The fornicating pair continue to couple. Jimmy Durante steps up to the microphone, blindfolded, and sings “Sentimental Journey.”

“ ‘In keeping with my planned tribute,’ ” reads the voice-over of Terrence Terry, “ ‘at the instant of Katherine’s bucking, clenching petite mort, various steaming rivulets of her feminine juices cascading down each of her sculpted thighs, upon that crescendo of passion, the assortment of floodlights which bathe the apex of the tower were activated by an unseen hand. The searing light which broke upon us, rather than being the usual white hue, shone tonight in the exact same shade as Katherine’s insanely violet eyes…’ ”

The pair step apart and begin absently wiping at their sopping groins, using dinner napkins they then wad and drop. Similarly soiled linen napkins litter the rooftop as the pair continue mopping themselves with the hanging hem of the white tablecloth.

“ ‘Within moments,’ ” reads Terry, “ ‘we’d severed our fleshy bond and sat dressed impeccably in evening finery, enjoying an elegant flavorful repast of roasted squab served on Limoges china alongside cooked carrots and garlic, double-stuffed baked potatoes or the option of a small dinner salad with ranch dressing or rice pilaf.

“ ‘ “Webster,” said Katherine, “you stupendously virile male animal, this majestic tower is your only phallic rival in the world.” Adding with a lascivious grin, “And I’d gladly climb a million steps to sit atop both…” ’ ”

In contrast with the ripe voice-over, the dreamy, idealized Miss Kathie and Webster merely devour the food quickly, swilling wine, their cutlery clattering against their plates, swallowing so quickly their belches threaten to overwhelm the singing. With greasy fingers they gnaw the tiny squab carcasses, spitting the chewed bones from their mouths toward the street far below. The blindfolded waiters stagger about.

Despite such louche behavior, the voice of Terrence Terry continues reading, oblivious, “ ‘Even now as Katherine and I stood and strode to the tower’s lofty parapet, preparing to raise our glasses in a champagne toast to this, the world’s most glamorous city, countless lesser mortals dwelt at our feet, unaware of the bliss which existed so far above their heads. Somewhere below wandered Elia Kazan, Arthur Treacher and Anne Baxter, each in their own limited existence. Down there drifted William Koenig, Rudy Vallee, and Gracie Allen, no doubt imagining they lived lives of rich fulfillment. But no, if Mary Miles Minter, Leslie Howard and Billy Bitzer were indeed so wise and aware then they would’ve been us.’ ”

The idealized man and woman shove themselves away from the dinner table, grab their drinks and lurch to the building’s edge.

“ ‘In hindsight,’ ” says the voice-over, “ ‘perhaps we too were blinded by our supreme happiness. “Oh, Katherine,” I distinctly recall saying, “I do so love, love, love you!” Communicating this sentiment not merely with my probing love pipe, but also my mouth. If I dare say it-with my very life’s breath, every word comingled with the lingering aftertaste of her saucy nethers…’ ”

The star-filtered, stylized version of Miss Kathie tosses back the last of her champagne and hands the empty glass to the idealized Webster. Even as the blindfolded musicians continue to saw away on their violins, the Webster substitute checks his wristwatch and yawns, patting his open mouth with the palm of one hand.

“ ‘During that blazing violet moment of our splendorous adoration,’ ” reads the voice-over, “ ‘Katherine’s elegantly shod foot skidded against a leftover layer of our spent passion. In that infamous moment, mankind’s most dazzling star fell, a flashing, shrieking Halley’s Comet hurtling to the bustling sidewalks of West Thirty-fourth Street.’ ”

The Katherine stand-in shrugs her perfect shoulders in resignation. She kicks off both her high-heeled shoes, climbs the guardrail and swan-dives into the abyss. The idealized Webster stand-in watches her plunge; then he stoops to collect her discarded high heels and flings them after her.

Terry’s voice reads, “ ‘The end.’ ”

Forgive me, please, but I must violate the fourth wall once more. Even as Miss Kathie dodges and parries the attempts on her life, a curious reversal appears to be taking place. The constant threat of violent death sculpts Katherine Kenton down to tensed muscle. The perennial threat of poisoning deadens her appetite, and the need to be continually vigilant deters her from indulging in pills and alcohol. Under such strain, her spine has stiffened with resolve. Her carriage stands erect, her stomach is hollowed, and she carries herself with the bravado of a soldier advancing onto a field of battle. The presence of death, always haunting, always at hand, has awakened a sense of vibrant life within her. Roses bloom in the cheeks of my Miss Kathie. Her violet eyes sparkle, alert for sudden danger.

More than all the plastic surgeries and all the cosmetics in existence, the terror of her imminent destruction has brought Miss Kathie back to glowing, youthful life.

In contrast, Webster Carlton Westward III, once so young and ideal, now appears haggard, wounded, battle-scarred, his handsome face strafed with wrinkles… scratches… stitches. The Webb specimen’s dense hair sheds itself in daily strands and clumps. Thwarted at each turn, he adopts the whipped demeanor of a cowering dog.

Still he perseveres, whatever his motives, to endear himself with my Miss Kathie. Always there’s the chance of an assassination plot we haven’t previewed, and Miss Kathie must forever be on guard. Once, in her heightened wariness, she pushed young Webster down a flight of stairs near the Bethesda Fountain, and he still staggers with a limp, a steel pin surgically embedded to heal his shattered ankle. On another occasion, at the Russian Tea Room when she misjudged a quick movement of his as possibly malevolent, she lanced his arm with a steak knife in preemptive self-defense. Another time, she pushed him from a subway platform. His all-American face looks livid and swollen from the burns caused when Miss Kathie assaulted him with a flaming bananas Foster. His bright brown eyes are dull and bloodshot from a prophylactic blast of Miss Kathie’s mace.

Thus the reversal: as Miss Kathie becomes more vital and vibrant, the Webster specimen falls into increasing decrepitude. A stranger, meeting the pair for the first time, would be hard-pressed to name the younger and the older. With her haughty expression, it’s difficult to decide which Miss Kathie finds more disgusting: Webster’s apparent plots to murder her, or his declining physical virility.

And with every scar and burn and scratch, this defaced Webster specimen looks more like the monster I warned Miss Kathie against.

In a hard transition, we cut back to final dress rehearsal for the new Broadway show, at the moment the music is peaking with the voices of the entire cast singing, while Miss Kathie raises the American flag on Iwo Jima, assisted by Jack Webb and Akim Tamiroff. A Florenz Ziegfeld chorus line of Mack Sennett beauties gotten up as imperial Japanese airmen in low-cut, peekaboo costumes by Edith Head link arms and execute precision high kicks which expose their fascist buttocks. The spectacle fills a medium shot, busy with motion, color and music, until the shot pulls back to reveal the audience seats are-once more-almost all vacant.

Luise Rainer sings slightly off-key during the Rape of Nanking, and Conrad Veidt flubbed a couple dance steps during the Corregidor Death March, but otherwise the first act seems to work. A constant plume, really a mushroom cloud of white cigarette smoke rises from Lilly Hellman’s seat in the center of the fifth row, flanked there by Michael Curtiz and Sinclair Lewis. On West Forty-seventh Street already the marquee carries the title Unconditional Surrender starring Katherine Kenton and George Zucco. Music and lyrics by Jerome Kern and Woody Guthrie. At the stage door, a truck from the printer unloads stacks of glossy programs. Backstage, Eli Wallach in the role of Howard Hughes practices some business, seated within the cockpit of a full-size balsa-wood mock-up of the Spruce Goose.