We Open on Venus - Starship Troupers 2

by Christopher Stasheff

  He was just sitting down as the final few came in, one after the other. Larry was the last, which surprised me—I’d had an even bet going with Marty that we’d have to half carry him this morning, too. But he staggered in, glared at me through eyes that were mostly red, and snarled, “What did you do to me last night, Ramou?”

  There you go. That was Larry, in a nutshell. Couldn’t even accept the blame for his own drunks. I thought he’d make somebody a horrible wife, some day.

  “I hauled you back to your own room, Larry,” I said, “with a little help. If you woke up in bed, you have me to thank. If you woke up alone, you have you to blame.”

  “Alone?” He turned fierce, but there was a strange sort of panic under the viciousness. “What the devil do you mean, ‘alone’? Who should have been with me?”

  I chose my words with care. “ ‘Should have’? Why, no one, of course, Larry. No one at all.”

  He glared at me, but he couldn’t hold it. “Glad to hear you say it,” he muttered, dropping his gaze—but only because he couldn’t keep his neck stiff. “Couldn’t face me this morning, hey?”

  I didn’t have the faintest idea what he was talking about. “Larry,” I said, “sometimes I don’t have the faintest idea what you’re talking about, and I’m always glad. How are you feeling this morning?”

  “How do you think I’m feeling? Haven’t you eyes?”

  “Eyes, and a quick touch on the keyboard.” I held out a ceramic medicine glass. “Have an eye-opener.”

  “I don’t think I want my eyes open,” he mumbled, but he took the cup anyway.

  “Drink it straight down,” I warned him.

  Bad idea; it made him suspicious. He sniffed the drink suspiciously, then took a tentative sip.

  “Okay, suffer.” I sighed.

  He coughed and spat. “Poisoner! What the hell is in this brew, anyway?”

  “A fabled hangover remedy,” I told him. “But it doesn’t work it you don’t drink it.”

  He stared into the glass. It shook.

  “Drink it,” I coaxed.

  “I can’t,” he whispered.

  I sighed and came around the table. “Sure you can, Larry. You just hold it to your lips, like this… then tip your head back, like this … then tilt the glass, like this …”

  The fluid rolled down his throat. He coughed and tried to jerk his head out of the way, but I held him clamped to my side, and his throat worked, swallowing. When I was sure it was all down, I let him go. He staggered into the table, clutching at the edge, coughing and gasping … then suddenly looked up, wide-eyed. “It’s gone!”

  “A little pain to prevent a greater,” I assured him.

  “I didn’t believe it,” he said reluctantly, then, as if it were dragged out of him, “Th … thank you, Ra … Ra…”

  “My pleasure,” I assured him, and I meant every word. “Orange juice, now? It helps with the aftertaste.”

  He took it, then took a cup of coffee, picked himself up, and wobbled to a chair, just in time for Barry, almost fully recovered, to beam around at his gelid company and say, “Good morning, all.”

  “I move we put it to a vote,” Winston groaned.

  “I’m afraid the clock is immune to our opinions, Winston. Since none of us is, this morning, really quite himself …”

  “Or herself,” Mamie corrected.

  “Actors never really are,” Ogden rumbled.

  “What?” asked Marty. “Himself or herself?”

  “Speak for yourself, young man. Actors are never quite themselves. In fact, some members of our profession have completely lost sight of who they are. One thinks of Junius Brutus Booth, swordfighting Laertes off the stage, through the wings, and out the stage door …”

  “Got too far into character.” Marty nodded sagely. “And couldn’t get out. My professors warned me about that.”

  “With you, they had reason,” Larry muttered.

  “If the conversation could become a little less philosophical, and a bit more practical?” Barry asked pointedly. “We are met to discuss rehearsals of the Scottish play.”

  He was answered by a unanimous groan. I glanced at Horace, but he nodded to me, as if to reassure me all was normal, and I had done my job well.

  Ramou no doubt thought the groan to be a comment on his preparations—he had a knack for taking blame that was not his by rights. He could not have been more mistaken, of course, for he had prepared the lounge for rehearsal as well as could be. He had assembled the easy chairs into an open square and hovered by a table at the side, right next to the food and drink synthesizers; he already had an assortment of pastries and several cups of caffeinated beverages set out. The actors were busily absorbing them.

