We Open on Venus - Starship Troupers 2

by Christopher Stasheff

  “Go! Why, you—”

  “And if you didn’t, I could command any of your fellow passengers to put you there. If any of them disobeyed, they’d be tried for mutiny as soon as we made planetfall. So would you, for that matter.”

  Mamie started a hot retort, then caught herself in one of her rare moments of uncertainty.

  “Now hear this.” McLeod looked around at us all, his face stony. “This is the dictator speaking. Also the king, emperor, lord of the castle, and general monarch of all he surveys. The laws are the same as they were in the days of sailing ships, folks—a captain aboard a vessel in space is the last of the absolute tyrants.”

  “Not the only one, if the LORDS party gets its way,” Marty interrupted.

  “Belay that,” McLeod snapped.

  Marty saluted. “Aye, aye, sir!”

  “ ‘Yes, Captain,’ will do,” McLeod growled, glaring at him. “You don’t have the right to say, ‘aye, aye, sir,’ unless you’re registered as crew. Right, Mr. Hertz?”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Merlo answered.

  Somehow, that made us all more nervous than anything McLeod had said. We all knew Merlo Hertz as our scenic designer—and to have him suddenly emerge as McLeod’s assistant was disconcerting, to say the least.

  “For those of you who don’t know it,” McLeod said, “Mr. Hertz is first officer of this ship and has the master’s papers to prove it.”

  Uproar. Fast and loud. Barry looked gratified; I believe he was reassured that all his actors could project.

  “Terran law requires a minimum crew of three for any space vessel,” McLeod called over the uproar, and everyone stilled, waiting for the rest of the bad news.

  “Mr. Lazarian has signed on as ensign,” McLeod informed us. “He doesn’t have any papers yet, but he’ll have qualified for his basics by the time we reach New Venus.”

  “Ramou?” Lacey cried, and swung around to stare at him as if he were a jellyfish who had just sprouted legs and come ashore for a stroll. She wasn’t alone—everybody had turned to have a look at the turncoat.

  Also the sudden crown prince.

  I stood frozen, caught between a sudden rush of embarrassment that urged me to duck under Ogden’s stretcher— and a flush of pride that made me want to strut. The upshot was that I froze, which fortunately seemed to pass for standing at attention. Susanne was looking at me in a whole new light—one that I wasn’t sure I wanted.

  “If either of these men tells you anything, it comes from me,” McLeod said, loud and hard. “If they give you advice, take it. If they give you orders, obey them—fast! Sometimes, in space, there isn’t time to explain.”

  The stares became a little harder.

  “Of course, they will explain whenever possible,” McLeod qualified, thawing just a little. “I pride myself on having a polite and attentive crew. If you have any complaints about them, tell me. If you have any complaints about me, tell the Space Authority—on New Venus. Till then, you’ll do as you’re told.”

  “You can’t get away with this!” Mamie stormed. “I’ll tell Valdor, and he’ll have your hide! He’ll nail you to the wall and see to it that you never leave Earth again!”

  “Fine,” McLeod shot back. “You can tell him anything you want—as soon as we get back to Terra. You can tell the authorities on New Venus anything you want, too—but not until we get there. We’re traveling much faster than light, Ms. Lulala, and that means we’re traveling faster than radio, too. Nothing yet invented can travel faster than a ship in H-space—which is why the captain has to be the sole and total authority aboard ship. He can’t call a planet station for advice, and he can’t receive orders. He can’t call the cops, he can’t call the marines, he can’t call anybody. Once we shifted into H-space, we lost communication with every planet in the galaxy. That means we’re outside the jurisdiction of every government there is—and that’s why I have to be the government.”

  “ ‘As it was in the days of Nelson’s fleet,’ ” Horace murmured, “ ‘as it was in the days of old.’ ”

  “How’s that again?” McLeod peered sharply at him. “Mr. Burbage, isn’t it? ‘The Ballad of the Good Ship Clampherdown,’ was it? My sentiments exactly, Mr. Burbage. That’s the way it is, so that’s the way it’s got to be. I like the power, but I don’t like the responsibility. Not much I can do about it, though—and neither can you.”

