STARSHIP TROUPERS IV: THE UNKNOWN GUEST
Chapter Five: A Change of Plan
by
Christopher
Stasheff
Copyright © 2011
Whatever the drink dispenser was trying to tell me, I didn't want to know. Suddenly the suffocating bonhomie of my fellow actors began to appear less repellant. I turned around and went back out the door, heading for the lounge.
I took the hot chocolate with me, of course. After all, whatever the ghosts were trying to tell me, it wasn't to join them.
I hurried in just as the company came stumbling back; I could smell the fumes all the way across the lounge. The spirits seemed to have had a good effect, though—at least the ones they’d been drinking. Even Charlie was looking mildly happy (a big improvement, since he didn't usually show much of any emotion). Ogden was yawning, Marnie looking very satisfied, Merlo and Winston glowing as though they'd just had a good performance, Suzanne chattering away with Lacey and Prudence (all still excited), Larry looking stormy (always a good thing), and Horace looking concerned as he watched Barry, who looked stunned.
I sidled up to Horace and asked, "What went wrong?"
"The Cultural Committee came up with a wonderful idea," he said, reeking sarcasm. "They decided on the spur of the moment that we should do Hamlet."
I blanched. The only Shakespeare we'd mounted was the Scottish play. "How soon?"
"Two days," Horace croaked.
I gave a quick glance around at the company. "I take it they don't know yet?"
"Only Barry and I—and now you," Horace said. "For the rest, it can wait till tomorrow. Be a shame to ruin their holiday mood." He remembered my early exit and looked up with concern. "And you, my boy?"
"Nothing that can't be explained." Suddenly the cup of cocoa I was holding didn't seem important. My mind was humming into high gear. "Charlie could finish that prompting system of his, and we could run the script through a vocoder to feed us lines—and we could do it in modern dress, just add a few costume pieces like a crown and an ermine-trimmed robe. Grudy could manage that in two days."
Horace smiled in pleased surprise. "You are learning the business. And what about the set?"
I shrugged. "A castle is a castle. We can use the projections from Mac... uh, the Scottish play."
Horace fairly beamed. "You make an old man proud, my boy. Yes, you do make me think we have a ghost of a chance. I'll have a word with Barry, and perhaps he'll be able to sleep tonight." He started to turn away, then remembered something and turned back. "Ah—'nothing that can't be explained'?"
I didn't want to give him more to worry about, so I sipped my hot chocolate as a way of stalling—and found my answer.
"What needs explanation?" Horace asked.
"Brandy," I told him.
Actually, I think it was a coffee-flavored liqueur. Not bad, really, not bad at all.
The wine and whisky had flowed freely at the party, and the cast showed it the next morning as they staggered into the lounge for rehearsal, with various moans. Ogden, for a change, was the one not wearing dark glasses—I guessed Morgan had kept him too busy talking to imbibe his usual ocean. They all took their coffee cups in trembling hands, holding them as though they were fragile porcelain and sitting very carefully.
Barry, on the other hand, looked alert, if not happy. He sipped his coffee, watching and waiting, and I stood by with the carafe, ready to dash in with a refill. When everybody had taken a seat and the moans had died down, Barry broke the bad news.
"My friends, we have a command performance on our hands."
The moans stopped as though they'd been chopped off; the actors sat up straight. Marnie, in a voice that echoed with doom, demanded, "Whose command?"
"Officially, the voice of the Cultural Committee," Barry answered, "though I suspect the brain was Morgan's. They want us to do Hamlet."
Everyone stared at him in stunned silence.
Then the shouting started, the cries of outrage and the shrieks of denial. It was one of the very few times that I’d seen the whole company unanimous about anything.
Barry rode it out as well as he could, and when the yelling had just passed its peak, he started making shushing motions.
They didn’t help.
Then Ogden stirred and said, in a voice that didn’t seem all that loud but that filled the whole lounge, "Of course. Shakespeare's finest. Perfect for the high-school children, what?"
