STARSHIP TROUPERS IV: THE UNKNOWN GUEST
Chapter Four: Public Performance

by
Christopher Stasheff
Copyright 2011

 

      The Corporation Director's house looked like a scaled-down (but not much) version of Versailles transplanted onto the Russian steppes, though gardeners had managed to raise a small forest around it and, with tender loving care, transform the barren contours of an alien planet into a formal garden.  A butler met us at the door—a real, genuine butler with half a dozen footmen to take our coats before he led us into the grand salon to meet our host.

            And I do mean grand—the salon and the host.  The salon was a huge room in white and gilt with Louis XIV furniture in graceful curves and more gilt, and cloth-of-gold curtains at the window.  The floor was hardwood, polished to such a gloss that I could have used it for a mirror.  I glanced at my younger companions to see how they were taking it.

            We older members of the company, of course, wore smiles that were gracious, even friendly—they were all veterans of this sort of thing.  We had come to learn that the "angels," whose money is the life's blood of the theater, are rarely devils or angels in behavior, but people like any, mixing good and bad traits in their personalities—though some were more quick-witted and determined than most of us, while those who had inherited their fortunes were sometimes more ineffectual and less vivid.  All, though, were worthy of study, and the true professional is always adding to his encyclopedia of human personalities and traits.  So we veterans came to meet our host with genuine interest, though perhaps not of the sort that would have been most flattering to him.

            The gentleman was a tall, silver-maned, blue-eyed gentleman in glistening evening clothes, with a strong chin, a straight nose rounded at the end, a wide smile that revealed expensive dentistry, and a gorgeous blonde at his side.

            "Director Arthur Morgan," the butler intoned, "and his hostess, Ms. Daphne de Licieux."

            "Charmed."  Barry shook Morgan's hand.  "I am Barry Tallendar, and these are the members of the Star Repertory Company..."  He turned and said each of our names; we nodded with smiles, envisioning letters emblazoned across our chests.  We knew these were the opening credits, and the performance about to begin.  As Barry said Prudence's name, I glanced at her, then glanced again.  If she had been starry-eyed before, she positively glowed now, outshining Morgan's consort—who realized it, and frowned.  Prudence was a young woman of most amazing beauty, and Ms. De Licieux realized that battle was joined.

            But Morgan, for some reason, singled out Ramou for his first comment.  "'Only recently undertaken a theatrical career'?" he repeated from Barry's introduction.  "I see.  What line of work were you in before that, young man?"

            "College," Ramou said.  "I was studying electrical engineering."

            "Well, perhaps you can develop some insights into our local phenomena," Morgan said with a smile of genuine warmth.  "They have a tendency to affect electronic gadgets of all sorts."

            Ramou stiffened.  "Such as beverage dispensers?"

            "Among others, yes."  Morgan's smile broadened to a grin.  "Had some experience with them already, have you?"

            "Yes," Ramou said slowly, "though I didn't realize it until now."

            "Then I think you might want to exchange notes with that gentleman wearing the burgundy complet."  Morgan turned to smile at a man about thirty years old with thinning neutral-colored hair, talking earnestly to a young woman who clearly wanted to get away.  "Jord Somerset.  Officially he's Chief Systems Engineer, but in practice he spends most of his time trying to evict ghosts from our circuits."

            "Thanks for the tip, Mr. Morgan."  He turned to his boss, our Stage Manager.  "Coming, Merlo?"

            "Oh, I think I might."  Merlo stepped forward and nodded thanks to Mr. Morgan.  "Promises to be an interesting evening.  Thank you, Mr. Morgan."

            "Merlo...?  Ah yes, the technical director and designer!  Is it true you're also first officer when the ship's under weigh?"

            "That I am," Merlo said, "so I have a double interest in anything that might try playing with our circuits.  If you'll excuse me, I think I'd better have a few words with your ghost breaker."

Beside him, Ramou looked like a hound who has picked up the scent of a fox.