  “Mutiny,” Winston Carlton suggested.

  “Don’t even think about it.” McLeod glared at him. ‘The penalty for mutiny is still death—though it’s much quicker and less agonizing than it used to be.”

  I swallowed, feeling like the enemy. We all knew what McLeod was talking about. In the days of sailing ships, they strung you up by the neck and let you choke to death. Now they just shove you into a conversion chamber, punch the button, and let your constituent atoms instantly unconstitute. Quick and painless, they tell me, though I don’t know of anybody who’s been through it and has really said anything to confirm that.

  You couldn’t blame McLeod for jumping to conclusions—Winston Carlton looked like the most sadistic villain that ever counted blood drops. Horace tells me he’s the gentlest soul alive, but he sure doesn’t look it—and he’s one of our few genuine stars, having made a fortune playing bad guys.

  “I won’t,” Winston promised, “but I did think the issue should be aired.”

  “Spaced, if they try to do anything about it,” McLeod growled. “I just might not wait for planetfall. For some things, I’d rather take my chances with a Board of Inquiry.” Myself, I wasn’t about to argue.

  McLeod suddenly smiled, warm and friendly. “Of course, I’ve never imposed any punishment harder than short rations—and the individual in question needed to go on a diet, anyway.”

  Ogden blanched under his pallor.

  “Of course, there’s always extra KP and scrub patrol,” McLeod amended, “but that’s not so bad—or even a night in the brig, until the perpetrator sobers up.”

  Ogden blanched again; I had trouble telling where he ended and his sheet began.

  “On the other hand!” McLeod snapped, his stare nailing each one of us to his or her chair. “I’ve never been one to let myself be limited by past performance, either.”

  He held the glare a moment longer, then suddenly relaxed and straightened up. “Well. That’s all I have to say for now. Hopefully, you won’t have to hear from me again until we’re about to land on New Venus. In the meantime, take a few minutes to read that little card in your bedside drawer that says ‘Rules Aboard Ship,’ and make sure you live by them tighter than the Bible. There’ll be a lifeboat drill every now and then—not that we think we’ll need them, but neither did the Titanic.”

  “But,” said Larry Rash, “how are we to know when we’re talking to Ramou as gofer, or Ramou as ensign?” You could tell he cared by the way he said it. That kind of thing meant a lot, to Larry. He was one of the youngest members of the company, like me, and was very anxious to know whom he could kick and whom he couldn’t.

  “When he’s doing his theater job, he’s ..

  “Technical assistant,” Barry muttered.

  “… technical assistant,” McLeod finished, with only the slightest hint of a pause. “Any other time, assume he’s crew—and treat him accordingly.”

  Larry’s eyes burned, and his throat convulsed—it was an awfully hard fact for him to swallow—but he kept his mouth shut. Not that I was worried—Larry and I had already had our little talk. I had to admit, the kid had guts. Not much else, but he did have guts.

  “Any questions?” McLeod rapped, in a way that implied there had better not be any—and there weren’t, though there were an awful lot of stiletto glances. The points glanced harmlessly off the armor of his self-assurance, though, and he nodded crisply. “Very good. I’ll turn the meeting back to your director, then. Mr. Tallendar?” He sat down.

  Barry rose, trying to suppress a smile. “Thank you, Captain McLeod. Now then, my friends, let me d
iscuss our schedule for the next few weeks.”

  2

  “As you know,” Barry said, “we had originally planned to open our first season on New Venus anyway, since it is the closest to Terra of all its colonies. Then, due to the gratuitous publicity provided by Elector Rudders ..

  There were a few chuckles, most notably from Winston, who was the only one of us in a position not to be concerned about cost. It was true enough that the elector’s publicity had been free, but it certainly had not been intended to be favorable in the slightest. Could we help it if a condemnation from Rudders was a commendation, to most of the theater-going public?

  “So we moved our opening date up a bit,” Barry went on, “and, to maximize the benefits of this unexpected notoriety, we determined to begin our season on Broadway, rather than ending it there. The good elector, however, moved to prevent our leaving Terra at all, and since that was the purpose for which we were formed, we had to rush to leave the planet before his new law was passed.”

