mirror and, just as you do, imagine what it must have been like in San Francisco and

the Old West at the end of the last century. And presto: (gives J.W. the grim stare of the famed gunfighter) I’m Paladin.

J.W.: Whoa. You’ve got me convinced.

R.B.: Only one problem. Sometimes the connection’s so strong, it’s

hard to break the bond. It’s almost as if I’ve got a Doppelganger.

J.W.: You mean a dappled-gray . . .

R.B.: Not a horse. A doppelganger is a double, like a twin brother.

It’s as if you were dress up like me in black, wear a mustache, and follow me around.

J.W.: If I were to follow anybody around dressed up in black, it would be Johnny Cash.

R.B.: A Johnny following a Johnny.

J.W.: Another one would be Johnny Bond. Talk about channeling, if that’s what you call it, every guitar note I ever learned,

I learned from listening to Johnny Bond on Gene Autry’s records.

JOHNNY WESTERN & JOHNNY CASH

JOHNNY BOND

6

R.B.: So three Johnnies – a trebelganger.

J.W.: Treble’s too high. We’d be basses for sure.

R.B. (laughing): Aren’t words great? I meant treble as in triple.

And a trebleganger would be like three people who look and act alike.

J.W.: Triplets.

R.B.: Exactly.

J.W.: Another musical term. For this: (plays triplets on guitar)

R.B.: 1,2,3. 1,2,3. Past, present, future. Yes, that’s it. Now, how about three notes all together.

J.W.: That’s a chord. Like this: (plays G chord on guitar) Well, actually 6 notes. Three are open.

R.B.: And three closed.

J.W.: Fretted.

R.B.: Yes, they would be. What chord is that?

J.W.: A G.

R.B.: As in Ganelon. And the notes?

J.W.: G, B, D. And G, B, G.

R.B.: So really only three unique notes. Ganelon, Boone, and the Devil . . .

J.W.: Ha. But the second G and B are in resonance with the first G and B while the D is not.

R.B.: Resonance. What do you mean?

J.W.: It’s when one note struck on a string can cause another note to vibrate

on a different string that has the same acoustic frequency or harmonic.

R.B.: You mean over the air, over space, without direct contact.

J.W.: Yes, basically . . .

R.B.: Then channeling is resonance. And Paladin and I share the same frequency.

7

(Lights flash, the typewriter clicks, the garbled word “danger” is heard on the intercom)

J.W. (alarmed): What’s happening?

R.B.: I’m afraid I’ve struck a bad chord . . .

J.W.: A dissonance.

R.B.: Yes, a discord in the doppelganger. Or trebleganger. Or quadrupleganger.

Or any number of gangers. A multiganger maybe . . .

J. W.: I don’t understand.

R.B: Neither do I.

Intercom: Mister Boone. Five minutes to filming.

J.W.: I should be going.

R.B.: No, wait. I called you here for a reason. Not what we’ve been talking about.

J.W.: Yes.

R.B. (pulls out paper from desk drawer): It’s this. New lyrics for the “Ballad of Paladin.”

J.W. (pulling up his guitar): Oh, great! Let me see. (standing next to RB, reading)

So you just mean to replace the chorus “Paladin, Paladin, where do you roam . . .”

R.B.: Well, not necessarily replace it. Just add these lines after the first stanza. And to the second stanza if there’s time.

J.W.: I think I understand. So I’d still sing the first part like this (singing): “Have Gun Will Travel reads the card of a man / A

knight without armor in a savage land / His fast gun for hire heeds the calling wind / A soldier of fortune is a man named . .

. Pal-adin” Then the refrain: “Paladin, Paladin, where do you roam / Paladin, Paladin, far, far from home. ”

R.M.: Now add this.

J.W.(singing): “Paladin, Paladin, what is your quest? / A gun in your holster and one in your vest . . .

(changing key) Paladin, Paladin, what is your name? / Fighting for justice, not fortune or fame.”

R.B.: And this . . .

J.W. (back to original key): “Paladin, Paladin, what is the cost? Life as a wanderer, and

Love’s Labor’s Lost.”

R.B.: That’s great. I like the way you varied each refrain to keep it interesting.

8

J.W.: Thanks. I see you’ve added three questions to the song’s chorus. But you don’t answer two of them:

“What is your quest?” and “What is your name?”

R.B.: Those are the questions I attempted to answer in this script.

Or rather Paladin does.

J.W.: So the new lyrics are for your movie.

R.B.: Or teleplay. If it ever gets produced.

J.W.: Well, good luck with that. I just hope Paladin has a better chance

of reaching the big screen than a singing cowboy like me.

R.B.: Country music is like apple pie to Americans. Stick with your Johnnies and you’ll do just fine.

J.W.: Especially Johnny Cash. He’s the greatest. (sings like Johnny Cash) “Paladin, Paladin, what is the cost? / Life as a

wanderer, and Love’s Labor’s Lost.” That last phrase. Is that a quote from Milton’s “Paradise Lost.”

R.B.: It’s a Shakespeare play.

J.W.: Really. Are you sure?

R.B.: I’ve got the reference right here . . . (rummages looks in desk drawer, speaks

to intercom) Say, Gwen. Where’s my Bartletts?

(Just then, Gwen herself appears in the doorway to right, bathed in a blue spotlight.

She is dressed as Gwyn was in the “Secret Life” story, toting a shotgun at her side.)

Gwen: “Painfully he pores upon a book to seek the light of truth; while truth the while

does falsely blind the eyesight of his look . . .”

R.B. (seeing Gwen in mirror): That’s from “Love’s Labour’s Lost.” How did you know that?

Ah. You must’ve been reading my Bartlett’s. Could you bring it to me?

Gwen: I would prefer not to . . .

R.B.: And that’s a quote from “Bartleby” by Herman Melville. Very good.

What other quotes do you have for me, Gwen?

Gwen (raising and pointing the shotgun at R.B.: “Hell hath no fury as a woman scorned.”

J.W.(seeing Gwen): Holy shit! (guitar hits dissonant chord as he jumps behind desk out of view of audience.)

(Director’s Note: actor playing JW uses a crossover behind the rear screen to move unseen from house left to house right and

play CM later in this scene, then returning to house left to complete scene as JW.)

9

R.B.(turning toward G): That’s by William Congreve from “The Mourning Bride.” (pause) Put down the gun, Gwen.

Even if it’s just a prop, you shouldn’t be pointing it like that. Someone could get hurt. Put it down . . . now.

Gwen: Why should I do that, Richard? Are you afraid I might shoot you?

