“Well … for your sake…” he grumbled, and trundled on through the door.
As we turned away, Susanne was muttering, “I’ve got to keep him away from alcohol! I’ve just got to!”
“More to the point,” I said, “you have to keep alcohol away from him!”
There was a muffled bellow behind us, like the sound of a mortally wounded buffalo.
Susanne whirled, eyes wide with shock. “Mr. Wellesley!”
“Is perfectly all right.” I took her by the elbow and started guiding her away again. v
“When he made a noise like that? What could have happened to him?”
“He just found out that his beverage dispenser won’t give him cocktails anymore,” I said. “I set it up with Merlo—while we were gone, he rigged the machine so it won’t give him anything but warm milk, tea, and decaffeinated coffee. Under those circumstances, how do you think he would sound?”
Ogden was right about one thing—the time we lost going through customs every day really was insupportable. Barry decreed that everyone was confined to the ship until we were ready to move into the Grand Gymnasium, whereupon he would rent hotel rooms for us all.
But he had to make an exception for Merlo and me. After all, we did have to do a “site survey,” as Merlo called it: taking a preliminary look at the theater—or in this case, as Merlo called it, the “playing space.” We had to check out sight lines, acoustics, where we could plug in our equipment, whether they had enough power for all our gear, where we could mount our lights, and a host of other details. So we waded through customs again, and we both brought book ROMs this time—we were beginning to wise up. Then we hopped a cab, came to the high school, looked, saw, and were conquered.
“This is where we’re going to perform?” I stared around in dismay at the Grand Gymnasium.
“I told you we might have to play in gymnasiums, Ramou.” Merlo sighed.
“This isn’t a gym—it’s a spaceship hangar! What do they need all this room for—a dozen games at once?”
“For lots of spectators, and a marching band, and cheerleaders, and, oh, yes, the players.” Merlo shook his head. “Besides, when you play air hockey on ground-effect shoes, you need a lot of room.”
“Ridiculous,” I grumbled.
“Look, Ramou, just because your idea of space demands is based on a karate dojo …”
A tall, burly man in an athletic jacket ambled over to us, tossing a puck in his left hand as he reached out with the right. “Hi! I’m Rocco Lambert, the phys ed director. You must be the men from the acting company.”
I frowned. You couldn’t pin it down, no sarcasm on any single syllable, but somehow Lambert managed to imply a fine contempt for us and for theater. Or was I inferring it?
But Merlo was shaking his hand, and from the frozen grins on both their faces, I could guess they were playing the old game of squeeze-the-hand, trying to determine social status according to who could mash whose hand. The whole ritual made me impatient; somehow I’d always thought that when men grew up, they left childish games behind. But as I grew up myself, I saw that the petty competitions survived as rituals of competitive life. I began to realize that those little struggles, like the enthusiasm for competitive sports, weren’t really childish at all, but adult rituals to which children were introduced and guided early on. The male of the species is built to battle other males—it goes back to the apes and way before them, for whatever reason. We demonstrate our civilization by sublimating that drive into games, in which the risks are controlled and the likelihood of injury minimized. The man who cheers at a football game is a living testament to evolution, and the dominance games that men live by all their lives are just part of the animal nature that still pervades all but two of our drives. Boys are little men, not the other way around; it’s just that they’re more obvious, more open, and more honest about it than their elders are.
So I took Lambert’s hand, adjusted my pressure to equal his, and answered his smile with a question. “Mind if I do a few exercises while I’m here? We don’t get much room on shipboard.”
The grin widened. “Sure, go ahead.”
I slipped off my shoes and stepped onto the floor. It was good, very good, firm but not hard, just the thing to run on all day without getting shin splints. Then, while my boss chatted with the coach, I ran through my warm-ups, did a few flips, tried a few falls and bounced up—yes, it was a good floor—and noticed out of the corner of my eye that, more and more, the coach’s eye was on me rather than on Merlo.
Damn, it felt good! The exercises, I mean, though knowing the coach was watching didn’t hurt any, either. I hadn’t realized how much I had missed being able to really move.
