by John Varley
Well, Cordelia was "dead" in our last scene. All was not lost.
"And I'm afraid we'll have to go now," Comfort said.
"Excuse me?"
"Yes. Things have gotten too dangerous. I have a safe route plotted to the rear entrance; no one will see us." He smiled. "Did you really think I was going to give you a chance to escape during the curtain calls?"
I stared at him, stunned at this treachery.
"I thought we had a deal," I said.
"Deal?" He laughed. "I made no deal, and I made no promise."
"It was implied."
"You've never really grown up, have you, Sparky? Did you expect me to behave like a gentleman?"
"No, but I... yes, I guess I did. I thought we had an understanding. I thought you were liking my performance." My voice was rising. Toby heard the tension, and began to bark.
"I did. But I've seen the end of this play. Perhaps you can finish it for me when we get back to Charon. Before we get to work on you."
Someone was pounding on the door now. The stage manager, the makeup man; it hardly mattered. I had only minutes before I was needed onstage. Which meant he had only minutes to take care of me. Toby was still barking. I looked around helplessly, ran my hand through my hair, and decided to plead.
"It's just five minutes," I said, holding my hand with the fingers apart. "That's all I need. Just give me the five minutes to finish here. Then I'll die a happy man."
"Why should I want you to die happy?"
Toby bit him on the hand.
He looked down as the tiny warrior sank his teeth into the meat between his thumb and forefinger and worried with sharp shakes of his head, looked at it as if it were happening to someone else.
Then he took Toby's head in his free hand and twisted. There was a sharp, gristly pop, a crunch, and Toby went limp. Comfort tossed the flaccid corpse aside.
"Now," Comfort said, calmly. "Do you want to get in the box, or should I put you... or should I... it's time..." His eyes lost focus, found me again, and his hand started to come up. From somewhere in his clothing the handgun sprang free and was propelled toward his hand—but the hand wasn't there to meet it. His arms fell to his side, his knees buckled, and he hit the floor as bonelessly as Toby.
No time, no time, no time at all. They were pounding harder on my door now. I grabbed a makeup towel and carefully lifted Toby. I saw the broken tooth and the golden fluid oozing from it. I was careful not to get any on my skin, as the stuff doesn't really need a puncture to work. The poison is harmless to dogs. Comfort's voluntary nervous system was completely destroyed by now. He still breathed, his heart still pumped, but that was all. I couldn't obtain the instantly lethal stuff, and besides, it left no room for error if I had somehow forgotten and shown Toby my five spread fingers by accident. Comfort's condition was reversible, but not easily, and not quickly.
And I still feared him. All along my worst fear was that the Charonese had some built-in antidote to the nerve poison; you never could tell with these people—but first things first. I crammed Toby into his hibernation chamber and closed the lid. All the lights on the cover flashed red. Then one turned green, then another. A third. I didn't have time to watch it all. I turned to Cordelia.
My god, what if she woke up while I was bemoaning her death? I needed another Cordelia. Luckily, one was at hand.
I tore the costume from Jennipher. These were warrior clothes. Cordelia had just been defeated on the field of battle, taken prisoner, then hanged by the treachery of Edmund. I draped the coat around Comfort, rolled him over, and got to work on the buttons. The pants were close enough, and would just have to do.
More pounding on the door.
"Mr. Dyle, Mr. Dyle! We need you on the stage, now!"
"I'll be ready!" I shouted back. "Tell them to slow down!"
Certainly some of the more frightening words to hear coming from the star's dressing room. I could imagine the panic building, the stage manager racing to find Polly, frantic signals to the principals on stage. I could see the flop sweat breaking out on foreheads as those poor folks realized every actor's nightmare: they were stranded out there, no safety net, no rewrites, no retakes. It had driven many an actor and director back to the cinema, where you could always shout Cut!
I glanced at Toby's module. Only two red lights now.