R.B.: No. But you might hurt yourself. Put down the gun . . .

Gwen (lowering gun): Yes, Mister Boone, Richard . . . Or is it Paladin or Hugh Mann

or Jack Ganelon?

R.B.: Whatever you wish.

Gwen: Yes. You’re an actor. You can have any name you want to. But I’m just lowly Gwen, the secretary.

Is that why you used my name in your screenplay? Because, just like the “unmasked” Paladin, you can’t love Gwen.

R.B.: I used “Gwyn” because it’s short for Guinevere of the Arthurian Legend.

Gwen: And Lancelot can’t love her because she was the Queen and her husband the King.

R.B.: I have Claire and you have Arthur.

Gwen: And we can only have each other in our dreams.

R.B.: Yes. Our love must be chivalrous and pure like paladins and maidens of Medieval Times.

Gwen: Like characters in a play.

R.B.: Yes. That’s what life is like. Shakespeare said it best.

We’re actors on a stage. Like Tristan and Isolde, Abelard

and Heloise, Pyramus and Thisbe. We have to settle for that.

Gwen: Well. Not me. (raising gun again)

R.B.: I understand you’re upset. But violence is not the answer.

Gwen: Unless you’re Paladin.

R.B.: OK, Annie Oakley. From the way you’re dressed, I assume you’ve got a part in the show. That’s fine. But this display

of gunplay, if reported, won’t help your quest to be an actress. Put the rifle down.

Gwen: I prefer not to . . .

R.B. (impatiently): Listen to me. That’s a dangerous weapon -- even if it’s only

loaded with blanks. It could hurt your ears. Gwen . . . Gwen, do you hear me?

ANNIE OAKLEY

WILLIAM CONGREVE

10

Gwen: “Hearing they hear not, nor do they understand . . .”

R.B.: Gwen, are you all right? You don’t seem yourself . . .

Gwen: Who am I? Who are you? “He who sows the good seed is the Son of Man.”

R.B.: That’s from my script. What are you doing, Gwen? Are you channeling?

Or are you being . . . ?

(A G Chord sounds on the guitar from where Johnny Western is hiding.)

R.B.: Resonance. It’s the G Chord, of course. G for Gwen and Gwyn. It’s all right, Gwen. It’s not your fault. There’s no

need for drastic action. You have everything to live for. Now. Not a hundred years ago or in the mind of some fictional

character. So put down the gun . . .

(The rifle is slowly lowered. But then a dissonant chord strike’s on JW’s guitar and Charles Manson appears, bathed in a red

spotlight, standing next to the barrel of Gwen’s gun. CM is dressed as before but wearing a bowler hat. Gwen’s rifle is

raised again.)

R.B.: What? You? Charlie Mansion . . .

C.M.: It’s Charles Manson. (bowing) Sir Prize at your service, Master of the

short circuit . . .

R.B.: What are doing here?

C.M.: I told you I’d get back at you, Mister Paladin.

R.B.: Through Gwen? If you’ve got a beef with me, Charlie, let’s go at it – man to man.

You’re a coward if you hide behind the skirt of a woman.

C.M.: And you’re a coward if you hide behind the mask of an actor.

R.B.: What do you want? Give me back your screenplay and I’ll read it.

C.M.: Oh, Mister Paladin. That just won’t do now, will it?

R.B.: Then what will? You want me to sign the cover sheet and say it’s great,

so you can get the network brass to check it out?

C.M.: You’re a poker player, Mister P. Well, the stakes have just gotten higher.

R.B.: Then exactly what are you holding out for, Charles?

11

C.M.: A part in your show.

R.B.: You too? Get in line at the Director’s Office.

C.M.: I want your part.

R.B.: Paladin, eh? And, I suppose, you think you can be a better hero . . . Wait a minute. This sounds like something from

my script . . . (G Chord sounds again) The G Chord again. Resonance. That’s it. You’re channeling: G for Ganelon, John

Ganelon, Charlie Mann’s Son .

C.M.: Charles Man-son. (D chord sounds)

R.B.: Or D for Devil.

C.M.: For now, I’ll be Maximillian Nevil.

R.B.: And I suppose you’ve re-written your teleplay so that Satan

wins the showdown and Paladin loses.

C.M.: We’re in re-write right now as we speak.

R.B.: Which means there’s no final ending yet.

C.M.: It’s foregone.

R.B.: We’ll see about that . . .

(RB takes a step toward CM, but stops suddenly and puts hands up, as Gwen cocks the hammer of her rifle.)

C.M.: Whoa, big fella. Wouldn’t want you gunned down without a fair fight. The only way the top gun can be determined.

That’s the Code of the West.

R.B.: You know nothing about the Code of the West or the Code of Chivalry or even the Morse Code, for that matter. A real

hero fights his own battles; he doesn’t use a surrogate.

C.M.: Sir Rogate. Was he a Knight of the Round Table?

R.B.: Very funny. I’m talking about Gwen. You’re controlling her mind, aren’t you?

C.M.: Two people want you dead, and if we save on ammunition . . .

R.B.: What ammunition? All the guns around here are loaded with blanks.

C.M.: Ah. You may be making a fatal assumption, Sir Mise. Besides, the real Paladin doesn’t shoot with blanks. Ask her.

12

R.B.: Gwen, is that true? Do you want to kill me?

Gwen: “Our babies in danger. Paladin threatens.”

C.M.: A baby is born into this world in a state of fear. Total paranoia and

awareness. He sees the world with eyes not used yet. As he grows up,

his parents lay all this stuff on him. They tell him, when they should be

letting him tell them. Let the children lead you.

R.B.: That’s nonsense. We don’t have any babies, Gwen . . .

Gwen (angrily, ready to squeeze the trigger): You killed them!

R.B.: No. No.

C.M.: You forget who she is, who you are.

R.B.: I’m Richard Boone and she’s Gwen Calibre.

C.M.: I believe her caliber is higher than yours.

R.B.: What do you mean?

Gwen: Our babies. Where is Elayna and Lance? If they’re dead, so are you.

R.B.: Gwen . . . I mean Gwyn, no. They’re fine. They’re where you -- where we left them.

Gwen: Then why aren’t you at home with them where you belong?

R.B.: I’m . . . Paladin. And I’ve got a job to do.

Gwen: Saving other damsels in distress, while your wife doesn’t even know who you are anymore.

R.B.: But Claire . . . I mean, Gwyn. I’m protecting your . . . our babies from the Ganelons.

Gwen: How can that be? You’re Jack Ganelon.

R.B.: I’m not.

Gwen: Then Hugh Mann, I suppose.