"No doubt," Barry said with some irony.
"Perhaps Morgan hasn't considered the effect of his workers watching a king being murdered onstage," Horace offered.
"I don't think we're going to change their minds," Barry said wearily, "and the Scottish Play would be no better in that regard. But Ramou has come up with some suggestions that just might see us through it."
Everyone turned to glare at me; I could almost feel the daggers.
"Make no mistake," Barry said quickly, "we are going to have to perform it in any event—at least, if we want to be paid enough to be able to leave this planet—and I'm sure we would all have thought of the same notions. Ramou has merely saved us some time in preventing a total disaster."
"But the lines!" Marnie objected. "I can't possibly learn Gertrude so quickly!"
At least she hadn't tried for Ophelia.
"Quite so," Barry agreed. "Charles was developing a wireless prompting system for us, on Boston; we'll simply have to ask him to complete the project."
"I'll have it for you tonight," Charles promised, "and with Ramou and Merlo helping, we should have an earpiece for everyone by morning."
"Thank you, Charles," Barry said with a grave bow.
"But to hear the lines, we'll have to have someone read them," Marnie objected. "Who will undertake that minor chore?"
"Charles?" Barry asked.
"No one, really," Charles answered. "We'll run the script through a vocoder connected to a recorder. The voice in your ear will sound mechanical and stilted, but the lines should be accurate."
Marnie looked doubtful, but before she could object, Merlo spoke up. "We can use the same set as the Scottish play."
Everyone turned to him in surprise, then began to look hopeful.
"And the same costumes?" Suzanne ventured.
Grudy nodded. "With a few additions. I see no reason to be a stickler for historical accuracy under the circumstances, do you, Barry?"
"Not at all." Barry looked pleasantly surprised. "The piece has been set in so many periods, after all. Yes, I think the same costumes will do nicely." He turned to the company at large, actually smiling. "It certainly won't be the finest work we've ever done, and definitely not the designer's triumph that should ideally demonstrate the theme of the play..."
"But artistic ideals must be sacrificed to brute necessity," Ogden rumbled.
Winston nodded. "Needs must as the devil drives, and the devil in this case is driving us to manage as well as we can on the spur of the moment."
"Think of it as a triumph of improvisation," Horace suggested.
The younger actors all perked up at the word "improvisation."
"But after we lift off at the end of the run, we can put the piece into intensive rehearsal and develop some really good performances… right?" Marnie said, frowning.
"A pity they won't be that good on Wednesday night," Winston said drily.
"A pity indeed, but needs must as the Committee drives," Barry answered. "Now, then, as to the cast..."
Everyone perked up and tried to hide their greed. Rushed or not, it was Hamlet, after all, and everyone was dying to play Shakespeare’s greatest role.
"Larry, we'll give you a try as the melancholy Dane," Barry said.
Larry couldn't suppress a shout of triumph but had the grace not to give the rest of us a haughty stare.
"I take it I shall be the Great Dane?" Ogden rumbled.
"You shall, indeed, undertake the Ghost of Hamlet's father," Barry confirmed, "and speaking of undertaking, Horace, you shall portray the First Gravedigger as well as Polonius."
Marty looked disappointed.
"Fortunately the old fool dies before I have to dig his daughter's grave," Horace said, amused.
"Martyn, you shall portray Horatio," Barry said.
Marty brightened.
"...and you and Ramou shall double as Rosencrantz and Guildenstern."
"Howdy, Guildenstern!" Marty said to me. "Or are you Rosencrantz?"
"No, you've gotta be Rosencrantz," I answered, grinning, "'cause I don't have a gilded stern."
Barry managed to pitch his voice over the chorus of groans. "That joke was old when Kean presented the piece, Ramou. Ms. Lark, you shall have the role of Ophelia."
