We Open on Venus - Starship Troupers 2

by Christopher Stasheff

  But I think she was missing the point—because it was the ghosts the people were cheering, not the witches. I glanced at Horace and I saw the first lines of concern etching his face. I was beginning to feel that way, too—they were cheering all the wrong lines. I mean, sure, they were great poetry—but “Who would have thought the old man had so much blood in him?” shouldn’t have rated howls of anger, and “All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand” sure as hell shouldn’t have brought down the house. Looking back on it, I began to realize that, when Charlie and Marty and I had entered as murderers the second time, the boos and hisses had been entirely too energetic—and when we had mimed stabbing Chovy’s little brother and Lacey, I’d thought the audience was going to charge the stage. I mean, it was getting scary.

  I felt a little better when I heard all the isolated yells of commiseration for MacDuff’s sorrow, but the howls of approval when he determined on revenge sounded all too much like a pack of baying wolves for my comfort.

  “Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow” had always seemed dumb to me, in English class—why call it great poetry, when all it did was repeat the same word? But it really reached these people. “All our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death” drew an angry chorus of agreement that rang off the rafters, and set me to wondering:

  Why agreement?

  Apparently, this audience seemed to know what Macbeth was feeling—from personal experience. At least, they empathized with his depression at the end of the play. But I couldn’t help wondering if the way they cheered when he said, “At least we’ll die with harness on our back!” wasn’t more what they wished they could do, not what they’d already been through. Maybe it was the way Winston charged off, brandishing his broadsword—or maybe they felt he was going out to do their chopping for them. Horace told me later that that’s a perfectly legitimate purpose in theater— that if the hero slays the villain, he’s vicariously slaying the bad guy for them, so the people in the audience won’t feel the need to go out slaying their own enemies; it’s called the “catharsis hypothesis.” But the idea rang hollow to me— because the audience wasn’t ringing hollow at all. They were totally sincere, every one of them. They sounded like a crowd of sports fans following the cheerleader—only these fans were working themselves up to running down there and playing the game on their own.

  I hoped they’d wait till after the curtain call.

  Then my boys were coming up with their camouflage, and the sentry was telling Macbeth he’d seen a walking forest, and Macbeth remembered the witches telling him he wouldn’t be killed until Bimham Wood came to Dunsinane—and the audience was cheering the wood. You could almost see my boys swell with enthusiasm, and I forgot my worries about the audience’s verve long enough to worry about my army’s. I wasn’t supposed to be out onstage for every sally and clash, but I was this time, making sure that none of those halberds or pikes was really being used. These boys were really getting into the spirit of the thing, and I was afraid they might really come out for blood. The audience sure seemed ready to.

  Then the army’s fight was over, my boys were off the stage, and I was wiping sweat off my brow, letting myself begin to feel relief—until the roars damn near deafened me. I turned around to see Winston and Barry battling it out with their broadswords and caught my breath, crossing my fingers, and hoping that the St. Vidicon I didn’t believe in would keep Finagle from letting those swords break. My fellow actors were alert and stiff in the wings, staring at the stage, and I could tell each one of them had the same apprehensions I did. We held our breaths and got ready to duck.

  Of course, the audience didn’t know it might be the Target for Today. They were cheering and hollering and having themselves a fine old time. They were rooting for MacDuff now, where a few minutes before, they’d been cheering Macbeth out of the doldrums. I wished they would make up their minds.

  Then Winston fell, Barry chopped down with a very solid thunk, and the audience went wild. Every one of us actors went limp with relief—the swords had held.

  Larry came out to pronounce Malcolm’s victory, and the audience quieted down to hear him. But when Barry came out with Winston’s head, the hooting and clamoring went on for three or four minutes. In the wings, Winston turned ashen. I heard him muttering, over and over again, “It’s not me, it’s the character.”

  Finally, the audience quieted down long enough for MacDuff to announce Macbeth’s death, and for Malcolm to invite everybody to come see his coronation, and I thought the audience was ready to take him up on it. The cheers had slackened just a little bit when the witches came out to start looting the dead soldiers, and the audience booed them so loudly and vociferously that they got offstage fast. Susanne was pale, and really scared, as she came running off. “Ramou! What’s the matter with them?”