R.B.: Not him either. I’m Richard Boone, the actor.

Gwen: R.B. The one who torments you and tells you

you’re someone other than who you really are.

13

R.B.: That’s not true!

C.M.: What is truth? Truth is a bumble bee. Truth is a tail wagging a dog.

Truth is woof gabof roth ranich . . .

R.B.: That’s crazy talk. Don’t listen to him, Gwen. He’s insane.

Gwen: He’s Arthur, my brother. He’s as sane as I am . . .

R.B.: He’s not Arthur Oliver and you’re not Gwyn Alde. This is madness!

C.M.: Do you feel blame? Are you mad? A long time ago being crazy meant something. Nowadays everybody's crazy.

R.B.: Listen to me, Gwen. Your Arthur is an escaped convict from a federal prison. That’s where he belongs. That’s the

truth.

C.M.: Truth is a stallion trapped in a pen with a rope around his neck.

Gwen: Truth is a man who abandons his family for the dream of fame and fortune.

R.B.: Truth is a twisted lie straightened out by the facts. The fact is: this man Charlie

is a disgruntled fan of “Have Gun” who wants to replace me on the show by killing me in a shootout.

C.M.: I've never killed anyone. I don't need to kill anyone. I think it. I have it here. (points to head)

R.B.: Exactly. Did you hear that, Gwen? He’s not your brother. He’s a killer controlling your mind.

C.M.: Anything you see in me is in you. If you want to see a vicious killer, that's who you'll see, do you understand that? If

you see me as your brother, that's what I'll be. It all depends on how much love you have. I am you, and when you can

admit that, you will be free. I am just a mirror.

R.B.: A mirror? A cracked mirror, the same as in your story.

C.M.: I am a mirror in a mirror in a mirror in a mirror, an endless reflection

of myself ad infinitum, ad nauseam. I am an onion. Peel away one layer

after another and what do you have? Nothing. Or everything.

R.B.: He’s hallucinating. And so are you. Gwen, please. Put down the gun

, my Donna Mobile.

Gwen: What? (dazed, lowering the gun) What did you call me?

R.B.: Gwen . . . Oh, you mean, Donna Mobile.

14

Gwen: Yes, from Rigoletto.

R.B.: You remember. The opera we went to in San Francisco.

And you were my phantom of delight.

Gwen: It was a wonderful night. And you gave me roses.

R.B.: And two children.

C.M. (raising the rifle barrel): Two? One of those is mine.

R.B.: Who? You, Arthur Oliver? So now the truth comes out. Elayna and Lance are twins. So if one of them is yours, both

of them are.

Gwen (pointing gun at CM): Where are they, Arthur?

C.M. (pushing the rifle away): Ask Mister Paladin. He’s the one

who shot Elayna and pushed Lance off the boat.

Gwen (pointing the rifle at RB): So you did kill our babies . . .

R.B.: How do you know that, Arthur? Unless you were there. The truth is:

there were two accidents: Elayna shot herself and Lance fell into the bay.

C.M.: He’s lying. Shoot him now.

R.B.: He’s lying. Shoot him now.

Gwen: Well, someone is lying. And this is a double-barrel shotgun. So if you both stand close together, I’m sure to get the

real liar with one of the bullets.

R.B.: The real liar . . . has a feather in his hat. Look, Gwen. (pointing at CM’s head)

(Spotlight shines on CM’s bowler hat which now glows with a large red and blue

feather in it. The G Chord sounds.)

R.B.: The G chord again. Of course. You’re not Arthur Oliver. You’re Jake Ganelon.

Gwen (turning gun to CM): Jake Ganelon! You kidnapped Lance and Elayna!

C.M.: Not true. Another story made up by the infamous Mister Pelican. (pushing gun back at RB)

R.B.: Pelican. That’s what Jake Ganelon called me. Before he stabbed me in the back.

Gwen: “Our babies in danger. Ganelon threatens.” Who are you? ( pointing gun at CM, then at RB)

15

C.M.: He’s Jack.

R.B.: He’s Jake.

(A dissonant G chord sounds.)

Gwen: Someone is lying.

R.B.: And someone is telling the truth.

Gwen: I choose . . . you. (pointing gun at CM)

C.M. (grabbing gun from Gwen and pointing it at RB): Enough! You can’t be trusted.

Gwen: But you promised me a part in your play.

C.M.: Sorry, Alice. We’re not in Wonderland any more.

R.B.: So finally -- the truth.

C.M.: The truth is: You should be dead.

R.B.: And so should you.

C.M.: Yes. You shot me in the chest. But somehow I survived.

R.B.: But for what?

C.M.: To continue my quest to be Paladin. To be a real hero, not a paper prince.

R.B.: And your knightly name? Sir Vice?

C.M.: Sir Pent. Sir Vile. It doesn’t matter. A nose by any other name still smells the same.

What matters is this: I want to be you.

R.B.: Me? You don’t even know me.

C.M.: I know you better than you know yourself. In this I am Sir Ten. And I’ve got your number.

R.B.: A number on the dial. You know me from watching a TV show. That’s not reality. Unless your name is Sir Real.

C.M.: It’s my reality. As death will be yours, Sir Render.

16

R.B.: There’s no need for this. “Have Gun” itself is dying a natural death. Low ratings are killing us. Paladin’s days are

numbered.

C.M.: That’s the way the world ends. Not with a whimper, but with a bang.

R.B.: That’s not the way it goes. T.S. Eliot wrote . . .

C.M.: It goes without saying. With only an aura of reality around the edges.

R.B.: You’re a dangerous man, Charlie Manson.

C.M.: I'm probably one of the most dangerous men in the world if I want to be. But I never wanted to be anything but me.

Until now . . .

R.B.: And would you paint your face, Sir Face. And be a clown, Sir Cuss.

C.M.: I want to be you.

R.B.: You can’t be me and I can’t be you. That’s the Law of the Universe.

C.M.: Too many words. It’s time to fight, Sir Feit. Draw, Mister Pelican.

R.B.: I’m Richard Boone, the actor. With only blanks in my gun.

C.M.: I’m giving you the same chance you gave my father John.

R.B.: He committed suicide by calling me out with an empty gun.

C.M.: You shot him in the back.

R.B.: He shot himself in the leg.

C.M.: Justice is mine, Sir Cophagus.

R.B.: “Vengeance is mine, says the Lord” wrote Saint Paul to the Romans. Justice is blind.

C.M.: Justice, just is, just as, just us. Only one of us can be Sir Vive. Draw, I say. Or I’ll shoot you anyway.