"Why, thank you, Mr. Tallendar." Lacey smiled like a cat with pinfeathers in its mouth.
Suzanne and Prudence looked disappointed; there went the only role for a young female in the whole play. "We'll be ladies of the court, then?" Suzanne asked.
"You shall," Barry confirmed, "but you shall have a substantial part in our next piece."
"I assume I shall play Gertrude," Marnie said in her most regal tone.
"You assume correctly. And, Ramou..."
"I'm braced," I assured him. "You said I was doubling as Rosencrantz."
"Guildenstern, actually."
"How can you tell?" Larry asked.
" 'Cause I'm not the funny one," I answered.
"Entirely a matter of opinion," Larry snapped.
"Manners, gentlemen, please," Barry admonished. "Ramou, you shall portray Laertes."
My stomach sank. "You don't mean I'm actually going to have to act!"
Barry opened his mouth to answer, but hesitated, and Larry took the chance to say, "Don’t worry, Ramou. We won’t ask the impossible.
Lacey laid a reassuring hand on my knee. "Don't worry, Ramou. We'll give you all the help we can."
I couldn't help noticing, out of the corner of my eye, that Suzanne turned her face away from me and toward Barry, back ramrod straight and temperature dropping a few more degrees. My hopes went with it.
"There's not really that much to it," Larry said, smirking. "Only a few platitudes, a bit of grief, some anger, and a swordfight."
I stared, horrified. "Another swordfight?"
"Yeah." Merlo frowned. "What's the matter, Ramou? This isn't the Scottish play, you know—no casualty rating, if you don't count Junius Brutus Booth. The swords don't move themselves, you know."
"No, I don't." I swallowed thickly. "Not on a planet with ghosts."
"Ghosts?" Marnie smiled, amused. "Come, Ramou! An engineer, growing superstitious?"
"It's contagious," I explained.
"Then don't let them catch you at it," Barry advised. "Winston, you'll have Claudius..."
"Of course," said our resident villain.
"And I shall come on at the end as the Polish prince. Anyone whose character is not onstage during a court scene will, of course, become a courtier and, for a touch of irony, we shall have Martyn and Ramou begin the piece as the First and Second Sentries," Barry said by way of a finish.
My stomach sank further. "Begin?"
"That's where the vaudevillians put the second-raters," Larry said helpfully.
"Martyn shall take the very first line," Barry assured me. "Your character merely indentifies himself as the second."
"Then I say, 'You come most carefully upon your hour,' " Marty explained.
"My watch's hours are just fine," I told him. "It's the minutes that give it trouble."
"Mine's a second too," Marty commiserated.
"A second to what?" I gave it up with a sigh. "Well, if you think I can do it, I'll give it my best."
"Which will be more than good enough," Barry said quickly, to head off Larry.
"At least I'll still be a spear-carrier," I said, trying to look on the bright side.
"A halberd, actually." Barry glanced at his finger-watch. "Well, I think that should be sufficient for the time being."
"There is the little matter of learning all those lines," I said, with only a mild tremor, "in only two days." I glanced at Suzanne, hoping for a bit of encouragement from the most important source, but she was staring at Barry with determination. I tried to look on the bright side—what there was of it. Little though it might be, it would have to be enough for the time being.
"Come on, Ramou." Lacey stood. "Let's get a head start on learning your lines. You don't want to depend too much on a gadget that hasn't had its trial run."
"Help?" I perked up. "Just what I need." I stood up and started toward her stateroom with her. "I mean, the lines themselves shouldn't be that much of a problem—not after the periodic table and the formulas for my last physics course—and I do mean the last. It's the cues that bother me."
"Of course," Lacey said, amused, and I couldn't help but be caught by the luster of her eyes. "I'll read each cue, you give me the line—but only three times each, remember. Then we go on to the next one."
I wondered just how far she intended to go, then scolded myself for an unworthy thought. Besides, I fully intended to be true to Suzanne, even if she was ignoring me. It was safer that way.
