“This craft is more of a mathematical construct than a solid vessel. It is composed of Cantor dust. Hence its rather punning name.”
“But what’s Cantor dust?”
“One takes an appropriate exotic material, and from it removes every tenth atom. Then from that mass, one removes every tenth atom again. This process is repeated approximately ten to the twentieth times.”
Frank spoke up. “But that would leave almost nothing behind.…”
“Almost, but not quite,” said Modine. “The resulting substance has some intriguing and useful properties.”
A floating platter appeared. On it were five bottles of Sam Adams. Opened. One with a straw.
“One of Earth’s finest products. Although I’ve taken a few liberties with its composition.…”
Phoebe took a bottle and sipped cautiously.
The first swallow washed away a bone-tiredness and a sleepiness, awareness of which her mind had been suppressing.
The second swallow left her feeling as if she had won a Grammy, a platinum record and an MTV award simultaneously.
Modine, claws gripping the lip of his bottle, sipping from time to time at his own drink, began to lecture.
“I come from a mighty race. Our name for ourselves is unpronounceable in your language, but you may call us the Bowerbirds. From the primitive tool-using and construction instincts of my ancestors, who reared their bowers on rocky shores, arose intelligence and a highly sophisticated civilization. When we discovered faster-than-light space travel, however, we were unprepared to compete in galactic society on one very important level.
“You see, we could not sing or otherwise perform music. Always a minimal skill with us, it had finally been bred out of us, in favor of intelligence.”
Ignoring the paradox of a songless bird species, Phoebe asked, “But why was that so important?”
Modine slurped up the last of its beer. “Interstellar cooperation and competition is based on music. It’s the one arena in which all the multiform and multiskilled sophonts can find common ground. For thousands of millennia, musical competitions have determined status and trade alliances, friendships and enmities, and hundreds of other relationships for which you have no terms.
“Luckily, we Bowerbirds were able to take advantage of a clause that allowed a client race to substitute for us. After much perusal of many Earth musical assemblages, I picked you to participate in the latest round. Your nearest competitor was a tribe of Pygmies, but I judged that their culture shock would be insuperable. You must all feel very honored. Frankly, you were almost out of contention at one point. It was only when you added this one”—Modine pointed a wing at Phoebe—”that your sound and gestalt became compelling.”
Mark glared at the bird. “Let me get this straight. We’re going to play in some kind of Star Wars battle of the bands, but you freakin’ Bowerbirds are going to get all the credit?”
“Well, that is basically a correct summation of our respective duties and rewards. But I do hereby promise to take you straight back home if you win.”
“And if we lose?” asked Phoebe.
“Most unfortunate. It happened to our last surrogate entry. They still have a century of indenture in the clubs of the Planet of Sound to while away. However, they are members of a long-lived species. And I understand that the free drinks served in most clubs to the performers are almost as good as Earth’s beer.”
4. Three Strange Days
Phoebe gazed out the window of their private guest quarters on the Planet of Sound. Alone, she was waiting for the guys to return.
She leaned on the window sill; it squeaked and accommodated itself to her elbows. Scanning the crowded plaza below, its decorative subsurface chaotic animations obscured by numberless creeping, crawling, hopping, strolling, rolling aliens, Phoebe thought she saw her bandmates at some distance— But no, not unless they had all grown tails. Which was not entirely impossible here. Was that them riding the millipede transport? No, the riders were too furry, even for Mark. Perhaps this huge approaching manta-flyer carried them? Whoops! The manta-ray shape had broken up into a flock of butterfly-sized self-similar components, each of which flew off in a different direction.
Phoebe turned away from the window, which bleated in relief. The diversity of the Planet of Sound oppressed her. She felt overwhelmed by the cacophony of voices and the shifting montage of skins and limbs and faces. It was seductive, yet repulsive at the same time. All she wanted was the familiar comforts of Earth. Even the ratty lounges of Slime Time and its cousins would be a welcome sight.