  Barry had decided that it would be less hazardous all around to allow Ogden to attend on a stretcher, rather than argue with him about staying in sick bay and watching his blood pressure soar—so he was reclining at table like a Roman, seeming suspiciously satisfied with the potation Ramou had provided him. I mentioned this to my protege, but he assured me, “Only amaretto extract, Horace. All the flavor, but only about half a percent of alcohol.” Born diplomat, that boy.

  I wasn’t the only one who had suspicions—Susanne was watching him with concern. Ogden beamed at her, but she did not seem especially reassured.

  “Ogden will, of course, play Duncan,” Barry informed us, and a muted sigh of relief went about the table—after all, Duncan makes his final exit at the end of Act I and dies offstage at the beginning of Act II. Ogden would be that much less tempted to overextend himself, but could not complain of inactivity.

  He also could not complain about the casting—as the oldest member of the company, he of course should play that good old king. As Lady Macbeth points out, she would have murdered Duncan in his sleep herself had he not so resembled her father.

  “Mamie will play Lady Macbeth,” Barry went on, “and Winston will undertake the part of the evil king.”

  There was a stir of surprise, and Winston said, “Are you sure, Barry? I mean, I’m flattered and delighted, of course—but as managing director, the lead should go to yourself.”

  “I would prefer to stay away from the focus as much as possible, Winston, the better to observe the progress of the production and the overall picture,” Barry explained. “Also, this is one of the few plays in which the villain is also the lead. It is yours by rights.”

  “Well! Thank you.” Winston looked quite gratified. “Grudy, I’m afraid you are drafted as one of the three witches,” Barry said apologetically.

  “Oh, dear!” our costumer said. “So that’s why you wanted me to attend rehearsal! Barry, it’s been years!” Lacey looked up, not quite managing to hide her contempt. On second thought, perhaps she wasn’t trying.

  “I’m afraid it is necessary,” Barry commiserated. “In so small a company, everyone will have to help out.”

  “What’s Ramou doing?” Larry said with scorn.

  Barry frowned at him, but answered, “I have prevailed upon him to carry a spear. I will appreciate your giving him your support, Mr. Lash—it will be his first time on stage.” Larry wasn’t quite so quick as he might have been to assure Barry of his willingness to cooperate. After all, having left Terra behind, it was going to be rather difficult for Barry to replace him.

  I, however, knew that for the fallacy it was. Barry was quite capable of training any reasonably talented young man—and Larry was scarcely the veteran he seemed to think himself.

  “You, however, will undertake Malcolm,” Barry went on. Larry drew back, afronted. I was amazed—surely he had not thought he would have MacDuff?

  Fortunately, he had better sense than to say so.

  “I shall undertake the part of MacDuff,” Barry said, “and Ms. Lark will be his lady.” He turned to Lacey. “But you will also have to double as a witch.”

  “It sounds delightful.” Lacey smiled, no doubt relishing the thought of being able to show up one of the Old Guard, even so minor a
one as the costumer.

  “Ms. Souci, you, too, will be a witch,” Barry said, “and will double as Donalbain.”

  “Malcolm’s brother!” Susanne glanced at Grudy, wide eyed. “But, Mr. Tallendar …”

  “Yes, my dear?” Barry said with a bland smile, totally unperturbed by the magnitude of Susanne’s encumbrances in seeking to portray a male.

  “Don’t worry, dear—I’ll make you a plastron,” Grudy assured her. “It will be snug, but we won’t have to bind you.”

  Susanne looked only slightly reassured. Lacey gave her a vindictive smile. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Ramou frown, and rejoiced within—he was having a difficult time deciding between the ingenue and the soubrette, but Lacey was certainly giving him factors for consideration.

  Of course, I’m sure Ramou would have preferred not to choose—as which of us would not?

  “Mr. Kemp, you will be the drunken porter, of course,” Barry went on, “as well as Fleance, the bloody sergeant, and several other assorted minor parts, which I’ll assign as we come to them.”