I kept it down to fifteen minutes, then picked up my shoes and padded down to the other end of the gym after them.
It was a long way.
As I came up to them, Merlo was saying, “Well, there sure are enough power drops, but are you certain the total power supply will be up to our equipments’ demands?”
“I wouldn’t worry about it,” the coach said easily. “We can generate enough air to flood this floor and keep the second-half shoes charging, all while we’re flooding this place with light and running a full PA system. But if you have any doubts, you might want to check with maintenance.”
Merlo nodded. “Think I’ll give them a call, though it does sound like enough.” He glanced up at me. “Have a good time?”
I nodded, still breathing hard. “Just great.” I turned to the coach. “Thanks a lot.”
“My pleasure. Looks like you’d be more at home in the dojo, though.”
So he’d recognized the moves. I’d been pretty sure he would. I grinned and said, “I am, but I’ll take what I can get.”
“Well, we’ve got a dojo, too. Want a quick match?”
My grin widened. “I’d love it.”
As we left the school, Merlo said through his breather, “You could have let those kids win a few, at least.”
I shook my head with decision. “No, Merlo. You don’t let anybody win in martial arts. It’s wrong—and if they figure out what you’re doing, it’s an insult.”
“Yeah, I know—” Merlo sighed, “—but couldn’t you have gone easy on the coach?”
“Why? He didn’t go easy on me.” I rubbed my bruises reflectively. “Anyway, if you tallied up points, he won.”
“I know.” Merlo sighed. “That’s why he let every kid in his class have a try at you.”
I nodded. “It’s only polite. A strange black belt comes to visit, you accord him the honor.”
Merlo frowned at me. “You told him you were a black belt?”
“Hell, no. I didn’t need to.”
“Anyway you say.” Merlo shook his head. “Hope you feel like you accomplished something.”
“Oh, yes,” I said softly. “Oh, yes.”
“Friday night?” I stared at Barry in horror. “They want us to perform in five days?”
“I’m afraid so, Horace.” Barry sighed. “The logic, such as it is, is that as long as we’re here, we might as well be working.”
“Don’t they realize that rehearsal is work? Even harder work than performing?”
“I did attempt to point that out to Seeholder,” Barry said. ‘The message struck his ear and bounced off his preconceptions. As far as he is concerned, acting is nothing but playing—after all, that’s what the word means, doesn’t it? ‘Strolling players.’ No, he can’t see any reason why we can’t all just step out on the boards tonight.”
‘To what,” I said, “do we owe the courtesy of not having to do just that?”
“The high school students have school the next day, and presumably have to do homework, then be abed by ten.”
“Praise heaven for the tunnel vision of the provincial,” I sighed. “I take it the gentleman believes that students will constitute the bulk of our audience?”
“It was unspoken—but yes, I perceive that he does,” Barry said. “Afte
r all, why should anyone have to witness something so boring as a Shakespearean performance if he doesn’t have to?”
The sword broke.
The sword broke, and the pointed end went flipping over and over into the wings. Everyone froze, then Lacey saw it coming toward her and jumped aside with a squeal. She looked up, pale-faced, and saw me running toward her. The paleness flushed into the red of anger, and she turned on me. “Honestly, Ramou! How could you make a sword that could break like that? Don’t you know somebody could get hurt?”
“Hey, don’t …” I swallowed the ‘look at me’ and substituted, “… worry, Lacey. It was a fluke.”
“You’re not supposed to let flukes happen!” Lacey blazed. “Any prop man worth his salt would have made that blade out of a material that couldn’t snap! What were you thinking of?”
“Experimenting, no doubt.” Mamie advanced on me, her face grim. “I understand, young man—everyone needs to learn his trade some time. But other people’s wounds are not your laboratory!”
“I—I’m sorry, Ms. Lulala,” I managed. Inside, I was raging—at Merlo.
Until he stepped between me and Mamie. “What the hell? Why are you taking the rap for me, Ramou?”