Feeling this way, when the others had wanted to go out exploring on their first free day since their arrival, she had begged off.
Damn that Terwilliger anyway! He should have known better. What kind of manager was he, running his charges ragged the day before the big performance?
Especially a performance with such high stakes.
They had to rehearse. They were getting overconfident and that would surely lead to sloppiness. She did not think the judges would much credit sloppiness, despite its respectable terrestrial lineage. No, chops and riffs and invention, wringing the most from one’s equipment, were the musical currency here.
Two early easy victories had elated them. Modine’s praise—not to mention a steady flow of doctored Sam Adams—had slackened their vigilance. The final crucial round, Phoebe was sure, would present them with some unique challenge.
She hoped that Terwilliger would not become tearful before the show, as he had prior to the others.
Phoebe had enough to worry about, without consoling an over-emotional fish.
Weren’t cold-blooded creatures supposed to be stolid anyhow?
Moving to her drum kit, Phoebe resolved that she would polish a few licks, even if the others weren’t here.
And of course, just as she lifted her sticks, they all piled in.
Leading the group was Terwilliger. Basically, the alien was indistinguishable from an eight-foot-long walking catfish, from the tip of its broad tail to its stubby locomotive fins to the end of its barbels. However, no earthly catfish of whatever size had ever been constantly attended by a cloud of telefactored waldoes, ranging in size from microscopic to human-scale. The horde of manipulators formed and reformed to the fish’s will.
Behind their guide, Mark, Scott and Frank were whooping and chattering. Plainly flushed with the excitement of their expedition, the guys were oblivious to Phoebe’s stony-eyed glare.
“Man, what a trip!” exulted Scott.
“Sailing the Seas of Time-Cheese!” Mark explained for Phoebe’s sake. “With Captain Toad Sprocket!”
“A most intriguing voyage,” Frank thoughtfully added. “I was particularly impressed by the Captain’s explanation of the formation and function of wormholes.”
Terwilliger (whose real name was closer to T’-[blop]-woll-[splork]- grrr) spoke now in perfect English. “Luckily, we did not engender any shadow duplicates in our chrono-travels. Metacausality is a field well beyond my slender mentality.”
As Phoebe remained silent, the guys eventually wore down. Finally she bit out a question, her voice stern.
“What are those things on your heads?”
Frank reached up to touch what appeared to be a wig made of purple polyester spaghetti. Even Terwilliger wore one.
“Oh, these are souvenirs of a famous winning group from many millennia past. Their trademark, apparently. Don’t they look kinda like Beatle wigs?”
“An example of convergent evolution, from what the fellows have told me,” said Terwilliger.
Phoebe threw down her sticks in disgust. “I’ve had it! Our entire future is on the line, and you guys are out sticking your heads or—or your things, for all I know!—in wormholes or something! Don’t you have any sense of what’s at risk here!”
The argument started the big catfish crying; huge tears plopped down onto the living carpet, which quickly absorbed them. Phoebe felt awful. But she had to slam some sense i
nto them all.…
Mark approached Phoebe and tried to soothe her. “Listen, Pheeb. Didn’t we blow those first two acts off the stage? What have we got to worry about?”
“We can’t assume anything!” Phoebe argued. “Those guys were jokers! The next race could still have an ace up their sleeves!”
The early competitors had been surprisingly amateurish. They wouldn’t have lasted a week on the demanding club circuit that had honed Miracle Factory. First had come the Balloon Men, spherical bipeds with pipecleaner limbs. Informed of their defeat, they had explosively self-destructed, splattering Miracle Factory and much of the audience with what appeared to be hummus, tomato paste and strips of skin. Next up had been a double-headed ambidextrous race, each of whose members had been able to play two instruments at once. They had been a little stiffer competition. But Miracle Factory, playing as they never had before, had triumphed, thanks to their unique blend of Earth’s hidden treasure of rock ’n’ roll.
