The door's probably jamming somehow. Or there's something in the mechanism that isn't lining up right. Either way, you have a hammer, and you're not afraid to use it.
You bang away, ignoring a protest from Nichol that's drowned out by the sound of banging.
Eventually you stop. The trapdoor is now shut.
"It's all right! It will work on the night!" you call from backstage. "Pretend there's an avalanche right now!"
For a moment, you think Nichol is about to argue with you. "As the author says, I'm certain it will work on the night," Nichol says. "Or at least it had better. So, from the top of the scene after the disaster has—we hope and trust—taken place."
You emerge out onto the stage to see Diar take up her place in front of the avalanche machine. Downstage, the lovers have begun their scene again.
There's an abrupt, ominous rumbling.
"Not again—" Nichol begins.
The trapdoor springs open, and paper boulders fly out of the machine at alarming speed. Diar goes down as if hit by a barrage of snowballs, flailing to fend off the projectiles.
"It's not supposed to do that," you say.
"You are a menace!" Diar yells, clearly abandoning any attempt at keeping her temper. "I told you this thing didn't work. Why do you never, never listen to me—"
"Kindly listen to me, your director," Nichol interrupts. "The avalanche is off. We will assume it takes place between scenes, and I will trust to my actors to act so that the audience believes it."
It doesn't seem to you that'll be the same, but you're wise enough not to say so just now.
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