Gwen: No! (shoving the gun away towards the wall)

(As the rifle swings back toward RB, RB draws the Colt from his holster and fires. The shotgun swings back to the wall and

goes off at the CBS eyeball logo. Silence for a moment as CM pulls the gun back toward RB, presumably to take a second

shot. But instead, CM grabs his shoulder. When he pulls his hand away it’s full of blood.)

C.M.: Blipwitch sigmon arf lassitoo ornk . . .

17

(CM drops the rifle and flees out the door. Gwen covers her face and drops to her knees.)

R.B. (going up to Gwen): Are you all right?

Gwen: I’m sorry, Richard. I don’t know what came over me.

R.B.: It’s all right. It wasn’t your fault. It was that madman Charlie.

Gwen: Charlie’s at home with the flu.

R.B.: Oh, that’s right. I mean Charles.

Gwen: Who?

R.B.: The crazed fan. The kid with the cat eyes like white-hot bulging coals. He was standing there, right next to you.

Gwen: Now I’m asking: Are you all right, Richard? Who are you talking about?

R.B.: You can’t tell me you didn’t see him. He took the gun out of your hands.

Gwen: You took the gun out of my hands. And it went off against the wall over there.

R.B.: OK. Your mind was being . . . I mean, you were upset. But it’s over now.

Gwen: And I’m sorry for what I did.

R.B.: Forget it. No one got hurt. At least, I don’t think so.

Gwen: Yes, thank God. But I’m also sorry for what I did before that.

R.B.: What do you mean?

Gwen: Jiggling the fuse to make the lights flash, making my voice sound weird,

and typing into the intercom. Among other things.

R.B.: You did that?

Gwen: I was trying to get your attention and maybe . . . a little revenge.

R.B.: But the messages in my typewriter. How did they get there?

Gwen: Early this morning, I typed them on the bottom of a blank sheet and rolled it into the carriage.

R.B.: But the clicking. It was definitely in Morse Code. I used my dictionary to translate.

.-- … --- .-

.-. . -.-- ---

..-- ..--..

18

Gwen: And I used my dictionary to compose.

R.B.: So the noises, the voices, the clicking, and the flashing – all yours?

Gwen: I’m afraid so. You’re not going mad after all. Though I had hoped you would fall madly in love with me.

R.B.: Sorry to disappoint you . . . Wait a minute. I could swear you were here with me when some of that happened.

Gwen: You’re mistaken.

R.B.: But the colored lights.

Gwen: I had the help of an electrician.

R.B.: Charlie? But he’s home, sick with the flu.

Gwen: Not Charlie. Charles.

R.B.: Charles is not an electrician. He tried to shoot me.

Gwen: You’re mistaken. Charles is Charlie Mann’s Son.

R.B.: Charlie Mann is a character in my play. Are you saying Charlie Mann is also an electrician?

And that his son’s name is Charles?

Gwen: Yes.

R.B.: That’s preposterous. You’re either lying or I am going crazy. Which is it, Gwen? Tell me.

Gwen: I would prefer not to . . .

(A dissonant guitar chord is heard.)

R.B.: Johnny Western. Of course. Come out here.

(JW emerges sheepishly and tentatively from behind the desk.)

R.B.: It’s OK, Johnny. All the excitement is over. Material for a new song maybe. Gwen is having trouble remembering

what happened. Tell her what you saw.

J.W.: Nothing. I was hiding the whole time.

R.B.: But you must have heard . . .

19

J.W.: Had my ears covered.

R.B.: But you were playing the guitar. I heard the G chord.

J.W.: I do that when I’m nervous.

R.B.: But you can’t play and cover your ears at the same time.

J.W.: Uh . . .You’re right. It was a great scene. Even for radio. (To Gwen) Great acting . . . Gwyn, is it?

Gwen: It’s Gwen. Thanks. But we weren’t acting. It was real.

J.W.: And very realistic. That tunneling is amazing. And the dappled-granger . . .

R.B.: It’s channeling and doppelganger.

J.W.: Oh,sure. You actors and your rehearsal techniques . . .

Intercom: Mister Boone. Mister Boone. You’re wanted on the set.

R.B. (to intercom): OK. I’ll be right there.

J.W.(nervously): Well, I’d better get going now. Oh, and I’ll make a demo of those new lyrics for you, Mister Boone.

(striking the first two chords of Paladin’s Ballad; exiting, to both) It’s been real.

RB (to Gwen): Apparently not.

Gwen: What’s real and what’s not? Does it really matter?

R.B.: Only if you don’t mind living in a fantasyland.

Gwen: I’m beginning to think reality is over-rated.

R.B.: Then you’re like our audience.

Gwen: You mean like Charlie.

R.B.: Charles. Then you do remember.

Gwen: Only from what you’ve told me. I’d rather think of myself as an artist than a crazed fan.

R.B.: I imagine most people do to some extent. At least as artists of their own lives.

Gwen: I would think it’s more fun being an artist of someone else’s life.

20

R.B.: You mean as an actor.

Gwen (posing): Or an actress.

R.B. (smiling): Of course. You seem to be feeling better now. That’s good.

Gwen: I’ll feel even better when I can get back to my painting.

R.B.: And your Art.

Gwen: Yes. My Art. And you your Claire. Though you will always be my Paladin.

R.B.: And you my Guinevere. But both of us, above all else, must love our Muse.

Gwen: Of course. It’s only inspiration and creativity that make life worth living. I can’t imagine a life without imagination.

It’s what I strive for.

R.B.: And what I strive for is a fitting conclusion to my screenplay. That’s the problem with writing. With painting at least,

you have a frame to limit your work. My characters are like wild horses that keep breaking down the corral. They never

stop talking. Striving but never arriving. I guess I’ll just have to strive a lot harder for a satisfying ending.

Gwen: But you can’t really strive for it, can you? It sometimes takes time. It took Leonardo da Vinci four years to

complete his Mona Lisa and seven years to finish the Last Supper. From my experience, the real artist must be active

physically, but passive mentally. You have to be open to each moment as it happens so you’re ready for the creative

impulse . . .

Paladin: For an aesthetic epiphany.

Gwen: Or a flash of insight.

R.B.: You’re probably right. I know it happens in acting. Biblically speaking, you have to lose your life to find it. As

Paladin, I have to put myself in the boots of my character and channel him the best I can. Then, if I’m lucky, I’ll lose myself

in the script and, if I’m really lucky, the magic happens.

Gwen: And you create a double of yourself.

R.B.: A doppelganger, yes. You were listening.