  “Has it been?” Lacey Lark asked.

  “We haven’t quite had time to check the broadcasts,” Barry told her. “We only lifted off half an hour ago, after all.”

  “But we could have had a successful Broadway run!” Mamie stormed. “Really, Barry, how shortsighted of you! Why, you’ve sacrificed us all on the altar of your asinine dream!”

  There was a mutter of agreement, most notably from Lacey Lark and Larry Rash. We older actors, though, looked skeptical.

  “A run,” Barry agreed, “and with luck, we might have broken even. With great luck, we might have run more than one season. But what then, Mamie? When the rush of publicity had passed, what then?”

  “The company would have had to dissolve,” Winston murmured.

  The younger folk saw his point—no company, no paycheck. But that would have been a blessing, to Mamie. “What of it?” she ranted, in true prima donna fashion. “Who says the publicity would have ended?”

  “Elector Rudders,” Barry said, “for he is the one who generated it. After all, we were controversial only because we intended to leave the planet and take live theater to Terra’s colonies all across the Terran Sphere. No lift-off, no controversy—and with no controversy, we would have had no publicity.”

  “What of it?” Mamie scoffed. “With a successful run behind us, surely we could have mounted another new play! Honestly, Barry! To have given up the Earth, and all that’s in it!”

  “That was the purpose for which we formed,” I noted.

  “Oh, be still, Horace!” Mamie blazed. “Just because a silly old man like you has become disenchanted with Terra does not mean we younger souls have!”

  I stood up slowly, letting my shock and anger show just enough. “Ms. Lulala, New York City has been my home, my world, and the mother of my soul. She beguiled me in my youth and formed me in maturity. She has occupied a place in my affections far stronger than any woman’s, and I would have wished no greater blessing than to have died in the city I love. But where there is no money, there is no life. Roles were coming more and more rarely, and I was forced to face the fact that this Star Company was my final opportunity to be sure of a chance to tread the boards for the score or so years that are left me. In the final analysis, I had to choose between my beloved New York, and my mistress, the theater. I deeply regret that the choice was so clear and so drastic, but such is life—and I could not abandon the stage.”

  The look Mamie gave me would have steamed a pudding, but she had no answer. What could she have said— that faced with the same choice, she would have chosen New York? We all knew that, but she could scarcely have admitted it. And she certainly could not have admitted that for her, at least, the demise of the Star Company would have been no tragedy, for if there had been no company, there would have been nowhere for Valdor Tallendar to send her in exile, as is the fate of many a mistress who has become importunate. No, of us all, only Mamie had been joined to the company by force, rather than free will. All she could say was, “Perhaps you are willing to waste the rest of your life in the rustic provinces, Horace Burbage, but I am not!”

  “Hey, Captain, stop the ship!” Marty cried. “She wants to get off!”

  He earned a burst of surprised laughter, and he made his point—we were committed now, whether we wanted to be or not. The first chance to “get off’ would be New Venus, and I didn’t much think Mamie would care to walk the four light-years back to Terra.

  Marty also earned a glare from Mamie, a look that would have shriveled him from the insides out, if she could have had her way. It was a look that fairly promised him that he would never work in the theater again—but Marty only smiled brightly back at her, then deliberately turned to gaze up at Barry, all innocence. The point was well taken—if he had made an enemy of the leading lady, he had made a friend of the producer.

  For Barry had been watching the whole episode with a look of covert amusement. He was quite content to let Mamie make her enemies for herself, though he was too much the gentleman to have attempted to do it for her.

  I could have cheered when Marty scored on Mamie, and I damn near applauded when Horace sat down. Not quite, though—I realized it would have embarrassed Mamie to the point where she would never be willing to cooperate again, and I knew enough of human groups to realize it was important that we become a company, a unit, in the fullest sense of the word. Going through the motions wasn’t enough—we would all have to be committed, or we’d fall apart. Barry knew that, too, and I wasn’t about to make his job any harder for him.