            "Go right ahead, right ahead."  Morgan was all geniality, but his gaze was lingering on Prudence.  He forced it away, though, to Marnie.  "Do I really have the pleasure of addressing the woman who played so outstanding a Ludsdorf in Coping?"

            "Why, yes."  Marnie was actually surprised.  "Though that was scarcely my most outstanding role."

            "I beg to differ, Ms. Lulala."  Morgan still smiled, but his brows drew down.  "Changed my attitude toward women forever, you did."

            "Indeed."  Marnie's tone frosted up.  "And what was it before you saw the recording of the play?"

            "That women were either goddesses or sex objects, Ms. Lulala," Morgan said frankly, "either ethereal beings that awed me, or party girls who merely wanted to enjoy all the sensations they could.  After I saw you go from the one to the other in ten minutes, then spend the next two hours revealing layer after layer of cause and personality, I found myself looking at every woman and wondering what lay behind the face."

            Ms. Licieux's head snapped around; she stared up at him.

            "Well."  Marnie's smile restored itself, though minimally.  "I'm glad to have had a hand in raising your consciousness.  Might I take it that you began to regard us as human beings?"

            Morgan laughed softly.  "I'd always recognized women as human, Ms. Lulala, and frequently of a higher nature than that of we men."

            Marnie bridled again.

            Morgan was quick to explain.  "After your performance enlightened me, I began to see women as people—ones with whom I had more in common than in contrast.  I read books, if you can believe it..."

            "About women's psychology?" Marnie asked acidly.  "Written by men?"

            Lacey and Ms. Licieux were staring at Morgan now, too, trying to decide whether or not to be angry.

            "Some," Morgan admitted, "but more by women.  There was a psychology book or two in there, but I found novels more illuminating—seeing the world from the woman's point of view but in terms a man could understand, discovering issues that affected women that I'd scarcely thought about."

            Marnie nodded slowly.  "Wise—though not all women are the same."

            Morgan nodded.  "That became clear, too—how much individual women differ, but how much they have in common."

            "You're not trying to tell me you saw the world from a woman's point of view!"

            "Several women, actually," Morgan said, "and as much as a man can.  When I moved into management, I began to read a bit more intensively about women in the workplace."

            "He is very good about making sure women aren't harassed on the job," Ms. Licieux said slowly, gazing at Morgan as though she'd never seen him before.

            "Thank you, my dear."  Morgan gave her a small bow.  "If I've shown any consideration at all for women, you can thank Ms. Lulala."

            "Thank you, Ms. Lulala," Licieux said with a pretty frown (one she must have practiced).  "In fact, I think there are some women here who would like to hear your views on the subject."

            "Thank you, Ms. Licieux, but I don't think their husbands would want them to."

            "On the contrary, I think they might," Morgan said.  "Do please talk with the committee, Ms. Lulala."

            "Committee?"

            "It's almost a union, really," Ms. Licieux said, "in charge of making sure women's needs are addressed in the factories and offices."  She looked up at Morgan.  "If you'll excuse me, dear?"

            "Of course, my dove, of course," Morgan said with a genial nod, and as Licieux moved off with Marnie, he turned to the younger women.  "Perhaps you'd like to join them?"

            "Definitely!  If you'll excuse me?" Lacey asked.

            "Of course.  Ms. Souci?"

            "I think I'll join them, too," Suzanne said slowly.  "Thank you, Mr. Morgan."  She moved off after the others.

            "And you, young woman?" Morgan asked Prudence.

            "No, I think I'll stay right here."  Prudence's face shone up at him.  "The conversation will be much more interesting."

            "Not terribly concerned with women's welfare?"  Morgan frowned, puzzled.  "Your homeland must have been very progressive."

            She gave a bell-like laugh.  "Bless you, sir, but my home planet is Citadel, and they're almost medieval!"

            "A Neo-Puritan world," I explained, in answer to Morgan's questioning eyebrow. Prudence nodded.  "Women are quite safe there—anyone offering insult to one of us would be hounded unmercifully before the congregation until he confessed.  We just aren't allowed to do much, that's all."