Gwen: Sorry for all the eavesdropping. But you have such interesting conversations,

especially with Johnnie Western, Gene Roddenberry, and Bill Conrad.

(Just then, William Conrad enters from the stage right door)

R.B.: Speaking of the devil.

21

W.C.: Hey. I’ve played plenty of villains, but not that one yet. So what’s going on here?

Johnny Western was babbling something about a shooting.

R.B.: Yeh. The shooting of a scene we’ve been rehearsing.

W.C.: Oh, I see. So, not a real shooting.

R.B.: As real as evil personified. But speaking of the devil again . . . (reaching down,

picking up papers) Here’s something you might find interesting.

W.C.: What’s that? Another script you wrote?

R.B.: Not by me, but by a very troubled young man. The story’s intriguing however. It’s called “The Spiritualist.”

W.C.: Seances again.

R.B.: And a devil of a character named Maximilian Neville. The part might be perfect for you.

W.C. (looking up from script): Ah, and I see you still have some demon run left. May I?

Intercom: Mister Paladin? Please . . .

R.B. (to WC): Go ahead. I’ve got to work. (to intercom) I’m on my way. (to Gwen) Are you coming too?

Gwen (picking up gun): I think I’ll stay and tidy up a bit first.

R.B. (taking gun from her): Uh . . . Let me have that. I’ll take it back to the prop room where it belongs.

W.C.: Prop? That sure looks real.

R.B.: Yeh, well. Who knows what’s real and what’s not anymore? (exits)

(W.C. makes himself a drink, sits down at R.B.’s desk with manuscript while Gwen moves around the office, straightening

up, then goes up to the Christmas tree, puts hands out, whispers some C.M. nonsense words. Lights on tree begin to blink

erratically.)

Gwen: Mister Conrad . . .

W.C. (looking up and back to Gwen): Yes. Oh . . . Gwen, is it? What can I do?

Gwen: The Christmas tree lights . . .

W.C.: Oh, I see. Well, I’m not much of an electrician, but I’ll take a look.

(W.C. rises from chair; Gwen backs off, then goes to R.B.’s desk,

22

begins to put away bottles, glasses, etc.)

Gwen (to intercom, in loud whisper): Are you there?

W.C. (at tree): This is odd. It’s not even plugged in.

Gwen (to intercom): Can you hear me?

W.C.: Of course I can hear you.

Gwen (loudly, to W.C.): I mean. Go ahead, plug it in.

W.C.: Yes. OK. (plugs cord in; flash and smoke) Damn! I guess I didn’t want to do that.

(Just then G.R. arrives [Director’s note: G.R. is at this point played by actor who plays Paladin, here dressed up as G.R. with

dark-rimmed glasses])

G.R. (excitedly to W.C.): What’s going on?

W.C.: Oh, Gene. The Christmas tree is acting weird.

G.R.: No. I mean, is everyone all right? Johnny Western said somebody got shot in here.

W.C.: Well, you did and so did I, but no one got hurt.

G.R.: No one? Johnny said there was blood . . . Look. (stooping down to floor; W.C. follows)

(While they’ve been talking, Gwen has seated herself at R.B.’s desk close to the intercom.)

Gwen (whispering loudly to intercom): Are you there?

Intercom: Who are you?

Gwen: Gwen.

G.R. (touching floor): It sure looks like blood . . .

Intercom (garbled): What happened?

W.C.: Fake blood. “Have Gun” uses this stuff by the gallon.

Gwen: I couldn’t do it.

Intercom: Why not?

23

Gwen: I couldn’t . . .

G.R.: It sure looks real.

W.C.: Who knows what’s real anymore.

Intercom: What about Charlie Mann’s son?

Gwen: He missed.

G.R. (pointing to CBS logo): Look at this. There’s a hole in the middle.

W.C.: Yeh. Somebody – I can’t imagine who – used this as a dart board.

Intercom: Why?

Gwen: I couldn’t . . .

Intercom: He’s killing me . . . (echoes)

G.R.: Wait a minute. (pulls out penknife, digs into hole, holds up something between index finger and thumb) It’s a bullet!

Intercom: Where are the words?

Gwen: Here.

Intercom: Burn them.

W.C.: Let’s see. A real bullet.

G.R.: Sure looks like it.

Gwen (looking at R.B.’s manuscript): I can’t.

Intercom: Why not?

Gwen (putting papers in drawer): They’re in his desk drawer.

G.R.: Do you think? Target practice with a real gun?

W.C.: Dick was pissed at the network execs.

G.R.: Yes, but . . .

Intercom: Open it. R. BOONE

24

Gwen: It’s locked. I don’t have the key.

Intercom: He’s killing me . . . killing me . . . (echoes)

(Gwen rises abruptly from desk; heads for door. As she passes the two men, W.C. intercepts her.)

W.C. (pointing to CBS logo): Gwen. Do you know anything about this?

Gwen (without stopping): Go to hell . . . Both of you! (exits)

G.R.: What’s that all about?

W.C.: Don’t know.

(Overhead stage lights begin to flash; clicking sounds from typewriter)

G.R.: This is too spooky.

W.C.: Let’s get out of here! (they exit)

(Darkness except for a spotlight on R.B.’s desk. Then a figure appears in the center of the CBS logo. It is the black silhouette

of Paladin as seen in the introduction to later episodes of “Have Gun Will Travel.” As a muted version of the Paladin theme

is heard, the dark figure draws his gun just as R.B. emerges from shadows stage left and goes to his desk. R.B. stops as if

hearing the music. He turns suddenly toward the CBS eyeball, but the figure with the gun has vanished. R.B. sits down at

desk and pulls out manuscript from drawer. He takes up a pen and begins to edit the papers. Spotlight begins to flash on

the desk.)

R.B.: Dammit. (to intercom): Gwen, Gwen. Are you there?

Intercom: Yes, Mister Boone.

R.B.: What’s with the lights? Are you playing with the fuses again?

Intercom: No.

R.B.: Then what’s going on? I’ve got only one light – no, two – in here.

Intercom: Oh, yes. So do I. We’re on backup power now. Only the nightlights work.

R.B.: And I suppose Charlie’s still at home with the flu.

Intercom: Yes. But Charles is here, working on the problem.

R.B.: Charles? Charlie Mann’s son? He’s back? Gwen, Gwen. Can you hear me?

25

(Just then a mirror-like reflection flashes on R.B.’s face. He stands up, pulls out derringer from shirt, and points it at

audience and at himself in the mirror.)

R.B.: You there. I see your eyes. Who are you? What are you doing here? And why are you staring at me? I know you,

but your name escapes me. I’ve seen you before . . . in my dreams at least. Are you real – or just an illusion?