Now Scott came forward. “What difference is one day’s practice going to make, Pheeb? If we don’t have our sound down by now, we never will. We were just trying to relax, you know? And if we don’t see these sights now, when are we ever gonna get a chance to? I mean, we’ll be back on Earth soon enough.…”
“You hope,” said Phoebe. “Oh, hell.”
She came out from behind her drums and kneeled down beside Terwilliger.
“I’m sorry I yelled. It wasn’t you. Stop crying, okay?”
As she was dabbing at the fish’s eyes with the hem of her shirt, the door opened and Modine flew in.
“Tomorrow’s matches have been posted,” said the Bowerbird. “Your opponent is a one-man band, so to speak. The Bombardyx.”
Phoebe stood, and fixed the bird with a determined look. “Now that the competition is almost over, will you tell us exactly what your race stands to gain if we win? I think we deserve to know.”
The blue canary was quiet for a few seconds. When it spoke, its voice was respectful.
“You are a strange and forceful individual, Phoebe Summersquall. I have noted something puzzling about you ever since Earth, but I can’t lay a feather on it.… Very well, since you ask what the ultimate prize is in this contest, I will tell you.
“Depending on who wins, either the Bombardyx or the Bowerbirds will be allowed to colonize Earth.”
5. Close Your Eyes, Here We Go, Playing at the Talent Show
There was something extra in the sky, but none of the humans were quite sure it was a second sun. It had the apparent diameter of a sun, and gave out enough visible light to make staring at it painful. But the orb—whatever it was—also had a tendency to dart about disconcertingly.
Terwilliger noticed them looking. “One of the larger intelligences in this galaxy,” the fish explained. “Constrained by its size to remain well outside the thicker atmosphere, it nonetheless wishes to watch the show. Their kind are notorious bettors.”
“Oh, Lord,” said Phoebe. “People are betting on us?”
“Yes,” agreed Terwilliger. “But the stakes are low, commensurate with the prize you are contesting for. No more than a single planet will be won or lost by any individual.”
“What are the odds on us?” asked Scott.
“Even,” replied the catfish. “But subject to fluctuation.”
The members of Miracle Factory, along with many of the other variegated contestants, milled about next to the stage: a simple hexagonal affair, roughly half an acre in extent, empty at the moment. The stage stood in the middle of an enormous plaza, much bigger than the one visible from their quarters. There were no bleachers or other seating, no roof or walls to define the limits of the arena.
“Let’s have an equipment check,” said Frank. Their leader was visibly nervous. For that matter, so were they all. Scott was polishing and repolishing his eyeglasses, and Phoebe had to fight to restrain herself from doing the same with hers. Mark was subjecting his hair to such vigorous manipulation that she feared for its roots.
“A sound idea,” said Terwilliger proudly. “This, I believe, qualifies as a tension-relieving pun…?”
“Just get busy,” said Frank brusquely.
Terwilliger directed his manipulators around and, in the case of the micros, actually into the guitars, drums and keyboards belonging to Miracle Factory, as well as their various speakers and microphones and boards.
“All is fine. I did detect a slight weakness in one of Phoebe’s membranes, but it is now repaired.”
“I didn’t know you still had that membrane, Pheeb,” said Mark the Snark with mock innocence.
Phoebe punched him in the shoulder. “Jerk!”
But she didn’t really mind. For the joke had served to diffuse their anxiety a bit. And just in time.
The virtual arena was assembling itself.
From every quadrant came floating platforms of all sizes. Those carrying species which could tolerate the Planet of Sound environment were open to the air; others were closed and transparent; some were opaque. (For the benefit of shy riders—or easily frightened onlookers? wondered Phoebe.)
Within a short time, the stage was nearly englobed by a mosaic of hovering spectators: snouted, scaled, tendrilled; puckered and peppered with pseudopods. Automated cameras took up positions closer in. Although Phoebe had witnessed this assembly twice before, she was still impressed.
“Who’d ever think we’d get to play a stadium tour before we even got signed?” asked Scott with forced whimsy
“Quiet!” said Phoebe. “We should be scoping out the level of talent.”