            "I see."  Morgan's face cleared.  "Other than care for children and keep house, that is."

            "Exactly."

            "And, of course, one doesn't need a higher education for that."

            "No one needs college."  Prudence dimpled prettily.  "Except ministers, of course."

            "Yes, of course.  I should have thought."  Morgan smiled.  "I believe you'll find the young folk of our planet a bit more liberal."  Looking off across the room, he raised a forefinger.  A young man who was looking our way—with Prudence there, they all were—came over with delight.  Morgan said to Prudence, "There's considerably more opportunity for a young woman here.  Mind you, only within the companies, and we've only three here, nothing like the myriad opportunities on Terra, but... ah, there.  Joseph, this is Ms. Prudence, lately come from a somewhat unenlightened planet.  She seems to be innocent of the wider horizons of the modern world.  Would you introduce her to several young people who have set out upon their careers?"  Then to Prudence, "Mr. Joseph Staghorn—your escort for an hour or so."

            Prudence stared at Morgan, seeming shocked—no doubt by finding a man who wasn't instantly captivated by her beauty—but Joseph said, "Delighted, sir!  Would you accompany me, young beauty?"

            Prudence recovered and gave him the benefit of her dazzling smile.  "Just 'Prudence,' please, Mr. Staghorn.  To tell you the truth, I feel the theater is my true calling, but I'd love to learn what ambitions other people my age have."

            Off they went, with Prudence chattering away—but within ten steps, she was listening with rapt attention.  Morgan turned to me with a smile.  "Innocent indeed, I would say.  Does she really have much talent?"

            Ogden drifted over in time to join the conversation.  He had a rather protective attitude toward the women of our company.  Any company he was in, actually.

            "Difficult to say," I told him, "though she does have a very natural delivery when she reads a line.  Other than that, she's only begun to learn the craft of acting."

            "Attracted by the glamour of the career, then?  What's the term—'stage-struck'?"

            "That is the term," I confirmed, "but in Prudence's case, I think she was attracted more by the chance of leaving her home planet than by the sound of applause.  Still, she may prove competent."

            "But it takes considerably more than that to succeed as an actor, doesn't it?"

            Ogden gave a deep bark of laughter.  "Scarcely.  I've seen tremendously talented young folk leave the city without more than a few rounds of auditions or, at best, one or two walk-ons.  Didn't like the way we have to live, you see, especially in the early years, so they went back home to a more reasonable existence—or into one of the businesses that proliferate in any capital."

            I nodded.  "They left the field to young hopefuls of far more determination and diligence, though frequently of far lesser talent."

            "But competent?"  Morgan smiled.  "Just what is it that's so repellent about your style of living?"

            "Being cut off from the rest of the world, for one thing.  We're just getting off work when the rest of the world is going to bed," Ogden said, "and rising when they're already at their desks—but that's after one has managed to enter the profession.  First, the young hopefuls have to survive a year or two of temporary jobs of low pay and lower rank, to support them while they're trudging from audition to audition..."

            I could tell he was just hitting his stride, and that Morgan was an extremely polite listener with an excellent gift for talking about theater—or any topic, really, that would put his guests at ease.  He seemed to be genuinely interested in Ogden's account of the trials and tribulations of beginning actors.  I, however, had heard it before—heard it? I had lived it!—so excused myself to "circulate," meaning to drift aimlessly about the great salon with a drink in my hand, ostensibly looking for interesting conversations, in actuality making myself available to the curious.  After all, it was part of the job.

            I wound up coming full circle and discovering Morgan and Ogden in facing armchairs.  But were they talking about art?  About commerce?  No—they were talking about Earth!

            "But of course you'd remember that—it was before you emigrated," Ogden said, chagrined.

            "No, not really," Morgan said.  "Only a day or two after, mind you—but I remember the riots quite well.  Were they really caused by a live band?"

            "Well, it was the trigger," Ogden said.  "Mind you, we didn't learn all the complexities of the situation for another few years."