(Tense moment of silence. Behind R.B. the silhouette Paladin reappears in the circle of the CBS logo. As R.B. turns quickly

to back wall, the figure disappears again and the spot on the desk flashes.)

Intercom: Dick. Dick Boone. Are you there?

R.B. (startled, as if coming out of a trance): Yes . . . This is Dick.

Intercom: Sam Rolphe here. What’s going on there?

R.B.: I was just reading some lines from a play . . . Say.

We’re having electrical problems here. Are your lights on?

Intercom (static): What’s that?

R.B. (loudly): Are you in the dark?

Intercom (static): Are you?

R.B.: Always . . . So what can I do for you, Sam?

Intercom (more clearly): Well, I just wanted to let you know that . . . well . . . management here at the network really

appreciates all the work you’ve done . . . over the years . . . as Paladin . . . we’re really really pleased . . .

R.B.: Dammit, Sam. Why don’t you just spit it out? I know what you and your cronies have been up to. Yeh. You’re really

really pleased with my work. But . . . what?

Intercom: Well, it’s been six years . . . and that’s a long time . . .

R.B.: When, Sam? When? What’s the last episode?

Intercom: Today. (a moment of silence)

R.B.: Today. Great. So it ends with “Face of a Shadow.” How appropriate.

Intercom: Now don’t get me wrong, Dick. It was a tough decision. But the ratings have slipped. And as you know . . .

R.B.: The ratings are everything. Yes, of course. So we need to improve our product with better writing . . .

26

Intercom: Our sponsors can’t wait.

R.B.: Greedy bastards.

Intercom: Ok, Dick. I’ve got to go. Sorry about the bad news . . .

R.B.: Yeh. You’re sorry all right – very sorry. One question though, Sam: Why couldn’t you tell me the “bad news” in

person – instead of using this squawk box?

Intercom: Are you crazy? You shot three people today – not including the ones on the set.

R.B.: How did you know about that?

Intercom: Word gets around.

R.B.: Yeh, you’re right. Words get around. And they come back to haunt you.

Intercom: What’s that, Dick?

R.B.: Nothing.

Intercom: We’ll talk later . . . over a drink.

R.B.: Yeh, sure. (intercom clicks off)

R.B. (to self and to audience through mirror): Over a drink. Over the brink. That’s how it goes. One second you’re on top.

Then in a flash (lights flash) gravity drags you down to the bottom of the mountain. So what now? Climb back up, only to

be knocked down again? I was the star of the show, but the show is over. Cancelled as they say. So where does that leave

me? Cancelled as well? I was Paladin. Now I’m not. But then who am I? Richard Boone the actor. The unemployed actor.

Is that all I am -- someone defined by my work? If that’s true, then I’ve lost my identity. So what should I do? Play golf?

Putter around the house? No. I’m an actor – so I must act. I can be anybody. Cyrano, D’Artagnan. But I made a name for

myself as Paladin. I don’t want to lose that. So I must live up to it. Or not. I could take on a new name and live up to that.

Start a theater, direct a new series – produce my own show, come back as an aging gunslinger – as a sheriff, a cowboy-

detective maybe. Or . . . become Richard Boone, writer. Yes. But first I must finish this play. And finish him in the

process. The end of Paladin. My nemesis . . . (puts paper in typewriter)

(As R.B. begins to type, lights flash, the intercom buzzes,

a bright reflection from the mirror shines in his face)

R.B. (continues to type, pulls cowboy down to shade his eyes): Enough Jack Ganelon! This is your final scene. It’s April 14th

1912. You are 73 years old and you’re on the RMS Titanic for its maiden voyage -- also its last. As the ship founders, you

stand in front of an empty lifeboat, handing out your business card to panicked passengers on the main deck. Your card

reads: “Have Gunwale With Traveler.” For safe passage off the Titanic, you are asking a thousand dollars for each adult

male, five hundred for each female, and for children two hundred and fifty dollars. When passengers and crew object, you

threaten to shoot them with your Colt 45. Those who pay you are allowed to board the lifeboat.

THE WORD

27

Benjamin Guggenheim confronts you and says, “To profit from human tragedy . . .

Have you no decency, Sir? Are you not human?” You ignore the Philadelphia millionaire

and order the lifeboat lowered. Then suddenly a steward jumps from the ship’s rail on to

your back and wrestles you to the deck. Your gun is found to be empty. The crew ties you

up and you sink to the bottom of the ocean, bound to the hull of the Titanic . . .

(A dramatic moment: Lights flash, intercom buzzes, the typewriter carriage bell begins to ring and echo, a wind comes up

and blows papers off R.B.’s desk, as a bright light flashes on his face from the mirror, and the silhouette of Paladin appears

in the CBS logo. The opening HGWT theme begins quietly, ominously – growing louder with each repetition. )

R.B. (drawing his gun and facing the shadowy figure): So you’ve finally done it. Transported yourself from fantasy to

reality, from fact to fiction. Well, the fact is this: I’m the writer. You’re just a character -- and you’re not changing my

script. (shadow draws gun) Ha. And what are you going to shoot me with? Imaginary bullets? Go away. Trouble-maker .

. .

(As R.B. starts to turn away, a beam of light flashes from the logo and strikes him in the eyes, blinding him. As R.B. turns

toward the audience, a second beam of light flashes into his face from the invisible mirror in front of the desk. R.B. staggers

to his knees, grabs papers as he falls, then disappears below and behind the desk. The HGWT theme reaches a dissonant

climax.)

Intercom (Gwen’s voice): Richard. Richard. Are you there?

(The spot on the desktop turns an opaque violet. A woozy R.B. – or rather Paladin

– raises his head and comes to a sitting position behind the desk, facing the audience.

The figure has grey-hair and is wearing a rumpled black cowboy hat. It is the 73-old

Paladin described by R.B. in the Titanic vignette.)

Paladin (coarsely, squinting into the light): Gwyn? Is that you Gwyn?

Intercom: It’s Gwen. I heard what happened . . . about the show.

Paladin: The show . . . down . . .

Intercom: Yes. It’s shut down. Are you all right? You don’t sound yourself.

Paladin: Myself . . . What’s that? I mean. How should I sound? I feel like I’ve fallen off a horse.

Gwen: I can understand that. Don’t worry. I’m sure you’ll get right back on and be riding high again soon.

Paladin: I’d like that, Gwyn. Where are you? I hear you, but I can’t see you.

Gwen: I’m on the intercom.

Paladin: On the what?