  “Live theater,” I said, for want of anything else, and the stage lights went down. The audience yelled and applauded like a thunderstorm. The lights came up again, and Horace herded us all onstage—except me; I was too busy herding my extras. We all got out there and took a bow—but the applause kept up full strength, with yells and whistles of approval, so we bowed again. And again. And again. And again, facing that sea of sweating, feverish, wild-eyed faces, every single one of them aglow with the excitement of having seen a really dramatic production of one of humanity’s really great plays, with famous actors in the starring roles, right there in front of them, in the same room, alive.

  Except one. There was only one face that wasn’t smiling, and it was right there in the front row, about fifteen meters away from me on the stage right side:

  Seeholder. With his face drawn and pale, his eyes huge and angry—and scared.

  I knew how he felt.

  19

  The stage lights went down, the houselights went on, but the sound from the audience didn’t fade a bit—it just changed quality. The cheers and whistles tapered off, to be replaced by the rumble of a couple of thousand audience members discussing the play—and they sounded enthusiastic. Furiously enthusiastic.

  Backstage, we were just plain enthusiastic, and for once, nobody was furious at anybody else. Lacey was actually hugging Susanne, Larry was wearing a grin that outshone Marty’s and was thumping him on the shoulder, and Mamie was disappearing into Barry’s arms. He let her go, and Merlo quit hugging Grudy long enough to squeeze Mamie and give her a big fat kiss on the cheek. Ogden was grinning from ear to ear, clapping Horace on the shoulder.

  Charlie was standing back, watching everyone else with a quiet smile. I felt a stab of pity for him, then realized that he was enjoying watching everybody else’s delight. He also seemed to yearn for the closeness we all had—or maybe I was just reading that in. One way or another, though, at least he was enough part of us to be able to be there to bask in our hilarity.

  No wonder he’d made a good bartender.

  “Did you hear that applause?”

  “Eh? What say? I’m a little deaf at the moment.”

  “They loved us! They were eating us up!”

  “We had ’em in the palms of our hands!”

  “They warned to swallow us whole!”

  “They couldn’t get enough of us!”

  But Horace came plowing through their jubilation like a surfer on the run from a tidal wave. “Quickly! Quickly! Into street clothes! Off with your makeup! Grudy, pack the costumes’ Merlo, pack the staging equipment! Ramou, help him!”

  “Why so agitated, Horace?” Winston asked.

  Mamie cried, “Horace! You could at least wait for the celebration to calm a little!”

  But Horace was herding people toward the locker rooms. “Yes, yes, it was very wonderful, but we really must take off our makeup and costumes! After all, we can’t start the party until we’re home, can we?”

  ‘‘Party? Hey!” Larry whooped and disappeared down the stairs as if he’d been dropped into the ocean, “You mean Mr. Tallendar’s laid on a party? Let me at it!” Marty shot af
ter Larry.

  “Whiskey!” Ogden disappeared after them with less speed but just as much verve, “I’m ready to dance the night out!”

  Lacey headed for the stairs, arm in arm with Susanne, who was saying, “I’ll match you partner for partner!”

  But Winston lingered. “Why such a rush, Horace? I’m sure I’m as anxious to celebrate as anyone else—but it isn’t characteristic of you.”

  “Why, Winston.” Barry looked nervous, too. “Didn’t the crowd’s reaction seem a bit unusually strong to you?”

  “Almost frightening in its intensity, yes,” Winston answered. “I put it down to their delight in their first live performance, coupled with my long absence from a live audience,”

  “It was a bit more than that,” Barry said. “Exactly what, I don’t know—but we are strangers in town, and I’d prefer not to tempt the fates.”

  “Back to the hotel, then?”

  “I think we’d best plan on the ship,” Horace said. “Did you see Mr. Seeholder’s face?”

  “The funereal gentleman in the front row? Who is he?”

  “Our friendly neighborhood censor—and he was not pleased.”