  Marty tried to look gratified—but the drunken porter is one of the unfunniest comic roles Shakespeare ever made, and has only that one scene. One would think Marty would have felt that the abundance of bit parts would have compensated him for the lack, but I could see the comment in his eyes: “They aren’t funny!” I felt leaden apprehension sink within me—surely he would not attempt to make every minor part amusing?

  “Mr. Burbage will essay Banquo.”

  I was gratified, though amazed. Banquo is usually portrayed as tall and lean; I was short and, ahem, “stocky,” and my face is naturally far too kind for a warrior. However, I would endeavor to make it hard.

  “Merlo,” Barry went on, “I’m afraid you will have to undertake Ross in addition to carrying a spear.”

  Merlo nodded. “That’s why I keep my equity membership up to date.”

  Larry looked up at him, startled. I’m afraid the poor young man was rapidly losing all of his preconceptions.

  “I’m stage manager, right?” Merlo asked.

  “Yes. Thank you. Mr. Publican will undertake the first murderer, as well as Old Siward, and any other spare parts left lying about,” Barry summarized, “and I believe that completes the cast list. Now, if we could begin? Ladies, if you will?”

  “When shall we three meet again? In thunder, lightning, or in rain?” Grudy cackled.

  Everyone sat up ramrod stiff—except for myself, Barry, and Ogden, of course. We remembered the days when Grudy had taken small parts in summer stock, just to help out. In fact, I’m sure we were the only ones who knew she had double membership in both actors’ and costumers’ unions.

  But her delivery of that simple opening line had knocked the smile off Lacey’s face and left her staring in shock. Fortunately, Susanne had the second line. She recovered from her surprise within two beats, and came in: “When the hurly-burly’s done, when the battle’s lost and won.”

  Lacey gave her head a quick shake and croaked out, “That will be ere the set of sun.”

  “Where the place?” Grudy demanded.

  “Upon the heath.”

  “Excellent vocal quality!” Barry cried. “Certainly that will establish a clear separation from Lady MacDuff! But can you sustain it, Ms. Lark?”

  “I’ll try, Mr. Tallendar,” Lacey said, and went on to do the croak deliberately.

  It was an excellent stroke, of course—Barry saved face for her, but reinforced the acknowledgment of Grudy’s skill by giving Lacey direction that followed Grudy’s lead. This was more pointed by his not commenting on Grudy’s work. After all, she had the experience to sense what was required—but Lacey hadn’t known that.

  We must forgive the poor young ones. It had never occurred to them that costumers did their jobs by preference, not by force. I thought it might be quite enlightening for Lacey Lark to discover that Grudy was an artist in her own right, working in the field that was her first choice, not a failed actress who was seeking to be near the stage in any way possible. The fact was that Grudy regarded acting as a great deal of fun, but scarcely a medium for artistic endeavor. The same was true of Merlo, who was capable of undertaking several small parts at once, himself—he felt that acting was stimulating, but did not give him adequate scope for his creativity. To each his own medium—and Lacey had just begun to realize the fact.

  Merlo’s enjoyment of performance was fortunate, since he was needed onstage as well as off, in this production— but that is why stage managers are members of Actors’ Equity.

  Lacey and Susanne managed to pull abreast of Grudy’s unabashed overplaying as they took turns saying, “I come, Graymalkin!”

  “Paddock calls.”

  “Anon!”

  Then all three joined to Chant,

  “Fair is foul, and foul is fair!

  Hover through the fog and filthy air!”

  “Here we will have a trumpet,” Barry said, “and Duncan and his entourage will enter. That will include Misters Lazarian and Publican, plus whatever holograms Merlo can conjure up, or perhaps some local lads who are in an adventurous mood.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Ramou scribbling on a notepad. I wondered why, but was struck by the irony of a computer genius resorting to stylus and paper.

  “Ogden?” Barry prompted.

  “What bloody man is that?” Ogden rumbled. Within the confines of the lounge, it sounded impressive, but I knew what that pipe-organ voice had done in ages past, and shrank within myself. Even the young ones, who knew only the remnant they had heard during rehearsals on Terra, recognized this; you could tell by the sudden neutrality of their faces and the downcast eyes as they listened to the rest of his line.

