“I would be honored,” Publican said gravely and without the slightest sign of being flustered, as you might have expected of a man of so humble a rank as he professed, being approached by so famous an actress—and one who was still damned attractive and extremely alluring, though I would have wished to deny it if I could have.
“You shall have the opportunity sooner than that.” Barry sighed, closing his book with every evidence of relief. “Let us retire to refresh ourselves, friends, and we will attempt to begin anew in the afternoon. Good morning to you all.”
It was a dismissal and a rebuke, so the younger folk murmured in hushed tones as they turned away. Mamie, however, shed the implied criticism with a toss of her head and turned away to take the arm Charlie offered her.
“Publican?” Ogden tugged at my sleeve, whispering up at me. “Mamie and Publican!”
“Don’t make more of it than it appears,” I admonished, though I was quite sure Mamie would. “Any of us is eager for the homage of a true fan.”
“Well, there’s something in that,” Ogden admitted, “though she certainly has the look of desiring something more than praise.”
“At her age, Ogden, I suspect homage is the greater pleasure.” Though I did not say so to Barry; instead, as the rest filed out and he began to pack up his papers, I said, “I think we may have made a very fortunate choice in the Publican chap.”
“Yes,” Barry said. “He bids fair to prove a major asset to the company. Amazingly talented fellow—though perhaps not in acting.”
“I wouldn’t be sure.” I reflected that any grown man who knew Mamie for what she was and could still wish to dine with her, must have been either completely dazzled by glamour—or excellently skilled in dissembling. In Publican’s case, perhaps a bit of both—but I suspected it was far more the latter than the former.
Barry gazed after Mamie and Publican as they retreated through the door, sighing, “Honi soit qui mal y pense. ”
“It doesn’t bear thinking about,” I assured him.
I didn’t want to seem too obvious, but nobody said, “Come on, Ramou, let’s get lunch”—not even Marty. He was trying to have a last few earnest words with Ogden, but Susanne was hovering over the old actor like a mother hen, scarcely giving Marty room to get a word in edgewise. Lacey was hurrying out the door beside Larry, the two of them commiserating in harsh, angry undertones—so I sighed, gave up, and turned away to cleaning up my morning buffet. It only took a few minutes, by the end of which time Ogden seemed to have managed to convince Susanne that he was well, calmed down, and not about to collapse from emotional upset.
“But really,” he said to her, “the arrogance and rudeness of these young people is quite appalling!”
Marty and Susanne nodded earnestly, apparently not including themselves with “these young people.”
“I swear I shall have to study Zen Buddhism,” Ogden huffed, “to be able to maintain my equanimity in dealing with them!”
“That really might be a good idea,” Susanne said slowly. “I mean, not the religion itself, of course, but its philosophy and meditation techniques could be just what you need to keep your blood pressure normal.”
Ogden flashed her a quick smile. “I assure you I learned them in my youth, Susanne, and I’ve found them to be of monolithic reassurance at various rocky times during my career. Yes, perhaps it is time to schedule a daily session of zazen again.” His lips quirked in a sardonic smile. “Not much else I can do, is there? But I do thank you for all your care.” He laid a gnarled old hand over her smooth one. “You’re an immense comfort to an old codger—but you mustn’t waste all your time looking after others. Have a care for yourself—and a better afternoon than this morning.”
She smiled. “Thanks, Mr. Wellesley.” She glanced at Marty, finally admitting to herself that the old man was actually looking forward to a conversation with somebody else, then turned away toward the door.
I came up behind her. “You really ready for lunch so soon?”
She looked up, startled, then flashed me a quick smile. “No, and there must be something else to do. Think we can find a gym aboard this tub?”
“Probably,” I said slowly, “but I wouldn’t want to bet on the equipment being safe, after all these years.”
“Well then, we’ll just have to go check it out, won’t we?” she said, and tossed her head toward the corridor outside. I grinned and followed.
