We Open on Venus - Starship Troupers 2

by Christopher Stasheff

  “Hey, Ramou, put it back on!”

  “Just because you weren’t—”

  “What do you think you’re doing, Lazarian?” Larry bristled.

  Ramou stood quietly, letting only a glint of satisfaction show, folding his arms and nodding to Barry. “Listen to the boss, folks, okay?”

  Reluctantly and sulkily, they all turned to give Barry their attention.

  “The ghost shall walk!” he proclaimed. “Our endeavors have netted us a huge profit!”

  Everyone cheered, and Publius stood below Barry, beaming around at the crowd, thumbs hooked into his suspenders. Then Mamie demanded, “How? With only one performance and almost no publicity?”

  “Our friends on the Revolutionary Committee seem to have taken care of that last item,” Barry explained, “directing word of mouth with almost military efficiency. And our nemesis, the management, in their efforts to control us, actually cut our costs to the bone. They supplied us a theater, after all, and were not able to collect rent—and with all the failings of the Grand Gymnasium, it seems to have held an inordinate number of people: two thousand in just one house! And in the last-minute rush, we were not able to prorate standing room, so everyone paid full fare. Thus we have paid for our transportation, hotel, food, and port fees, and still have two thousand kwahers, five hundred fifty-seven BTUs profit!”

  The cheer rattled the walls.

  When we had stopped, Barry went on. “We shall calculate shares, and tomorrow shall be payday! Party well, my friends—you have earned it!”

  They cheered again, and the partying broke out anew. Ramou punched the music back on, then leaped out onto the floor too quickly for Larry to prevent him—though it was Lacey who came out to dance with him first, and Marty paired up with Susanne. Larry stood by, smoldering and waiting for the next number. I reflected that we really should hire a third young artist—perhaps a female comic.

  Mamie immediately launched into conversation again, somewhat loudly and stridently. “But really, those poor souls! The conditions they lived in were abominable! And so far from a decent couturier! They were quite right to rebel!”

  “Quite so,” I said, though I disagreed as to the specific causes.

  “What’ll they choose for their monument to the revolution?” Merlo wondered. “An actor holding a sword?”

  “I should think an eternal flame would be more appropriate,” Grudy demurred, “considering the circumstances.”

  “I hope they have succeeded.” I sighed. “In fact, I feel rather badly that we couldn’t stay to help resolve the conflagration we apparently kindled with our incendiary remarks.”

  Mamie blanched, and Winston said sternly, “Our business is drama, Horace, not politics. Our purpose is to reflect life and to comment upon it, not to interact with it.”

  “Brecht didn’t think so,” Merlo muttered.

  “No, nor did Clifford Odets—but they sought only to preach, not to practice,” Barry pointed out. “They made great theater out of political issues—but when all is said and done, they were still professionals of the stage, not of government.”

  “True,” I sighed. “But can we thereby disown our responsibility for the effects of our work?”

  “The only effects we cause,” Winston said, “are laughter, tears, and, if we are fortunate, a greater understanding of human life.”

  “Understanding, yes,” I agreed, “but acceptance? Ah, not always!”

  “Nor should it be,” Winston rejoined. “If the understanding we give makes people less willing to suffer abuse, have we not done good work?”

  “Ah,” I murmured, “but if they shed blood in their resistance, what then?”

  “Why, then,” Barry said, clapping us both on our shoulders, “we must play for them again, and seek to make them abhor bloodshed—but just now, gentlemen, we must celebrate our survival. Come! The punch bowl awaits!”

  About the Author

  CHRISTOPHER STASHEFF spent his early childhood in Mount Vernon, New York, but spent the rest of his formative years in Ann Arbor, Michigan. He has always had difficulty distinguishing fantasy from reality and has tried to compromise by teaching college. When teaching proved too real, he gave it up in favor of writing full-time. He tends to pre-script his life but can’t understand why other people never get their lines right. This causes a fair amount of misunderstanding with his wife and four children. He writes novels because it’s the only way he can be the director, the designer, and all the actors, too.