I stood silent, every muscle stiff.
“For you?” Mamie spun to face him. “How is this your fault, Merlo?”
“Because I’m the one who chose the prop swords and bought them, back in New York,” Merlo answered. “We need real metal ones, so it’ll sound like a sword fight instead of a game of jackstraws. Okay, so we got a defective one in the batch. There was no way to know that. After all, they’ve all been used before.”
“For what—crowbars?” Mamie snapped. “You’re supposed to give us props that are one hundred percent safe, Merlo Hertz!”
“There ain’t no such beast as a ‘sure thing,’ ” Merlo said right back, beginning to sound angry himself. “I do the best I can, but you all know stages are dangerous places.”
“Yes, especially when you’re in charge of them!” Mamie snapped back. “That is exactly why we cannot take any more risks than are absolutely necessary! You test each of those swords, Merlo Hertz, and test them personally!”
“Oh, I’ll test ’em, all right—but even that’s no guarantee.” Merlo’s eyes narrowed. “They’re only metal, after all. They’re safe as anything, fight after fight, but the metal gets more and more brittle inside, until finally they snap.”
“ ‘Finally’? Just how old are these weapons, anyway?”
“Only three years—and they’ve only been used in two productions.” Merlo frowned. “The Merry Wives of Windsor and King Lear.”
“Windsor and Lear? You mean you gave us swords that were only intended as ornaments?”
“No, not just for dress.” Merlo looked offended. “There’re a couple of sword fights in Lear.”
“Yes, but they’re short and sweet, and nothing remotely like the ones in this play! I don’t know how you could be so blind!”
“I told you, it was just an accident!” Merlo snapped. “A thousand-to-one shot! I can’t hedge the odds any better than that!”
“Oh, so it’s not your fault at all, eh? Is that why you hid behind your apprentice here?”
“He didn’t hide,” I said quickly. “He stepped up and took the blame.”
“Yes, but only after you had tried to hog it!” Mamie snapped at me, then turned on Merlo again. “Do you teach all your staff to take your blame?”
“No.” Merlo frowned at me. “He did it because he’s loyal.”
“Loyal?” Mamie exclaimed in disbelief, and turned a contemptuous, pitying glance on me. “Oh, my dear! You have a very great deal to learn!”
“What he’s learned is just fine,” Merlo retorted, “as long as he’s dealing with honorable people.” He turned to me. “That was it, wasn’t it, Ramou? You figured I was your boss, so you owed me total loyalty?”
“Not because you were my boss,” I qualified. “Because I took you as my teacher.”
Merlo’s face softened just a little. “So because you had committed yourself to me, you felt you had to defend me?”
“No,” I said, “but you don’t put blame on your friends.”
“Even if it means getting stuck with it yourself, eh?” Mamie shook her head. “Yes, you have a great deal to learn.”
I decided I didn’t want her for a teacher.
She turned her look of annoyance back to my boss. “Very well, I suppose rehearsals can proceed. But don’t let it happen again, Merlo.”
“I didn’t ‘let it happen’ this time,” he snapped. “Don’t let the part go to your head, Mamie.”
She turned on him, chin lifted and nostrils flaring, but Barry spoke up then. “Scarcely much chance of anyone getting too far into character, with only two days till opening.”
Mamie’s and Merlo’s gazes unlocked and faltered for a second.
“We really must make every minute count,” Barry said, moving away from them, “especially when we’re almost done with the last act. Right, then, we’ll take it from the final sword stroke—without blades, if you please. Macbeth falls behind the upper platform—down, if you will, Winston …”
Winston obligingly dropped down behind the top. I saw Ramou start and step forward, then halt himself; I gather he wasn’t accustomed to stage falls. By his standards, no doubt, Winston should have fractured his coccyx. In point of fact, the actor’s fall had a great deal in common with the martial artist’s—but it was far more vivid.