  Still, it made me nervous hearing all those actors calling question after question at him, not giving him time to answer a single one.

  “But weren’t we acting illegally in lifting off, Barry?”

  “Just why was Elector Rudders watching us so closely?”

  “What is the real reason the LORDS party didn’t want us to take theater to the stars?”

  “Don’t worry, Ramou,” Ogden wheezed.

  I looked down, startled. He was touching my arm with a feeble attempt at a reassuring squeeze, and was very pale— but the huge old bear was smiling! Sort of.

  “Don’t let it bother you,” he said again. “They’re all actors, you see, and can never quite remember when they’re offstage. There’s an audience available, so every one of them must have his or her say.” And he managed a ponderous wink.

  I stared, amazed that a man who had just had a heart attack could spare that much consideration for a tyro like me. Beside him, Susanne beamed and gave his arm a much more effective squeeze. He got a little color back in his face and managed a wink at her, too.

  “In sequence, please, my friends, in sequence!” Barry pleaded, hands upraised—but the uproar grew louder, if that were possible.

  Until Captain McLeod stood up and roared, “Now hear this!”

  Instant and total silence answered him, the actors staring in shock—as much in horror at what such a shout must have done to his larynx as in amazement that any mere nonactor could equal them in volume.

  I shared the horror, at least. It was horrible voice production, really—the man blasted, he didn’t project, and I winced at the calluses that must have formed on his vocal folds, if he’d been doing that all his life. But it was loud, as good as Ogden in his long-ago prime.

  Then the actors recovered and were just about to begin another round when McLeod nodded, satisfied. “Good. That’s very good. Thank you. Now, as your director was saying, he needs your questions one at a time. Mr. Tallendar?” And he sat down, turning to look at Barry as he did. I had never seen a more deliberate yielding of focus.

  “Thank you, Captain McLeod,” Barry said, and meant it. “Now, I believe the first question referred to the legality of our departure from Terra. We were perfectly legal in what we did, since no law prohibiting our enterprise had yet been passed.”

  “But what of the court order, Barry, eh?” Ogden wheezed.

  Susanne repeated it for him: “What about the court order th
at was supposed to restrain us, Mr. Tallendar?”

  “What court order, Ms. Souci?” Barry said, with bland innocence. “Oh, I must admit that I had heard rumors …”

  “From a very reliable source,” Winston murmured, and Mamie made an exclamation of disgust; the source was Barry’s brother Valdor, who had recently proved to be anything but reliable, for her. Never mind that he had been so for more years than she cared to remember …

  “A rumor,” Barry said firmly, “that such a court order was being prepared. However, I must classify it as nothing but a rumor, since no such paper has been served on us.”

  “How about the man in the gray suit on the grav-scooter, hey, Barry?” Ogden wheezed.

  Larry pressed, “Wasn’t he bringing it?”

  “Since the unfortunate gentleman never arrived, we shall never know his mission,” Barry said with pious regret.

  “No doubt hunting for autographs,” Mamie said with withering scorn. The company laughed, as much in surprise at hearing Mamie deliver a witticism as in appreciation of it.

  “Quite possibly,” Barry agreed. “After all, half our company are established stars.”

  Or have been, he might have added—we were all over forty, and the only one still in the headlines was Winston. Except for Mamie, of course, who was frequently featured in the scandal sheets—but that was for her actions, not her acting.

  The other half were only beginning. Larry was fresh out of school, and I do mean fresh; Marty had graduated from the same institution a year earlier, but had already gained a few small comic appearances in off-off-Broadway productions and one off-Broadway; Lacey Lark had been making the rounds for a year longer, with similar results; and Susanne Souci was a veteran of five years, in regional theaters and summer stock. Her roles in New York had been few, but she already had the air of a trouper. Fascinating, with her air of innocence, which I think Ramou had noted.

  Ramou was our technical assistant, not an actor, and had left college without finishing his degree. In fact, he had apparently left in considerable haste, due to a young lady’s allegation that he was linked by blood to her unborn baby. He swore it was impossible, of course, and from what he had told me of her, I didn’t doubt it.