Behind us, Ogden was saying to Marty, “Yes, Harlequin is a sound model for Otto Hand, Mr. Kemp, but I trust you do not restrict his psychological development to a character mask.”
“Oh, no! Not at all!” Marty said hastily. “It’s just the first point of departure that came to mind when I read the script. I’m going to broaden it out as we go along through rehearsal, of course, and deepen it.”
“Ah, I’m glad to see you’ve included both …”
I caught up to Susanne. “He’s in good hands.”
“Which ‘he’?” She smiled. “Good to see someone else among ‘these young people’ has the common sense to realize what a treasure trove he is.”
“Of knowledge?” I asked. “I thought he was just a nice old guy.”
“Oh, he is that! But he’s wise, too, with the garnered wisdom, the residue, of more triumphs and tragedies than I can really imagine. And he’s a positive well of knowledge about acting. A very deep well.”
“Eighty years deep.” For a second, I tried to imagine having lived that long. When Ogden was ten—that was enough to daze me by itself, the notion of that huge mound of bone and blubber being a little boy! When he was, though, the Falstaff colony was still very raw and new, the Wolmar lost colony had just been rediscovered, the last two sovereign nations, the Ukraine and Switzerland, had finally succumbed to pressure and joined the Dominion of Terra, like it or not, and theatrical designers were still using holograms without light rails, according to Merlo—in spite of the severe limits the sets put on the actors’ movements that way; he says it was like performing in a straightjacket. I asked him how he knew, and he just got red in the face and muttered something about historical displays in a museum and impertinent apprentices. I was just pulling his chain, really—I couldn’t imagine actually having lived through all of that!
But Ogden had.
It made my brain reel, and a kaleidoscope of the professional history Merlo had been teaching me reeled through my brain—the Embrasionists, Woodenists, the 3DT explosion, the split between musical theater and “legitimate” theater, the Skeinists, the Dissonists, the Contortionists—and through it all, the steady stream of commercial theater with its well-made plays filled with rich, deep characters and stinging caricatures, and musical plays that continually sought and sometimes achieved the ideal synthesis of music, drama, and poetry.
At least, so says Merlo.
And so would Ogden say, too, I was sure, if I ever had the time to get him started—and wait an hour or two till he ran down. Which I did have this afternoon, technically—except that I did have to spend that afternoon technically; if it was afternoon and we weren’t rehearsing the Scottish play, Merlo would expect me to show up in the cargo hold and get to work turning it into that rehearsal space Barry had mentioned. Which meant that if I was going to get any time in with Susanne, I was going to have to go for it now. Too bad, Ogden. I’ll catch you another time.
In the meantime, I had already caught Susanne, and I was enjoying it to the fullest. Mind you, I didn’t really care what she was saying as long as she was saying it to me— but it was pretty interesting. I was getting quite an education out of this job.
Was I really such a louse that I would have enjoyed listening to Lacey just as much? Sure. Or, well, almost. A patron in an art gallery can get a thrill off of admiring any number of paintings. Of course, some may give him more elevation of spirit than others, but all of them are worth looking at.
Didn’t I care about them as women? Sure—what do you think I was looking at? Why do you think I wa
s getting such a high off of talking with them? What you really mean is, didn’t I care about them as people? Again—sure. It’s just that I cared more about Susanne. I was beginning to realize that Lacey’s company could pall very quickly, at least on me. I’d still care about her as a person, of course—as a human being, as a member of the company, as a worthwhile person in her own right—but all things considered, I’d rather spend my free time listening to Susanne. Not that I was really that picky, of course.
There’s where I’m a cad, right? Not really dedicating myself to either one of my true loves.
But they weren’t my true loves. They were friends and, being female friends, I enjoyed being with them in ways that I didn’t enjoy being with men. That wasn’t sex, it was just the side effect, the spillover. To get that kind of thrill, I didn’t have to be anything more than a friend, or even maybe just an acquaintance. No law said I had to be, legal or moral. No law said I’d be damned if I was.