BENJAMIN GUGGENHEIM

28

HAVE WILL

SUN DAZZLE

Wire Paladin San Francisco

Gwen: The sound must be bad. I’ll come and see you in a bit. (click)

Paladin (to himself): In a bit? A bit of what? A horse bit? 12 and a half cents? She must be trying to transport herself here

too. (holding his head) Ooh. So this is what it feels like to be R.B. Trouble-maker, he called me. He’s the trouble-maker.

I’m a trouble-shooter. He found that out . . . Shot off his mouth once too many times. (staring out intensely at audience

through the invisible mirror) What the hell? (abruptly standing up, moving around to front of desk) Who are you all,

sitting there? And why are you staring at me like that? Identify yourselves. (looking about) Where am I? A court of law?

Is this a witness stand? Am I to testify again? (peering at the first row) Wait a minute . . . I know you. I met you at the

Carlton in ’82. And then again at the San Francisco Yacht Club in ’96. And then, oh yes, at the Agnews asylum in ’06 –

during the big earthquake. So how the hell are you? You don’t seem older by a day. Me? Well, according to this calendar

here, it’s 1962. That would make me 123 years old. Still, younger than Methuselah. (pointing to audience) What’s that?

Not 1962? When then? Fifty years in the future. More? Then I really am Methusaleh.

(looking in mirror) Not bad for an old coot from the frontier days. (to audience) But you –

you don’t look a day different from when we first met. How do you do it? Are you keeping

an enchanted self-portrait in your loft -- like Dorian Gray in Oscar Wilde’s famous allegorical

tale? Or are you just like me beneath the surface? Old as the earth. Or older. What’s real,

what’s not – who knows . . . Well, whatever age you are, remember this: Your life is over

before you know it. So it’s best to know it – before you die.

Paladin: (pointing again to the audience) A question? Yes. Where are my guns? Gone. So how did I outdraw R.B., you

ask? With this: (holds up handled mirror) Got him right between the eyes with his own reflection. In the old days I

preferred the sun at my back. That made me harder to see. And by wearing black, I could hide in my own shadow. That’s

why most showdowns are at high noon. So no one has an advantage. But then one day I decided to stand full in the light,

(spotlight brightens on his face) face the sun with my new weapon, this magic mirror, in my holster. Nothing is faster than

light -- so I’ve been told. No one can beat my blinding speed. (draws out mirror, aims reflection at audience, bright spot

dims) So far, at least. What’s more, my mirror is also good for reflecting on life, for seeing yourself as you really are, for

being dazzled by the brilliance of the Universe. Oh, yes. And this is my new card:

(HGWT theme is heard as Paladin’s new business card appears on back wall.

The knight horse head is surrounded by the image of the sun over the words

“Have Sun, Will Dazzle”)

Paladin: I guess you might say I’ve abandoned the profession of vigilante justice, become a kind of cowboy philosopher in

my old age. Someone said I’ve finally reached a point of honesty about arrogance and anger . . . Talk about it? I’d prefer

not to. So tell me: What are you doing here now? And how did you get here? Well, yes. I suppose I should answer those

questions myself first. Why am I here? (touching keys on typewriter) The answer: To change this . . . (yanks page from

typewriter, holds it up) R.B.’s ending and mine. Fiction made fact. But garbage nonetheless. (crumples paper and throws

it over this shoulder) An ending I shall now revise. But not with R.B.’s confounded clicking contraption. With paper and

pencil if I can find . . . Ah . . . (pulling out paper and pencil from top desk drawer) So here’s what really happened. Or,

should I say, what, at this very moment, is really “happening” to you, R.B. . . . as I write . . .

(As Paladin begins to write, the CBS logo becomes

a full golden moon, stars emerge in the darkness above.)

OSCAR WILDE

29

Paladin: It’s April 14th, 1912. You are 73 years old and you’re on the RMS Titanic for its maiden voyage -- also its last. As

the ship founders, you stand in front of an empty lifeboat, watching a man, dressed in black, hand out business cards to

panicky passengers on the main deck. The card reads: “Have Gunwale With Traveler.” The man’s name is Max Neville. He

has a small dark mustache, is dressed all in black, and is wearing a cowboy hat. There is a Colt 45 on his hip with the silver

image of a horse’s head on the holster. He is a dead-ringer for the man you once were, R.B. – the man called Paladin. You,

dressed in a brown civilian suit and a bowler hat, listen as the man pretending to be a younger you announces that, for safe

passage off the Titanic, a thousand dollars must be paid for each adult male, five hundred for each female, and two

hundred and fifty dollars for each child. When passengers and crew object, this man Max Neville threatens to shoot them

all dead on the spot. Only those who pay the required fees will be allowed to board the lifeboat. Benjamin Guggenheim

confronts the man saying, “To profit from human tragedy . . . Have you no decency, Sir? Are you not human?” Max Neville

sneers at the Philadelphia millionaire and orders the lifeboat lowered. Then a voice cries out, “But I am!” as you R.B.,

Paladin once more, leap from the ship’s rail on to the man’s back and wrestle him to the deck. The gun goes off and you

are mortally wounded in the head. The crew ties up and gags the man, then lowers the last lifeboat filled only with women

and children. In the end, you, Max -- the Paladin imposter -- and hundreds of others on the Titanic sink silently to the

bottom of the North Sea . . . (to audience) R.B.? Don’t worry about him. He’ll be back, continue to act, start his own

theater. And die when it’s his time. He’s a resourceful story-teller. He’ll find a way to return to his own world. But after

that, he will write no more. I’ll see to that.

(Lights flash, typewriter clicks, intercom buzzes)

Paladin: What’s that, R.B.? Not enjoying the voyage? Now you know what it feels like

to be Hugh Mann, to have your life controlled by an invisible force from birth to death.

Intercom (garbled): Not true. Not true.

Paladin: We’ve switched roles. You are now behind the scenes and I’m in front of them.

That’s what’s true.

Gwen (emerging from the shadows still wearing her western costume): What’s true?

Paladin: (sitting back in the shadows): Why . . . The sun, the moon, and my love for you, Gwyn.

Gwen: Really, Richard? Where are you? I can hardly see you.

Paladin: I’m right here . . . in the shadows. But you must call me Paladin.

Gwen: Oh. Then we’re still acting.

Paladin: We’ve never stopped.

Gwen: Because all the world’s a stage.

Paladin: And as Shakespeare said: there are seven stages, or ages, of man:

infant, schoolboy, lover, soldier, justice, pantaloon, and infant again.

30

Gwen: Pantaloon?

Paladin: A doddering old fool who wears wide britches.