  “Censor?” Winston frowned. “What problem could he have with Shakespeare? I mean, you even talked Mamie into cutting the ‘unsex me here’ sequence! Admittedly, it was appropriate, in view of her interpretation of the character, but still …”

  “I have a notion Seeholder’s discontent had nothing to do with the sexual references in the play,” Barry said, white-lipped, “and everything to do with the way the audience cheered the slaying of a tyrant.”

  “Oh.” Winston lifted his head, finally understanding. “He is authority, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, and of the lowest rank; he may fear his superiors’ displeasure.”

  “But really! What legitimate complaint—”

  “It doesn’t have to be legitimate.” Horace cut him off. “As long as we’re within his jurisdiction, we’re his logical scapegoats. I would really prefer to be on our ship with the engines warmed.”

  “Surely you don’t think he would attempt to incarcerate us!”

  “I will be delighted to be proved paranoid and overreactant,” Horace said, “tomorrow. But tonight, I would prefer to laugh at my own weaknesses in the ship’s lounge.”

  “I agree,” Barry said, “Please, Winston!”

  “Now you have me worried.” Winston turned away to the stairs. “I’ll try to hurry the younger generation.”

  “Thank you, Winston!” Barry turned away to Merlo. “Merlo, pack up the … Oh, I see you’ve noticed.”

  Merlo and I had the light rails disconnected and lined up for packing. Merlo was coiling the cables, and I was lugging the lighting board toward the door.

  “Ramou!” Horace called.

  I turned back. “Yeah, Horace?”

  “Do you suppose you could persuade that local friend of yours to have taxis waiting for the whole company?”

  “The way we’ve been tipping, I expect he’ll jump at it.” I turned to the stairway, but Chovy and his boys were already coming up, faces scrubbed and back in their work clothes. “Hey, Chovy!”

  “Ramou! One hell of a performance!” Chovy slapped me on the shoulder, grinning from ear to ear. “Never knew that play had so much power!”

  There was something odd about the way he said it, but I didn’t have time to worry about it now. “Chovy, we’ve developed a sudden yearning to get back to our sweet old ship. Think you can line up taxis for us all?”

  “Easiest thing in the world, mate!” Chovy waved a hand at the set. “How’s about all of this?”

  “Back into the truck and out to the ship!”

  “That’s two loads; we’d better work fast.” Chovy turned to his boys. “Hey, mates! All this stuff into the truck!”

  “No, leave the set,” Horace said. “It’s just extruded foam, and we can always buy more of the sludge it’s made of—it’s cheap enough. Just bring the light rails, the board, and the properties.”

  “One load, then.” Chovy called, “Leave the big stuff, mates! We’ll come back and pitch it for them!”

  Horace stared. “Why, how thoughtful of you, Chovy!”

  “My pleasure, Mr. Burbage. Anything for a guest.”

  “And anything for a considerate host.” Horace reached for his currency wallet.

  Chovy waved it away, but his hand got caught on a large-denomination bill that Horace was pulling out. “/ should pay you, Mr. Burbage, for the blast this performance’s been. Likely the only time in my life I’ll ever be on a stage. Thanks awfully.” And he strolled away to exhort his crew.

  Horace stared after him. “Did I miss something there?”

  “If you did, so did I, and I have a hunch I’m glad I did.” I picked up the lighting board again. “Should I bother taking off my makeup, Horace?”

  “Oh, yes, Ramou! Only an amateur would wear his makeup outside the theater!” Then Horace checked himself. “No, I’m speaking automatically, aren’t I? You’re only going to be seen between the gym and the truck—then you’ll be riding out to the spaceport instantly. And this is an emergency, after all. Yes, don’t bother to take off your makeup.”

  So it really was an emergency; he’d finally come right out and said it. I wasn’t sure why, but I wasn’t about to doubt him.

  We finished packing up, but when I tried to climb into the truck, Bolo waved me away. “The cabs are just about to pull out, Ramou. You go ride in comfort; we’ll come along to help unload at the ship.”