Maybe literally.
9
We were gathered in the semicircle of folding chairs in front of our brand-new makeshift stage in the cargo hold, undergoing the ritual of notes. As Barry gave each of us comments, we would punch them into our noteboards, so that we would have them to review before rehearsal on the next day.
“Now, Ogden,” Barry said, “coming in to swing a spear in the final battle is all well and good, but I must ask you to stay in your floater until we’ve landed on New Venus and are certain of your health. I’d really rather not have to stop rehearsal again to remind you.”
“Oh, very well,” Ogden grumbled, “though I hate to slow everyone else down so. It’s not as if I were a complete invalid, you know.”
Everyone maintained a tactful silence on that point as he dutifully jotted it down. Ogden was the only one of us who persisted in the use of paper and stylus. No one complained, of course—it was a harmless affectation. Larry’s was not—he was the only one who smoked, thank heaven, and his reward was a place of honor next to the smoking lamp that devoured his uncombusted carbon-and-carcinogen mixture as fast as he produced it. I suspect the lad thought it made him appear more sophisticated; heaven knows he needed something along that line, but tobacco wasn’t it. He only looked like the callow youth he was, flirting with a forbidden vice. He needed to be sophisticated, not merely to appear so—but that could come only with time, and a deal of absorption of knowledge, which I fear he was too lazy to undertake.
Barry keyed his noteboard to save and file, then turned it off as he tucked it under his arm. “Now, friends. We will start rehearsal at a later hour than usual tomorrow—Captain McLeod assures me that we will reach the breakout point sometime in the morning.”
A murmur of excitement went through the lounge. We had only been three weeks in H-space, but everyone was already seized with cabin fever—or an excess of companionship. We were all becoming socially claustrophobic after too long in one another’s company, even those of us who were seasoned troupers. It takes practice, you see, to endure such intimate contact with so many for so long. It was amazing that we had had so few squabbles.
And, of course, the younger folks, who had toured before only briefly or not at all, were quite unaccustomed to so long a stint of confinement. I could scarcely blame them— even on the road, we were not accustomed to more than a day on the bus or train or rocket, and usually only a few hours. Of. course, a monorail travels at hundreds of kilometers per hour, and Terrestrial cities large enough to support a theater-going population are never more than a few hours’ apart by rocket, so even those of us who counted ourselves seasoned were quite unused to being together in so small a space for weeks at a time. Barry’s stringent rehearsal schedule had helped quite a bit, but I couldn’t resist wondering what would happen when all five plays we were working on were polished and done.
I believe that was when I began to realize that Barry would never be done having us rehearse.
“So,” Barry finished, “upon the morrow, please return to your cabins immediately after breakfast. Captain McLeod will tell you when to web yourselves in, and Ramou will be around for the safety check.”
Larry muttered something about Ramou’s being totally unnecessary, but he had an apprehensive look as he said it. Ramou merely kept his gaze fixed on Barry; we all knew that Larry had been his largest problem during takeoff, what with refusing to web in and raiding the autobar.
“But the productions are still far from ready for an audience,” Ogden protested, “the Scottish play least of all.”
“Peace, old friend.” Barry smiled. “Do remember that we still have five days in normal space—and the Scottish play is the only one still in need of major work. The other five are rough, but could certainly withstand the scrutiny of a provincial audience if they had to.”
“Speak for yourself, Barry,” Mamie said sharply. “I, for one, would shudder at the thought of having to appear in Vagrants without further rehearsal.”
“As would I,” Barry assured her. “But the show must go on—and if it had to, it could. Now I’ll leave you all to your evening’s relaxation, and we will begin with Ramble an hour after breakout.”
I wondered why he planned to wait so long, and was rather apprehensive as a result.
The company rose with a deal more chattering than usual, and the move toward the beverage dispensers began.
Ramou appeared at my elbow, looking rather nervous. “Should I turn ’em off before they can get totally plotzed, Horace?”
