At the base of a skyscraper, both sides give an impassioned version of their case while I wait like a referee at a football match. Freund claims that their perspective in depth will flatten out through the viewfinder. Herlth and Röhrig claim to have taken that into account by exaggerating the relief on the models’ facades. Both sides attempt to cow me with the free use of technical specifications.

Herlth argues with the intensity of a zealot. He believes a production company should have the messianic fervor of a medieval cathedral-builders’ guild, with the film architect as the spiritus rector, the intellectual and artistic leader for his colleagues.

I decide in favor of Freund, since what’s paramount is what the camera sees, and on that he’s the ultimate authority. Herlth is devastated. Röhrig throws up his hands and calls the carpenters down from the scaffolds.

Back at my office, Mayer raises no protest at my suggestion about the buttons. He’s fixed on some other part of the scenario; if the idea works out, he’ll discuss it with me. He leaves like the somnambulist who made him famous.

It seems prudent to use the unscheduled free time to smooth ruffled feathers, so I return to the great hall. Herlth is nowhere to be found. When he returns, he will devote himself to his slide rule at the design studio, working out the changes.

Röhrig is completing the miniature elevated train on the adjacent set. He sees me approach. He has a sloping forehead and a sullen, apprehensive aspect, and always seems to have been badly shaven. He looks like a convict. His partner is Italian-looking, with a high forehead and wavy black hair, like a second-rate seducer of matrons from Capri. Herlth does the designing, Röhrig the building. They consider everyone to be implacably in league against them, and, feeling endlessly put-upon, they do superb work. Of the two, Herlth is easier to deal with. I watch Röhrig for a while before I’m moved to pitch in and help.

The train will only be a foot or so high. The camera mark is inches from the point where it will pass. Röhrig is busy working on litter and weeds for the roadbed—cloth fibers, glass wool, and tiny bits of paper, hand painted. The trestle is plywood, with small wooden buttons for rivets. Black paint mixed with graphite approximates the metallic sheen of iron.