Gwen: I could never see you in big trousers.

Paladin: Or you in anything but that beautiful dress. Did you make it yourself?

Gwen (posing, turning about): Do you like it? It’s for my next role . . .

Paladin: You look like an angel.

(As Gwen/Gwyn spins, she bumps into the standing lamp against the rear wall. It turns on and the lights brighten

momentarily on the stage. G stops as she sees the papers on the floor.)

Gwen (picking up papers): What a mess! And I just tidied up. (seeing Paladin in the light with grey hair) Oh, my! Your hair.

What happened?

Paladin: It’s for my next role: Second Childhood.

Gwen: Oh. You’re just rehearsing for a play. For a second there I thought . . .

It seems so real . . .

Paladin: Sometimes it’s hard to tell what’s real and what’s not.

Gwen: Or who.

Paladin (alarmed): Who?

Gwen: Who your real friends are.

(continues to gather up papers)

Paladin: Ah, yes . . . Like HeyBoy and HeyGirl.

Gwen: Well, they’re not real, are they?

Paladin: Then there’s you.

Gwen: Of course. But I was thinking about Bill and Gene and Sam.

Paladin (hesitantly): Friends of yours?

Gwen: Not really. They were all in on the “game,” as they called it.

Except for Johnnie. He didn’t know.

31

Paladin: Oh. And was “I” the “game” they were hunting?

Gwen: You were the target of the game they were playing. It began as a joke,

a prank. But then, I’m afraid, it became something more serious. Sam started it.

He was angry with how you treated him on the set.

Paladin: The set . . .

Gwen: The day he tried to direct you and you made a scene.

You got violent and scared the bejesus out of him.

Paladin: I sometimes do that.

Gwen: Well, Sam vowed to get even. He got Bill and Gene in on it. They thought it would just be funny to make you think

you were going crazy.

Paladin: And you?

Gwen: He promised me a role.

Paladin: So you took the role and betrayed me.

Gwen: Sam betrayed you – and me – when he fired you.

Paladin: He fired at me?

Gwen: In a sense. He blind-sided you – and us – by secretly planning to end your program.

Paladin: Why didn’t he just call me out like a man?

Gwen: Believe me, he’s not a man; he’s a mouse. Like all the network execs.

Paladin: So there’s a gang of them.

Gwen: They’re terrorizing this town.

Paladin: Sounds like a job for Paladin.

Gwen: If only you hadn’t been cancelled.

Paladin: I may be old, but I’m not dead yet.

Gwen: Of course not. You’ve got plenty of life in you. As an actor, as a director. But you’ll still give me a shot, won’t you?

Paladin: A shot? I wouldn’t think of it.

32

Gwen: But you promised.

Paladin: It would kill you.

Gwen: I can handle it. Life is full of disappointment.

I just need a chance to prove myself.

Paladin: As Paladin.

Gwen: In whatever role you want me to play.

Paladin: I want you to be Guinevere, my Muse, my inspiration.

Gwen: And who will you be?

Paladin: Your knight in shining armor, of course.

Gwen: Armor, but not Amor . . .

Paladin: You have your Art.

Gwen: My husband.

Paladin: Yes. Arthur. He’s your king and you’re his queen. But you also have your other art.

Gwen: My painting.

Paladin: Or whatever your imagination inspires you to do.

Gwen (putting papers on desk): And will you still write?

Paladin: I’m done with that. (throws papers in wastebasket)

These belong in the trash bin of history.

Gwen (pulling papers from basket): You mustn’t. You worked so hard.

Paladin: It’s garbage. An abomination.

Gwen: That’s not true. There’s something of your soul on these pages.

Paladin: The blood from my inkwell has dried into dead words. Besides, no one cares.

Gwen: I care. And others will. If not now or this year or even this century. Someday, someone will.

Paladin: You’re so optimistic, Gwyn. It’s your most endearing and maddening quality.

33

Gwen: I believe that’s a compliment. So what will you do . . . for your art?

Paladin: Yes, I owe that to the king. I shall paint, I think.

Gwen: Yes. Paint and think.

Paladin: Yes, both: Paint and think. The order matters not.

Gwen: Disorder, I would think, matters more.

Paladin: Disorder leads to change and change leads to growth.

Gwen: Growth above all. Like the branches of an oak.

Paladin: My father was an oak. I could paint him, I suppose.

Gwen: A portrait. I could teach you that. And how to paint landscapes and flowers and . . .

Paladin: Horses.

Gwen: Horses, of course. All kinds. And knights

in shining armor. Glittering, glimmering paladins.

Paladin: And maidens in shimmering silks.

Gwen: Yes. Yes. I can see it now.

Paladin: And at the center of all, you: Gloriana,

Spenser’s Faerie Queen .

Gwen: How poetic of you.

Paladin: You’re worthy of the dearest rhyme, Gwyn.

Gwen: It’s Gwen. Only Gwen, I’m afraid . . . (the back light goes out)

I must see how Charles is doing.

Paladin: Charlie Mann . . . ?

Gwen: Charlie Mann’s son.

Paladin: That would be me.

Gwen: How could that be?

34

Paladin: I don’t know.

Gwen: It’s hard to know anything . . .

Paladin: I don’t know . . . composition.

Gwen: Oh. You mean in painting. I’ll show you. It’s like jazz . . .

Paladin: Jazz?

Gwen: Or music of any kind. You just compose as you go.

Paladin: Yes, music. Like life. We must either compose or decompose.

Gwen: That’s it. (light flashes on and off) I must go. (begins to exit, stops)

I’m sorry . . . again . . . for deceiving you. I must have been out of my mind.

Paladin: We’re all out of our minds . . . from time to time. It’s the only way to stay sane.

Gwen: Yes. As actors.

Paladin: And as personae non gratae. We all wear masks.

Gwen: As long as we tell the truth.

Paladin: According to Oscar Wilde, “A man is least himself when he talks

in his own person. Give him a mask and he will tell you the truth.”

Gwen: Unless there’s a mask beneath the mask.

Paladin: Or a mirror in the mirror. Oh . . . (shields his eyes as a light flashes on his face)

Gwen: Are you all right, Richard . . . I mean, Mister Paladin?

Paladin (holding his head): A hangover in my head from a less than languid brew.

Gwen: Too much drinking . . .

Paladin: Too much thinking. A pain in the brain . . .

Gwen: I understand. I’ll leave you to your creative thoughts

. . . . Or not. (exits)

(The CBS Logo Moon turns pale blue; the Paladin theme sounds quiet and subdued.)

ZORRO THE LONE RANGER