I watched Lacey take Ramou off to her stateroom with some trepidation. Mind you, I firmly believed that there was nothing better for a young man than a good young woman—but I was not entirely certain that Lacey was all that good, at least for Ramou. She was vitally interested in anything that could advance her career, and Ramou, after all, was developing an amazing amount of influence with the Powers That Be in our company—Barry, myself, Merlo, Winston, and Ogden. He even seemed to be winning some marginal respect from Marnie. He was, simply, totally dependable, completely dedicated, and a tireless worker who had no difficulty taking orders from his seniors, all qualities that went a long way toward winning favor from us elders—and his influence was all the greater for being quite unaware of it.
Lacey, however, most certainly was. She was one of the young ones who are certain that advancement in the profession comes not from talent or skill, but from currying favor with those currently in positions of power—rather surprising, since she showed a great deal of promise as an artist.
However, she clearly believed in relying not only on her own ability, but on everyone else's as well, and Ramou had surprisingly emerged as a route toward the favor she desired. However, I knew his heart was really with Suzanne, though he perhaps did not, and knew him also to be one of the most faithful, steadfast young men I had ever met—which was saying quite a bit, since those qualities had been growing lamentably rare, in the theater. I hoped his own integrity would protect him; after all, with a young woman of as much beauty and as little principle as Lacey, it was his only safeguard.
It was not mine, however, and he would have to fend for himself in the influence-sodden world of the theater. I turned back to the discussion of the play, ready as ever to defuse an imbroglio and separate the combatants.
There was certainly no time to waste. Merlo made the rounds with Granny Hoorhee’s Hangover Remedy, then advised everyone to lie down for half an hour to let the potion do its work and clear our heads.
"Nonsense!" Ogden proclaimed. "When there is so little time for so long a play, we must soldier through it!"
I saw my chance—to thaw a frosty Suzanne. She and I seemed to share an interest in Ogden’s welfare, though I couldn’t think why. Must be the same instinct that drives us to adopt stray puppies. I went to sit next to her. She winced, but when I murmured, "Why Ogden, of all people?"
She shrugged and muttered, "He’s used to hangovers, I suppose—or in a hurry to get the rehearsal over with, so he can get back to drinking." And with that, she turned that little bit farther away from me with the gesture that says, "Back off, boy!"
Just as well—Lacey was beginning to give me a proprietary glare. The hour of working on lines in her cabin had been interesting and fun, but frustrating too. Probably for her as well; we’d both learned not to flirt unless the other party does, too. Result: No flirting on either side, both of us pretending to only be interested in Shakespeare’s words.
Gotta hand it to her, though. She was a good coach. I’d forgotten how few scenes Laertes has—his part is famous for the duel at the end, and that I could do—so Lacey tied every speech into the building of the anger that culminates in the swordplay. That made sense to me, and we came to rehearsal with me knowing half my lines and Lacey knowing all of hers—seems she did already. Wondered why. Had to play her scenes for drama class, I guessed.
We began with a read-through—just reading through the script aloud. It was weird—as we went along, some kind of momentum kicked in, and the dialogue began to make sense. Some of it started to sound good. Then it sounded really good, and I wondered what was going on. Even I was really getting into my part. As we came up on the last act, we all sounded genuine, as though we were really the characters, not just the actors, and the play began to run itself.
When we finished, I looked from one to another of them, each seeming somewhat elated, and I finally dared ask, "Was that really as good as I think it was?"
"The magic of the first time, Ramou," Barry said gently. Sometimes the lightning strikes, sometimes it doesn’t—and there seems to be no way to call it down."
Horace nodded. "It went very well indeed—so well that we will spend the next rehearsals and all our performances trying to recapture the magic of this first read-through."
"But you guys are pros! You must have done this play before!"
"That’s so," Winston said, "But never with these particular actors reading these particular parts. Every production is a new experience, Ramou."