“It’s only the Bombardyx we have to worry about,” said Mark. “Whoever he might be out of all these freaks.”
“May I remind everyone,” said Frank, “that we still haven’t decided what we’re going to do once we get onstage.…”
Their choices were pitifully few. To throw the contest, dooming themselves to an indefinite term of servitude and handing Earth over to the unknown Bombardyx. Or to go all out for a victory, gaining a return trip to a planet soon to become a Bowerbird fiefdom— whatever that entailed. And any refusal to play would count as a surrender, Terwilliger had told them.
“Yes,” the fish had continued, “your options are not many. But this comes from being a lowly client race. If only you could claim consanguinity with one of the full-status species, things would be different.”
Franks reminder went unheeded now, for the first band had taken the stage.
A dozen impish creatures clad in rubbery unitards unfolded a large mat. Each took up a marked position. Then they began to perform incredible acrobatics. Their movements evoked a wild spacey wailing that soared and keened.
“It’s like a theremin,” said Frank. “They’re modulating some kind of energy field by their leaps and tumbles.”
The imps finished, and their rival took the stage: a flock of pterodactyl lookalikes whose long boney beaks were pierced with holes and played flutelike: musician and instrument as one.
Voting now took place. Results were flashed as hieroglyphic holograms in the air. Although the humans could not interpret the signs, the attitude of the imps told all: they had lost. Led away by robotic guards, they trudged gloomily along, showing none of the easy movements they had exhibited onstage.
“Tough crowd,” said Mark weakly.
The battle of the bands continued, fast and furious. Unimaginable sounds, amplified or natural, filled the air. Melodious or screechy, atonal or pentatonic, brief snatches or long intricate sequences, the music swelled, roared, murmured and cascaded over the listeners. Winners exulted and losers slumped as the audience displayed their approbation or disapproval with various noises of their own.
Phoebe began to grow disoriented. The alien musics were almost succeeding in making her forget all she knew about playing Earth music! She wished for earplugs, but the band had never used them.…
There was moment of silence. Phoebe spotted robo-roadies carrying Miracle Factory’s equipment into p
lace. She prepared to ascend the ramp leading onstage.
Modine flew up then. Behind him tagged along a tray of Sam Adams.
“I brought along some refreshment to toast your success,” said the blue canary.
Numbly, Phoebe took her beer, but did not drink it. She addressed the Bowerbird.
“We hate you, Modine.”
The canary seemed somehow to shrug. “This is an understandable reaction. But I in return do not hate you personally, or your species. Our close contact during the past few days has led me to believe that we Bowerbirds might have made a mistake in seeking to acquire Earth, which appears to have more potential for self-development than we first estimated.”
“Then call off the show!” shouted Phoebe.
“It is rather too late for that. However, I urge you to play your best, and retain the hope that all will be well.”
Modine flew away.
The four humans took the stage.
Strapping on his guitar, Scott said, “I still can’t get used to no cords.”
Terwilliger had modified their equipment to use onboard power-paks and digital transmission.
“Thank God he didn’t mess with my drums,” said Phoebe. She set her beer down close to her, and hung her extra sticks in their stick bag within easy reach. Hate to break one and not have a replacement during such a crucial performance.…
His bass in place, Frank stepped up to mike.
“Hello, uh, fellow sophonts. We’re Miracle Factory, from Earth. And we’re here to play you some, ah, ‘modern’ rock ’n’ roll.”
Mark ripped off the opening to “Dirty Dawg” on his keyboard and began to sing. The band took off.
By the fourth song, Phoebe could tell they were playing as well as they ever had. She only hoped it was good enough.
By the end of the set, she was drenched in sweat. As the last notes of “Lost in Hilbert Space” rang out, she felt that no one could possibly beat them.
Then the Bombardyx appeared.
It was as big as a four-story building, an irregular block of oddly protuberant devices mounted on treads. It moved slowly up the stage ramp. When it attained the stage itself, Phoebe could feel the structure creak.
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