            "All I knew at the time," said Morgan, "was that the word spread through the crowd like a stormwave that the security people weren't going to let us in.  Someone shouted that they were violating our right to hear, and suddenly we were all surging forward toward the gates, trampling the detector booths as we went."

            Ogden nodded.  "We learned later that the music industry was determined to put a stop to piracy for once and for all, so they had set up current detector booths at every entrance.  It would have slowed you all down, but you would have been able to get in easily enough—unless you were smuggling cameras or recording equipment."

            "Yes, I know that now," Morgan said, "but they had three thousand rabid fans waiting to enter the hall, and when they learned they were going to have to go through a current detector, they exploded.  It meant either missing the concert, or letting their electronics confiscated.  Everyone had at least one dataphone—and some were quite expensive!  Of course, even if a battery-powered appliance is turned off, there's always some current leakage, and detectors can pick up electron activity no matter how minute.  Who do you suppose turned that into barring our entry at all?"

"The LORDS party," Ogden answered, "though they didn't call themselves by that name then—hadn't taken any name, in fact.  They were simply a loose cabal who were learning their first lessons in the rabble-rousing techniques of reactionaries.  We didn't know it at the time, but each of them had heavy clandestine investments in the bootleg music networks."

            Morgan nodded.  "I wondered how the swap-pirates could operate their networks without a good deal of capital behind them.  The one entrepreneur with an outmoded desktop and cube engraver you can understand, but access to the networks took money.  Those constantly-shifting scramble codes were impossible to break, through."

            "Tried it, did you?" Ogden said with a smile, and when Morgan looked abashed, said, "Most of us did, one time or another.  But it turned out that the entrepreneurs were scarcely alone, either—they were actually organized into unofficial companies, each with his own territory and assigned bands."

            "And they tied that to politicians?" Morgan asked, amazed.

            Ogden shook his head.  "Tied it to individual trillionaires, some of whom were politicians, and all of whom, ah, 'supported' senators and electors."

            Morgan relaxed, nodding; he clearly knew how such "support" was managed, and I found myself wondering how many electors he owned back on Terra, by remote control.  "But they weren't able to tie them to the entrepreneurs or the networks clearly enough for prosecution?"

            "No, though the journalists were able to find enough connections to imply that the cabal was actually running the whole illegal industry," Ogden said, "and none of the trillionaires sued for libel.  The public took that as admissions of guilt."

            "Of course, it might have been too minor a nuisance to bother with," Morgan said, smiling.

            "Possible, but that's not how the viewers saw it."  Ogden smiled.

Morgan nodded.  "It was why I emigrated."

            "Wise, under the circumstances.  Still, it was trillionaires versus trillionaires, and the ones who owned the recording companies do seem to have won the day."

            "Not at first," Morgan said, "and young people exploding in anger and trampling their way into the bowl was a force that could not be reckoned with except by the most brutal measures."

            "But you did calm down when the pre-show bands began to play, didn't you?"  When Morgan nodded, Ogden said, "I understand the musicians did very well out of it.  Became headliners one and all, didn't they?"

            "Yes, because of course there were a great number of pirates in our midst," Morgan said, "and the riots made headlines, so the pirates were able to sell an amazing number of downloads of even such minor bands.  Those of us in the audience did quiet down to hear them, then became quite enthusiastic when they turned out to make excellent music in their own right—but they weren't the band we had come to hear, and when the hall manager came out to announce that The Stepping Stones felt so guilty about the riots that they had already returned to their hotel… well, we became outraged, I don't mind telling you.  We knew what that meant, after all—that they didn't want their music stolen.  But it was our music then, because we had paid good money to hear it, and we made our anger known in no uncertain terms."

            "If only theater had fans who cared so much about our performances!" Ogden sighed.

            "Believe me, you wouldn't want a riot like that on your hands," Morgan assured him.  "I don't know whose idea it was to begin tearing up the benches and ripping down the veneer, but we were all doing it in a matter of minutes."

            "Yes, and trooping by hidden surveillance cameras on your way out," Ogden said grimly.  "Were you one of the ones who heard the midnight knock and was spirited away to an interrogation chamber?"