  Marty saved the situation by picking up right on his cue. “Doubtful it stood, as two spent swimmers that do cling together and choke their art.”

  We all looked up in surprise. The voice was a deep, resonant baritone, without the slightest hint of the comic in it. Marty met the concerted gaze with an apologetic shrug. “Sorry, but that’s what the part calls for.”

  “No, no, Mr. Kemp, that’s fine, that’s fine!” But even Barry seemed surprised, though pleasantly so. “You are here to be a character actor, as much as a comic one. Please do go on.”

  Marty tried to keep the glow off his face, and did manage to keep it from being too obvious. I realized, with a start, that Barry had probably been one of the heroes of his adolescence—then realized again, with a sinking stomach, that I had probably been one of the heroes of his childhood. Drat Morty the Milkman! Though he had provided the income that had allowed me to seek more challenging parts.

  The scene played on, until Ogden finished his final line, then went limp, exhausted by even this slight effort. Susanne glanced at him with concern, but met Ramou’s gaze from across the room and changed the concern to a wink, then turned quickly back to the scene. I was amazed at Ramou’s insight, then reflected that a man trained as a warrior would certainly understand the necessity of another man’s pride—or “face,” as it was called by the Orientals in whose arts he had been trained. It was a shock to think of Ramou as a man, too—I had unwittingly been pegging him as “the kid,” even though he had saved my withered old hide from a trio of muggers, and perhaps my life.

  But Grudy was gathering up her misbegotten chicks with one of the highest and most grating cackles I had ever heard. I made a note to remind Barry that we should do The Wizard of Oz the children’s audience can be lucrative, too, especially since the younglings give their parents an excuse to see the old plays that they secretly revel in.

  “Where hast thou been, sister?” Grudy cried, with so much ham that I found myself wishing for pumpernickel.

  “Killing swine,” Susanne said, with a low and croaking tone. I swear she hit tenor.

  Barry looked up in concern.

  “Sister…” Lacey began.

  “Ms. Souci,” Barry said, “can you sustain that? Without injury to
your vocal folds, that is.”

  Lacey’s face flamed in outrage at having been interrupted, but Susanne smiled, pleased. “Oh, yes, Mr. Tallendar! I learned it for Halloween, and used it for children’s theater when I was a teenager.”

  Lacey eyed her with suspicion.

  “Well, if you’re certain,” Barry said, frowning, “but at the slightest discomfort, mind you, you must stop. No false heroics, please—we need your voice intact for a full year at least.”

  Larry muttered something about vocal mugging, but Susanne ignored him and sailed blithely on.

  “Sister, where thou?” Lacey demanded, a little more loudly than necessary, and they were off, each having great fun with parts that allowed full scope for an actor’s worst instincts. Each gave way to temptation with delighted abandon, vying to see who could overplay the most. I would have said they were ready to perform right there, but the touch of reserve in Barry’s gloating smile said they needed to be toned down a trifle. Still, I’m sure he intended to thank Grudy privately for having spurred the young ladies into a competitive frenzy. They all wound up with a howling chorus of:

  “The weird sisters, hand in hand,

  Posters of the sea and land,

  Thus do go about, about!”

  “Thrice to thine,” Lacey said to Grudy.

  “And thrice to mine,” Susanne said.

  “And thrice again,” Lacey responded, “to make up nine.”

  “Peace!” Grudy cried. “The charm’s wound up!”

  “A drum, a drum!” Lacey squealed. “Macbeth doth come!”

  Ramou made another note, and this time I caught a flash of light from his pencil. I realized, in surprise, that it wasn’t a pad of paper he was writing on, but a sort of computer scanner in the same shape. Where had he found it? I knew quite well that he had possessed nothing of the sort when I met him, back on Terra—and he certainly had not had time and money to buy one. One or the other, yes, but never both at the same moment.

  “So foul and fair a day I have not seen,” Winston complained.

  I looked up in surprise. It had been so long since I had heard Winston do anything other than Standard Villain Number Three that I had quite forgotten the man could act. I recited my speech describing the witches—rather mechanically, I fear. Winston demanded of them, “Speak, if you can. What are you?”