“… then MacDuff chops his head off, so… !” Barry pantomimed swinging a sword down, and Ramou winced again. He was the only one of us, of course, to whom edged weapons were real. I stepped over to him and muttered, “Don’t worry—by the time the blade falls, Winston will have rolled under the top platform.”
“Unless something goes wrong,” Ramou muttered back, “and maybe Winston’s a little slow in rolling, and Barry slips at the same time, and I know those blades are so blunt they couldn’t cut butter, but they’re heavy!”
“Winston and Barry know their trade.” I glanced at him anxiously. “Don’t fret so, Ramou.”
“I won’t,” he said. “I’ll build a chopping block into the set back there, instead.”
Barry was waving to Larry, down below. “The sword blow will be the cue for your entrance.”
Larry led his troops on and turned to Charlie. “I would the friends we miss were safe arrived.”
“Some must go off: and yet, by these I see, so great a day as this is cheaply bought,” Charlie answered.
“As you say that, you mount the platforms to the top level,” Barry said. “That’s right … Now turn to look out over the battlefield …”
“Otherwise known as the audience,” Winston rumbled, sotto voce.
“Then comes MacDuff.” Barry stepped out, holding the model of Winston’s head. “Hail king! For so thou art …” Lacey gave a little shriek, and Susanne clapped a hand over her mouth. Even Mamie gasped.
“Why, thanks,” Merlo said. “Didn’t know it looked that real.”
“It is also positively ghastly!” Mamie turned on him. “Really, Merlo, did you have to use so much blood?” Merlo shrugged. “We have to at least nod to realism.”
“I see no reason why!” Mamie retorted. “Even if we did, surely an actual beheaded head would have less blood, not more.”
Merlo shook his head. “More. I looked it up.”
Mamie stared. “What sort of reference work would have that kind of information?”
“The Hollywood makeup and prop manuals.”
“Hollywood. I might have known,” Mamie said with a curled lip. This, from the woman who had made several hundred thousands playing vampire villainesses on 3DT, though with never an award nomination—which may have explained her attitude.
“I must say, I sympathize.” Barry looked away from the head, his mouth working. “Couldn’t you, ah, stylize it a bit, Merlo? After all, it is Shakespeare—not Ibsen.”
“Or the Grand Guignol,” Winston pointed out—but he was gazing at the head with morbid fascination. “Amazing …”
“Yes, well, I don’t think we really need such a memento mori on hand all the time.” Barry tossed the head to Merlo. “Give that thing a decent burial, will you? Or at least a less grisly paint scheme—and a box to keep it in, on the prop table.”
“S’awright,” Merlo grated in basso, and relayed the head to Ramou. “See what you can do, assistant. Maybe they’ll like your aesthetics better than mine.”
Ramou caught the head and nodded.
“And not too Japanese,” Merlo added.
“I do not long for all one sees that’s Japanese,” Ogden rumbled, with a faraway look in his eye.
“Gilbert and Sullivan next season, perhaps, Ogden,” Barry said. “For now, let’s work our way on to the tea break, shall we?”
“Tea break?” Ramou frowned up at me.
“Just wait,” I advised him.
“… to see us crowned at Scone!” Larry blared triumphantly.
“For what is tea without a scone?” I muttered, and Ramou winced.
“And, curtain!” Barry declared, then looked about at them. “Not bad, not bad at all! Blocked the last four acts in three hours. Now we’ll run it this afternoon, and we’ll be in amazingly good shape for only the second day of rehearsal.”
“But amazingly bad shape, for only two days till opening,” Mamie said acidly. “I suppose you’ll want to rehearse us again after dinner, Barry.”
“If he doesn’t, we’ll insist,” Winston said grimly. “I don’t know about you, my dear, but I would rather lose sleep than face an audience unprepared.”
“But how can you possibly be anything else, under conditions like these!” Mamie cried, tears in her eyes.
“By gifted improvisations and sheer brazen nerve,” Ogden mumbled. “That’s what got us through Lewis and Clark in Omaha, forty years ago. We murdered the script, of course, but the audience never knew it.”
“These people will have read this play!”
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