            "No, but word spread over the network as quickly as any rumor," Morgan said.  "I didn't stay to find out whether I was on the arrest list or not—I went out to the spaceport right away, found there was a liner lifting off for Gemma, and bought a ticket with everything I'd hoarded on my card."

            "Really," Ogden said, surprised.  "I suppose that was indication enough that you had the discipline and forethought to rise to the top of the business world."

            "Perhaps, but all I knew at the time was that I was saving to buy an apartment far away from the tenement in which I grew up," Morgan said.  Then, with a grim smile, "Of course, I hadn’t planned on being quite so far away as this."

            "The courses of our lives run strangely," Ogden said, looking down into his glass.

"Events have a way of upsetting even the best plans," Morgan said.  "Well, I'd heard of Gemma, of course—heard that a hard-working young man could rise in industry here, and it seemed a marvelous choice compared to paying the same amount in fines and reparations.  I didn't realize that there was only the one industry."

            "You seem to have done well enough in it."

            "Fortunately, I did know something about computers—and on a planet where the most common element is silicon, what else can they manufacture?" Morgan asked.  "I discovered I had a bent for organizing people and instilling enthusiasm for their jobs, so I found myself moving into management."  He smiled.  "I suppose my greatest accomplishment has been initiating our two other industries."

"Of course, they're both dependent on computer manufacturing," Ogden noted.

            "Yes, software and technical manuals—but we do make the best in any of the Terran worlds."  Morgan's smile turned sardonic.  "We had better."

            "Yes."  Ogden smiled, amused.  "Why else would anyone buy from you and pay the monstrous interplanetary shipping cost?  No, your product is light-years in front of your closest competitor."

            "Thank you."  The amusement in Morgan's tone said that he knew he was being flattered, but enjoyed it anyway.  "Know a fair amount about computers, do you?"

            "Me?  Parish the thought, as the parson said.  I'll take the word of our technical people on that matter—and here's one of them.  You did say Gemma made the best computers in the Sphere, didn't you, Ramou?"

            He nodded; at least he'd learned how to take a cue.

 

 

"Light-years in front, just as you said, Mr. Wellesley." I answered.

            "Actually, I was merely quoting Merlo," Ogden noted, "but I believe he did say that our scenic board was based on a Gemma computer."

            I shrugged.  "We just sort of assumed that.  If you're paying full price, it's a Gemma product."

            "Oh?"  Morgan raised an eyebrow in my direction.  "There are a host of imitators, then?"

            "Sure."  I grinned.  "And you've got to know about it.  Licensed every one of them, didn't you?"

            "Every one we know about," Morgan said slowly.  "I would appreciate your telling me any we haven't licensed."

            I shrugged.  "I can tell you who the rip-off artists are, but not if they've paid their fee.  Want me to send you a list tomorrow?"

            "I would appreciate that," Morgan said with iron in his tone.

            "Sure," I said, "but I don't think I'll be as complete as your agents on Terra."

            The conversation area was very silent for a minute, making the chatter from the rest of the room seem louder.  Ogden looked faintly surprised.  Then Morgan asked, "How did you know?"

            I shrugged.  "Stands to reason.  You want to enforce patents and copyrights, you have to have people on the scene checking the records.  Every now and then there's a big headline on the newsnets about one more pirate being caught and having to pay you a fortune in back royalties, even if it puts him out of business."

            "No, never that," Morgan said quietly.  "We don't believe in making omelets from golden eggs, after all.  We want the 'unofficial' companies to go on making a great deal of money—for us."

            "So you end as you began," Ogden said, smiling, "with pirates—only you're catching them now, not shielding them."

            Morgan looked surprised.  Then he burst into laughter and Ogden fairly glowed with the success of making a member of the audience smile.  I suddenly realized that, no matter how casual the conversation, everyone at the party was "audience" to Ogden.

            Then I wondered if I was, too.

            I left the two seniors to their reminiscing, each reflecting on a lifetime of success by his own definition, and drifted away hoping to catch a glimpse of Suzanne.