  “Uh—thanks, Bolo.” Not that the truck’s cab was any hardship—but Susanne and Lacey were in the taxi, and I wasn’t about to argue. I did kind of wonder why Bolo needed all the extras along—there wasn’t that much to unload. But they were all piling into the back of the truck as I was turning away, and I was in no mood for debate. I hurried over to the cabs and caught the last one.

  Of course, it was the one with the other junior members of the company—and driven by Chovy. He wasn’t about to waste a chance at some time with Susanne and Lacey, either. “Glad to have you aboard, Ramou! Everyone present or accounted for?”

  “You’d know that better than I would,” I returned. “How about Grudy and Merlo?”

  “The old dame went in the second cab, with some shrill protests, I might add.” He pushed the stick, and the cab glided away from the high school.

  “She didn’t want to be separated from her costumes,” Lacey explained. “Couldn’t you have reasoned with these musclemen, Ramou?”

  “Costume chests are safely stowed in the truck,” I assured her. “I’m the one who sent Grudy back to the cab—no sense a nice old lady like her thumping along a route of potholes in the back of a truck. I mean, no cushions—and we won’t even talk about seat belts.”

  “There are more pleasant topics of conversation,” Susanne agreed.

  Chovy swung down a street, and we all looked up at a distant roaring noise. It was too dark to see past the next streetlight, though. “What’s that, Chovy?” I asked.

  “Oh, just some late revelers out celebrating,” he said easily.

  “Celebrating what?” Lacey frowned.

  “Celebrating you, lass. You’ve kicked off quite a spree.”

  We sure had. Chovy had to slow way down—people were out dancing in the streets, and he had to wait for them to move aside. The air was filled with shouts of joy and howls of mirth. They were wearing their ordinary, everyday working clothes, but they had pinned on brightly colored ribbons by way of adornment.

  “What is it—Mardi Gras?” Marty asked, staring out the window.

  “Something like that. Your play was a rare treat, you know.”

  “Mach—the Scottish play? A kickoff for a festival?” I protested.

  “I thought the play had a curse on it!” Larry said.

  “No curse for us, chum—just great good news.” Chovy came to a stop and waited for a particularly dense throng of people. When they didn’t disperse,
he pushed a switch and called, “Hey, you lot! Out of the way.”

  They didn’t pay him the slightest bit of attention.

  “Lowbrows,” Chovy snorted, and turned the car ninety degrees. “Let’s see if we can find some clear space a block over.”

  “They’re getting kind of close,” Susanne said nervously.

  “As long as there’s an alley,” Chovy said easily, and the car glided down the narrow way.

  “Why is that bus parked across the street?” Lacey asked as we came out.

  “To stop cars.” As good as his word, Chovy stopped, then pressed his mike switch. “Let me by, mates!”

  “Oh, yeah?” A big man stepped up beside him, bellowing loudly enough to be heard through the window. He had half a dozen men behind him, and another half dozen coming up on the other side.

  The girls glanced around nervously and sidled up against Larry and me. Not much use—we were looking kind of nervous ourselves. I mean, I don’t mind being outnumbered, but a dozen to one is pretty long odds when you’re hemmed in by other passengers. “Who says?” the big man demanded, peering through the window. “Oh, it’s you, Chovy! What, and the actor people? Sure, sure!” He waved at the bus, bawling, “Let ’em by, Rudy!”

  Sure enough, the bus eased back.

  “Thanks, mate!” Chovy called, and eased past. The bus glided back into place behind him, and he picked up speed.

  “What was that all about?” Marty asked nervously.

  “Barricade,” Chovy said unhelpfully, then added, “If you’re going to let people dance in the streets, you have to block off traffic, you know.”

  That made sense—but it wasn’t exactly satisfying.

  There were sharp cracking sounds off to our right, toward the center of the city, then a huge explosion that left echoes reverberating around.

  Susanne all but jumped into my lap. “What was that?”

  “Noise makers,” Chovy explained, entirely too readily. “Can’t have firecrackers on a petroleum world, y’know—so we make do with light shows, and boxes that belt out the sounds.”