“It would be wise,” I agreed, sotto voce. “I haven’t experienced breakout myself, but I doubt that it goes well with a hangover.”
Ramou nodded, turning grim. “I’ll tell ’em the bar is closed after the third round.”
“Oh, nothing so drastic, dear fellow!” I shuddered at the thought of the mutiny that would ensue. “Simply visit them with a tumbler full of Merlo’s hangover cure when you come to check their webbing in the morning.”
Ramou shuddered. “I don’t much like the thought of what they’re gonna say when they have to take another glass of that stuff, Horace. I can hold their arms, but who’s gonna keep their mouths open while I pour it down?”
“A point,” I agreed. “Perhaps a strategic and localized power outage might be the wiser course.”
Ramou nodded, looking relieved. “I’ll talk to the computer about it.” He glided away.
One less problem for me to worry about. I realized that I was coming to depend on Ramou more and more, and felt the old habit of caution raise its wary head within me. I had learned what happens when one human being comes to depend excessively on another, and that other suddenly ceases to be dependable—or is simply gone. I reminded myself sternly that I mustn’t trust the lad to the point of exploitation.
On the other hand, I also needed to trust him enough so that he would still feel vital to the welfare of the company as a whole. Not difficult—he already was.
The lads and lassies were becoming quite jubilant. Emotionally, they were thinking of the voyage as nearly over— but four days could scarcely be described as “nearly,” especially when they included a technical rehearsal. Ah well, time enough for them to face facts tomorrow.
Time enough for me, too. I let the long-withheld smile wrinkle my face and made my way toward the nearest dispenser.
“Web in, Ensign Lazarian,” McLeod said. I did, surprised that he seemed so calm. Okay, so a landing was routine for him—but it had been six years at least, and he’d been savoring his liquid assets for most of that time. Roaring drunk, in fact. Wouldn’t he be feeling the teensiest bit nervous about his first landing in so long?
If he was, he didn’t show it. “Courses of navigation beacons, Number One?”
“Closing at fifty thousand kilometers, Captain.” Merlo was gazing intently at the screen of his G-field-disturbance sensor. “They’re at the Lagrange points in the satellite chain ..He stiffened. “Bogie astern! Eight o’clock!”
“Bogie?” McLeod frowned and glanced at the scre
en. “Approaching, too. That’s one fast puppy, whatever it is. Try for visual.”
“Visual, aye.” The image on the main screen blinked a few times, stars wheeling dizzily across velvet, then stabilized with a brighter star in its center. “There she is, Captain.”
“Magnify,” McLeod snapped, eyes glued to the screen.
Merlo touched patches, and the bright star grew brighter as other stars swam off the edges of the screen. Finally, the zooming halted. “Magnification limit, Captain.”
“It’s enough.” McLeod glared at the screen. “It’s a discernible silhouette.” He raised his voice. “Computer! Rotate it to profile!”
The image on the screen turned so that it was sideways to us—a long, lean shape, like a barracuda.
“Streamlined to minimize solar wind resistance at nearlight velocities,” McLeod growled, “and atmosphere, too, of course. That baby is built to travel fast!”
Behind him, Barry asked, “A courier ship?”
McLeod nodded. “For very important mail. Probably diplomatic.”
“It will bear a message from Elector Rudders to the government of New Venus,” Barry said, “advising them to turn us away as a disrupting influence. Captain, we must land before they do!”
But McLeod shook his head. “Not a chance, Mr. Tallendar. If that courier can gain on us astern, we can’t possibly land before he overhauls us. On the other hand, he won’t beat us in by all that much—certainly not enough to give him time to chase through the amount of red tape it’d take to get them to deny us permission to land.”
“Perhaps, but there is no point in landing if we cannot perform!”
McLeod shrugged. “So we dawdle and give them time to tell us no. That way, if they do let us land, they’ll be so curious they’ll want to see you perform something. This is where you find out whether or not you were right about the colonists being really hungry for live theater, Director.”
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