I had not expected Comfort to do what he did. My fear had been that he would understand the signal, somehow, drop the dog, stun me, and make his escape. But it didn't matter. Toby was doomed from the moment Comfort got his hands on him. He was to be used as one more method of torturing me. I would get to watch as the poor little ball of fluff was made to suffer until they got ready to work on me.
Perhaps it's blowing my own horn, but I am quite proud of my performance with Comfort there at the end. Of course I never expected him to let me finish the play. Taking me into the middle of the last act and then cutting me off sounded like a Charonese thing to do right from the start. But I was able to use my rising indignation as I "realized" I had been taken in to get Toby excited, get him yapping so that the bite, when it came, would seem natural.
Oh, how sharper than a serpent's tooth...
Can you count to five, boys and girls?
* * *
Comfort was a small man, smaller than Jennipher, actually, so that shouldn't be a problem.
A wig, a wig, my kingdom for a wig. I scrambled frantically through the overturned costume rack where Tom, my dresser, was sleeping peacefully. I hoped. I found one the right size and color, kicked clothing over Tom's exposed foot, hurried back, and pulled the wig over Comfort's head. I arranged it artfully.
More pounding. I could do nothing but ignore it.
A few quick slashes with makeup pencils and brushes and Mr. Isambard Comfort's face was a reasonable imitation of Jennipher's lovely features... from a sufficient distance. No matter; I'd keep the hair over most of his face, and if any of the cast noticed anything I had to assume they would stay in character. No one in the audience would find anything amiss.
I rolled Jennipher off the cot and spread the bedclothes over her, picked up Comfort's limp body, and tripped the door lock with my foot. I pushed my way through the frantic people just outside my doorway and raced toward the stage. I ran all the way to my entrance, then began Lear's last, mournful journey.
"Howl, howl, howl, howl!" The words look ludicrous, written down like that. One must rip them from deep in a wounded gut, and by God, I did.
"Oh, you are men of stones: Had I your tongues and eyes, I'd use them so that heaven's vault should crack. She's gone forever."
I saw no men of stone; stones don't sweat. What I did see was the most relieved cast of characters I'd ever encountered. They'd just spent almost two minutes trying to improvise and stretch their way through a growing catastrophe, and I don't think they could have gone another five seconds without the audience beginning to squirm. I was so proud of them, Kent, Albany, Edgar, and all the rest, for betraying not one inkling of the euphoria they must be feeling at my belated entrance. Euphoria? Hell, bloody murder! I could see it in their eyes: if Comfort didn't kill me, they might still.
"Lend me a looking glass; if that her breath will mist or stain the stone, why, then she lives."
I had "Cordelia" down on the ground, cradled in my arms. A wisp of hair stirred as Comfort exhaled. I had closed his eyes, but they were coming open slowly, and there was still awareness in them. He stared at me, and I turned his head away from the audience. The lights were on us now, a golden softness Polly had worked an entire day to get. My fellow cast members were shadows, gathered around us.
"This feather stirs. She lives." I brought my left hand up behind his neck, at the angle of the jaw, feeling for the carotid artery. I squeezed. Oh, bloody murder, indeed!
I kept up the pressure.
"Why should a dog, a horse, a rat, have life, and thou no breath at all?" His eyes seemed to lose a little of their luster. It would be short and painless for him,
which is exactly the way I wanted it. Don't forget, Charonese wanted a long and painful death. It assured them of a better place in Hell. But Comfort would feel nothing.
"Thou'lt come no more. Never, never, never, never, never. Do you see this? Look on her. Look, her lips! Look there, look there!"
I collapsed on him. My face was inches away. Did the light fade even more? >I couldn't be sure. My eyes were open only the barest slits; after all I was supposed to be dead.
I heard "Edgar" speak: "The weight of this time we must obey, speak what we feel, not what we ought to say. The oldest hath borne most: we that are young shall never see so much, nor live so long."
And at last, the curtain.
I was up, fighting my way through the darkness and a hurricane of stage whispers. Hands plucked at my clothing. Explanations were wanted, but I had no time, no time, no time at all. I crashed into my dressing room and slammed the door behind me. The curtain calls were beginning and I had only minutes.