"It is indeed," Marnie sighed. "Sometimes I think that is why we stage the classics—and even revivals of plays only ten or twenty years old."
Not bad, coming from an actress whom the critics agreed was getting by on her looks. I was now a witness to the fact that she really could act—when she wanted to. Or got caught up in it, I guess.
"Take half an hour for lunch," Barry said. "Then we’ll start blocking."
I frowned and, as we sat around eating sandwiches from the food dispenser, I asked Horace, "Barry isn’t talking about karate or kung fu, is he?"
Not at all," Horace said. "In the theater, the term 'blocking' refers to the director telling each actor where to stand and where to go."
"Great! I’ve been wanting to tell Larry where to go ever since I met him!"
"I did not mean it in that way," Horace said, throttling a smile. "Barry will tell each of us where we are to stand for each line. When we’ve established that, he’ll begin to tell us how to travel to those places."
Turned out there were quite a few ways to get where you were going, on a stage. The word I heard most frequently was "CROSS," which simply meant moving from point A to point B. If you walked in front of another actor, he or she was supposed to "counter," which meant "Take a step opposite the direction of the actor who just crossed you." You also weren’t supposed to draw focus, which seemed to mean attracting more attention than any of the other actors in the scene. That was also called "Upstaging"—I don’t know why, since the stage was level.
But I learned the theatrical terms. The other actors were helpful, each in his or her own way—Larry was snide, saying things like, "This is your big scene, Ramou. Don’t you know how to step out and draw focus?"
"Yes," Barry said. "Enter boldly, Ramou, and come downstage—that’s toward the audience, which right now is me—and speak your line loudly."
Then there was Lacey, who remembered her coaching session well enough to say, "Remember, Ramou, the audience wants to see your face. Never turn your back on them—unless the director specifically tells you to, of course."
Like that. All the way through my three scenes. It was confusing, and the terms churned in my brain like the witches’ brew the women had been cooking up in our production of MacB… the Scottish Play, on New Venus.
The only one who wasn’t helpful was Suzanne—more or less "of course," given her current attitude toward me. I did notice, though, that she watched me closely—to make sure somebody else coached me, no doubt. I hoped that if no one had, she would have stepped in.
Four hours later, Barry finally said, "And so it ends. When all the players have died, the play must be over."
I had to admit the body count had been satisfyingly high.
"Off to dinner, friends," Barry said, "then back to run the key scenes."
There was a general groan, but Barry said, in his most soothing tones, "I know, I know. I’m no longer quite as careless of such late nights—but we do only have another day to rehearse, and we must make the most of it while we can."
"We’ll manage it if we drop in our tracks," Larry said through clenched teeth.
I was surprised at his determination—until I remembered that this was his big chance. Wouldn’t stop me from doing my best, of course.
So did we all. At first it seemed as though it was the minor cast rehearsal—all us younglings were in each scene we ran. After an hour, Barry said, "My thanks to the novices—you’ve done very well on such short notice, and I’m delighted that all of you have at least half your lines memorized—excellent work for the day. To your beds, now, while the principals work an hour longer. Larry, that of course includes you."
"Thank heavens," Larry said with a sigh, then looked around at the senior players. "Thank you all. I know this is taxing, but I do need the rehearsal—more than the rest of you, who must have been through such last-minute crash landings before. I’m bound and determined to succeed. But I certainly could not, without your assistance and support.
There was a moment of silence—I think everyone was surprised to hear Larry speaking without sarcasm and, indeed, with humility and politeness. Finally Winston said, "Surely, Larry. As you say, we’ve all been there."
The other veterans all nodded, murmuring agreement—and Marnie, of all people, actually said, "Certainly, Lawrence. It’s a huge a burden, and we’ll do all we can to support you."
"Thank you—I thank you one and all." Larry turned to Barry. "I’m ready to try it again whenever you are."