            I did find her—it wasn't that big a room, after all.  I found her several times, but she was always busy with some other handsome young local—or a handsome older local, or an ugly local.  No matter—she was still full of animated conversation, eyes glowing, her whole being seeming to radiate pleasure in their company.

            Revelation struck.  I realized that she was playing to her audience just as surely as Ogden was.

            How about when she was talking to me?

            I managed to keep smiling and nodding after that, even though I felt like doing anything but.  I even managed to sound interested in the conversation when one of the locals managed to trap me and ask about the company.  I always answered in ten words or less, then asked him or her about life on Gemma.  I kept the questions coming, they let the answers flow, until I could think of an excuse to move on.

            I saw Lacey talking to a young local, then Prudence talking to an old local with diamonds winking on his ring watch, then Marnie talking to a local her own age, then Prudence talking to a not-so-old local with a diamond stickpin, then Larry talking to a pretty young local who was hanging on his every word, then... well, I saw every member of the company doing just as we should, entertaining the audience on a one-to-one basis.  I saw Lacey talking to an older man, Prudence glowing with life as she talked to a senior with diamonds in his cuffs, Larry talking to a sweet middle-aged thing, Prudence talking to an older white-haired expensively-dressed man with diamond studs in his shirt, Horace laughing and joking with four woman his own age who were laughing so hard they were continually blotting tears with lace handkerchiefs, finally Merlo and Charles at a table with the engineer talking very earnestly and sketching schematics on the tablecloth.  I started to drift toward them, thinking that electronics might give me enough life to make it through the party, until I noticed Suzanne on the other side of the wall of potted palms, trilling laughter as she spun from one young man to another, none of them more than five years older than me, every single one of them wearing immaculate evening clothes, perfectly-coifed hair, and at least one jeweled ring apiece.

            I could have punched out each one of them then and there.

            Wouldn't have done any good, of course.  If Suanne was choosing to talk to them instead of me, nothing was going to change her mind—and me picking a fight would convince here she'd made the right choice.  I drifted off toward the entrance to the great hall.

            Barry noticed and must have read my expression if not my mind; he drifted over to me and said, "I'd appreciate it if you'd go back to the ship, Ramou, and make sure these silicon phantoms they've told us about haven't left any nasty surprises for us."

            I flashed him a look of gratitude, but only said, "Sure, Barry.  I'll run the meters."

            But he knew I meant "Thank you" and only gave me that smile men share when one of them has run afoul of a heartbreaker.  The other one knows.  He knows all too well.  After all, his heart has its collection of scar tissue, too.

 

 

            The taxi was an automatic, thank heavens—no labor surplus on this planet—so it wasn't very talkative.  Good thing—I was in no mood for a chat.  I thought it through—sweep the ship with a signal detector and see if there were any unusual electromagnetic eddies anywhere.  If I moved fast, I could be done before the rest of the company came home.  I knew they'd all be high, and not just on alcohol; it was a good party, and a good audience.

            But I was in no mood for happy people, especially ones I knew well—or thought I did.  No, if all went well, by the time they came home, I'd be tucked up in bed in my stateroom, watching a vintage 3DT episode with a cup of something hot in my hands.

            I brought it off according to plan.  In fact, I swept the ship so fast that I might have missed something—but it would have had to be a twitch on my meter's display; there certainly wasn't any huge jump on the scale, no glare of scarlet on the screen.  Of course, I wasn't really thinking about ghosts any more, and was trying not to think about Suzanne.  Instead, I thought about hot buttered rum, pouring from the synthesizer's spout into my favorite mug, then stripped off my party clothes, and the cares of the day and the perfidies of women with them.

            So you'll understand that it was a major shock to open the door of my stateroom and discovered it filled with the aroma of hot chocolate.  I swung around to the beverage synthesizer and stared at the fresh steaming cup under the spout.  It was even piled high with whipped cream.

            Prickles crawled up my spine and spread around on my scalp as I realized that somebody was trying to tell me something.

 

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