Strip the costume from Comfort. The Pantechnicon sat in a corner, unpacked, on its side, ajar, presumably defanged by Izzy. Not quite so long as a coffin, but deeper and wider. I dumped him in it and slammed the lid.
A glance at Toby's box. One red light now. That one would not go off until I got him to a vet; the device was designed to keep him alive, not heal him.
On the screen, onstage, the extras filing off and Gloucester, Albany, France, Kent filing on. Thunderous applause.
I lifted Jennipher and sat her on the cot, pulling the costume over her. Slapping her face, pinching her. She began to blink and swat listlessly at my hand. I'd carry her on unconscious if I had to, but it would certainly look funny....
Now Edmund, Edgar, and the Fool. Applause growing deafening.
"Wake up, darling, come on now, you have to be a trouper."
"Wha..."
"You hit your head, my dear. But you have to get it together, just a few more minutes. Come on, Jen, suck it up. You can do it, I know you can."
Her eyes were open now but not really tracking. Once more, someone was pounding on my dressing room door.
Onstage, Goneril, Regan... no Cordelia. The three sisters were to have taken their bows together.
"Up we go," I said, and lifted her to her feet. She was never going to make it under her own power. I got my arm around her waist, and opened the door.
"Out of my way!" I bellowed, and the crowd fell back before the madness in my eyes and the thunder of my voice. I wore every ounce of Lear's dignity as I strode onto the stage with my Cordelia.
Why Lear and Cordelia? It's not as big a part as either of her sisters. Well, let them figure it out. I'd deal with it later.
When the lights hit us the old instinct took over in Jennipher. She smiled, curtsied, even managed to stand on her own as she and the whole cast turned and applauded me. I must tell you that, though it was probably the loudest ovation I ever received, I barely heard it. I was watching Jennipher out of the corner of my eye, ready to steady her if she faltered.
The curtain came down, briefly, immediately rose again to find the entire cast in a line, holding hands, myself in the center. We took a bow, applauded the audience, and I gestured to the wings. Polly came out, stood there for a moment, nodded, and went backstage again. It was all she ever gave the audience, no matter how much they clamored for more.
Then the curtain came down again, and Jennipher began to scream.
* * *
Oh, it was sheer bedlam.
"A man!" Jennipher was shouting. "There was a man in Carson's room. He hit me! He hit me, and then..."
I took her by the shoulders and looked at her with deep concern.
"A man? Are you sure? Where did he go?"
"I don't—"
"Seal off the stage area," Polly was saying. "I want guards on all the exits. Everyone stay where you are."
Out of nowhere the half-dozen large men who had lurked about the production from the beginning materialized; Polly had insisted on the extra security. Their eyes were not friendly as they tried to look beneath the makeup, seeking an impostor. Each carried a small but deadly-looking weapon and seemed more than ready to use it.
And so the search began. The audience was not bothered. It was quickly agreed that no one could have slipped from the backstage area into the auditorium without being noticed, and no one had seen anything.
The first thing the search discovered was, of course, poor Tom. This heightened everyone's concern, because until then it was still possible to think Jennipher was simply suffering from a bump on the head—a bump I helpfully pointed out I had given her, accidentally, while carrying her from my dressing room. Her story was vague, after all, and unlikely. But Tom's body proved something had been going on.
It was impossible to revive him quickly. The first doctor to arrive confirmed that he had been drugged. When he finally did come around, he was no help at all. He remembered nothing.
It was pretty chaotic until the police arrived, which was fine with me. But they soon began imposing some order on the mess.
My story—and I was determined to stick to it—was that I'd never seen Tom lying under the heap of costumes. And why would I have looked for him there? No, I arrived back in my room to find him gone, which had surprised and disappointed me because he'd always been quite reliable. But I determined to soldier on, alone, which accounted for the delays in certain appearances onstage. They seemed to be buying it. Why would I drug my own dresser? Why put my entire performance in jeopardy?