"Then let us be at it!" Barry said. "We’ll begin with Hamlet and Gertrude in her boudoir. Charles, can you undertake Polonius?"
"Of course, Barry." Charles stepped up against the back wall, which I thought you were never supposed to do—but of course, he was hiding behind the arras—whatever that was. I made a mental note to check how Merlo was handling a projection that could cover Charles—or was he going to step around behind the upstage platform?
"Grudy," Barry said, "we will have a drape to cover the open side of the platform, will we not?"
"Of course, Barry." Our costumer was sitting in on the blocking and first rehearsals, to see what kinds of clothing she was going to have to fabricate.
"Then have at it. Enter, Larry."
I don’t know why I stayed to watch—some sixth sense that I was going to be needed, maybe. Or a reluctance to be alone with that beverage dispenser.
Sure enough, when Barry said goodnight to the veterans, he told Larry, "Stay, if you would, Larry. Ramlou, you also."
"But it’s mid…" Larry bit down on his words, angry and determined. "Of course, Mr. Tallendar."
I stepped up behind him, trying to look politely confused.
Barry was clearly exhausted, but he took a breath, summoned reserves of energy that I hadn’t known he had, and said, "We must block the duel."
"My job." Merlo stepped up. "Time for your nightcap, Barry."
Larry looked from one to the other, surprised and confused.
"Merlo is, in addition to his technical expertise, our sword master," Bary explained. "Your master’s certificate in stage combat is still up-to-date, is it not, Merlo?"
Our staging and lighting designer nodded. "Seminar last summer."
"Then I shall leave you to Merlo’s tender mercies," Barry said. "Good night, Larry, Ramou—and thank you. Merlo…"
"Doing my job," Merlo said.
Barry smiled and left the room as Merlo turned to the two young bucks who had an ongoing grudge and said, "Ramou, this is going to be really good combat for stage, and totally lousy for a real fight. Larry, you proved you know the basics in MacB… the Scottish play—now you only have to put them together in a different fashion." He handed us each a sword that looked like the real thing but, when I tested it, turned out to be a surprisingly stiff and even more surprisingly soft blade.
"En garde!" Merlo called, and we snapped into opening positions.
"Hamlet gets the first cut. Larry, slash. Ramou, parry.
And we were off.
Somewhere, in the haze of the next day and a half, Horace mentioned that four weeks is more or less standard for mounting a new play. We had thiry-six hours. Grudy worked like a one-woman factory. Merlo and I turned into scene-making robots whenever we were offstage long enough—and everyone else was off, too, pretty much limiting us to mealtimes, which we didn’t get much of. All that time, Larry and Marnie were being very polite to each other—and to the rest of us, even! And not just polite—they sounded like they really meant it!
When I did make it back to my stateroom long enough for a catnap, I threw myself on he bed, then realized I was smelling coffee brewing. What the hey? I was too tired to care.
Finally the fog cleared, mostly because Merlo was yanking on my ankle, saying, "Ramou, come down from there! You’ve got to get into costume!"
I looked around and realized that I was in the auditorium the town had assigned us as a performance space, adjusting one of the projectors fixed to the back wall. I climbed down and headed for the men’s costume room, otherwise known as the storeroom, and started the now-familiar tug-of-war with my tights. A few minutes later, I was coming onstage dressed in my Scottish-play armor and cloak, carrying a convincing but flexible halberd, watching Marty come toward me in an identical get-up. He stopped just a little left of downstage center and said, "Who's there?"
It sure didn’t sound like Marty. He was doing a great job of disguising his voice—but why bother? His next entrance, he’d look completely different, between the make-up and the costume.
Well, it was his business. I took his cue and delivered my line. "Nay, answer me: stand, and unfold yourself.
Marty said, "Bernardo?"
I answered, "He."
Marty said, "You come most carefully upon your hour."
Only as he turned toward me… I couldn’t see his face.