Polly stayed at the edges of this interrogation, her face betraying nothing to the police but saying volumes to me. Sparky, you are so full of shit. I managed to send her the tiniest guilty shrug when the detectives weren't looking. She would keep quiet.
So it was decided to search the entire theater, beginning with my dressing room. In no time at all a detective was standing in front of the Pantechnicon, pointing at it.
"What's this?" she asked.
"My trunk. All actors have a trunk." For a giddy moment there I was tempted to break into a chorus of "Born in a Trunk in the Princess Theater in Pocatello, Idaho," a song which almost summed up my life.
"You want to open it for me?"
"Of course." I went to her, positioned myself so my shadow fell over the trunk, and lifted the lid. She glanced inside, and I closed the lid.
A legitimate theater is always chock full of cubbies and hidey-holes. Temporary walls are thrown up, then become permanent, and little odd-shaped dead spaces can result. Holes are cut in stages for dramatic entrances and exits, for magic tricks. There is a labyrinth backstage, towering fly lofts, and who-knows-what in the basement. There were no sewers running beneath this theater, so far as I knew, but the Phantom of the Opera would have had no trouble hiding himself.
But with enough people the search was eventually finished, and yielded... nothing.
There were those who wanted to do it all again, but they were in the minority. After all, it was just an assault, no permanent harm done. Tom would file a lawsuit against the theater, which would be settled out of court for a nominal sum. We would all be alert for a repeat during the rest of the run, which promised to be a long one. The consensus was that the intruder had somehow entered the audience and filed out with them, even though it was demonstrated early on that this couldn't be done. Still, after you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however unlikely... is wrong, in this case. But it wasn't up to me to point that out.
Things eventually quieted down. Finally, over an hour after the final curtain, I closed my door to the last of the intruders. I pulled my beard off, went to the sink, and washed my face.
And there was a knock on the door. I sighed, and answered it. It was two more detectives. I knew, because they were holding out their badges for me to examine.
"Mr. Carson Dyle?" one of them asked.
"Yes? What can I do for you?"
"Also known as Kenneth Valentine?"
I said nothing.
; "Sir, we have reason to believe you are the aforementioned Kenneth Valentine. I am placing you under arrest for the murder of your father, John Valentine. Please don't say anything until you've spoken with your attorney."
And they slapped the handcuffs on me.
* * *
"This court is now in session," said the Judge.
It was now almost forty-eight hours after my arrest. Justice can move quite swiftly in Luna, especially in a seventy-year-old case. If you don't have your act together by now, the reasoning went, you never will. We had missed one performance, but one was going on now with my understudy.
Much had happened.
I had spent the time in utter terror, feeling the walls closing in on me. I was given drugs to help combat this, but as trial time approached I had to be taken off of them, to be alert for my own defense.
I had engaged Billy Flynn, the best lawyer on the planet. I could afford him now, and it only seemed right that he have a part in what was being touted as the sixth or seventh Trial of the Century.
And what's this? you say. I could afford Billy Flynn? This, from the man who recently had to stage Punch and Judy shows for a couple of hot dogs? Who had almost starved to death riding the rods from Pluto to Oberon?
Oh, yes, I was a wealthy man. Very wealthy, for all the good it did me.
When I left Luna in such a hurry, seventy years before, Thimble Theater was an emerging player in the entertainment business. I was the majority stockholder. Upon my indictment for murder and subsequent flight, all those funds were frozen and put in the hands of a trustee. I couldn't get a dime anywhere in the system. This is a sensible law, I suppose, as it makes flight to escape prosecution very difficult. I left Luna with the change in my pocket, and a small loan from my Uncle Ed.
In my absence, the trust was required by law to manage my estate in the manner most likely to return a profit for the company, and thus for me and the other stockholders. They'd done a very good job. Thimble Theater was now the player in the entertainment business. I was one of the three or four wealthiest men alive.