STARSHIP TROUPERS IV: THE UNKNOWN GUEST
Chapter Six: The Show Must Go On
by
Christopher
Stasheff
Copyright © 2011
As he turned toward me… I couldn't see his face.
Now, if he'd been wearing a hood that shadowed his face, that wouldn't have worried me. Only he was wearing a steel cap with a brim and cheek-pieces—and there was nothing inside them.
Had to be a lighting error. I made a mental note to tell Merlo we needed to boost the spots on the back wall and said to Marty, in whatever costume Grudy had cobbled up, " 'Tis now struck twelve; get thee to bed, Francisco."
His voice seemed to echo inside his empty-looking helmet. I made another mental note—to tell Merlo to turn down the audio reverb—and turned away to the audience—gladly; Marty was getting downright spooky. "For this relief much thanks," I/Francisco said. " 'Tis bitter cold, and I am sick at heart."
Marty asked, "Have you had quiet guard?"
I answered, "Not…"
And wouldn't you know it, I blocked. Completely. I couldn't remember my own name, let alone my line. I thought, All right, cybernetic prompter. Let's see how good you are.
A melodious female voice spoke into my ear. "Not a mouse stirring."
My heart gave a leap and turned cartwheels. The discrimination chip I had stolen from the coffee machine had gauged my dilemma from the length of my pause and kicked in—softly, of course, so no one but me could hear. I said much more loudly, "Not a mouse stirring."
Marty nodded. "Well, good night."
The scene went on, with Horatio and Marcellus (Charlie and Suzanne, surprisingly convincing as a man in tights) entering and discussing Old Hamlet's ghost haunting the battlements and wondering if he would show up again tonight.
Then the ghost appeared.
I could almost hear my jaw drop. Ogden moved in regal majesty with a grace that belied his weight, not even pausing for Marty to get out of his way—and from the shins down, he just tapered into nothing, looking as though he were made of fog.
Merlo had really outdone himself this time, animating a picture of our oldest act—or was it Grudy's genius as a costumer?
Either way, it was a totally convincing ghost—dressed for battle, complete with a bullet-shaped helmet with the front open, showing Ogden's spectral face in excellent make-up that looked almost translucent, with the fluorescent green tinge of glow-in-the-dark base. I do remember Horace warning me to be careful with the stuff—it could be bad for the skin. The total effect was so convincing that I wouldn't have recognized Ogden if I hadn't known which part he was playing.
Suzanne, Charlie, and I sat down on convenient crenels and had a nice long Shakespearean chat about whether or not the ghost was real, then dealt with the specter's next two appearances until Merlo hit the sound machine and played the rooster-crow, whereupon the ghost seemed to remember some urgent business in the graveyard and left the stage. Soon afer, I made my exit with Charlie and Suzanne.
As Ogden came into the wings, Horace clapped him on the shoulder and said, "Excellent performance, old fellow."
Ogden blinked, then snapped upright, shoulders squaring, as though he had just woken up.
"Letter-perfect in your lines," Horace assured him.
"Was I really?" Ogden blinked. I don't remember…"
That sent a chill down my back, but Horace went on. "At our age, short-term memory may be dwindling, but it's clear your long-term memory holds every line you've ever uttered." He turned to me. "Isn't that true, Ramou?"
"Uh," I said. "Um." Then I shook off the weird feeling and said, "Yeah. RAM goes quick, but ROM can last forever, or at least, as long as the medium holding it does."
"There you have it, old fellow," Horace assured him. "Your brain is a medium."
Now, that gave me the chills even more than Ogden's blank spell. If his RAM couldn't call up his last scene, what was besetting him? Humans can catch human viruses, after all, but not from computers.
Could they?
Didn't matter. I shoved aside the notion that Ogden might be a medium as the battlements dissolved into the great hall of the castle of Elsinore for the next scene, and Winston and Marnie led the whole company parading on—the players from the first scene in different costumes, of course.
Except Marty. He wasn't there at all. I stepped over to the stage manager's desk and whispered to Charles, "Where's Marty?"
Charles gave me a round-eyed gaze, startled, then looked around. "He was just here..."
Hands grabbed our shoulders, and Marty said, "Scene Two already? I just dropped off to sleep in the greenroom. Why didn't you guys wake me?"
"Asleep?" I said. "How long?"
"Just before curtain! Last thing I remember is the call for places. Where's my cloak?"
I looked around and spotted it on the rack. "Right where it should be."
"Oh, yeah! Thanks, Ramou."
I looked at Charles. Charles looked at me.
"But," I said, "if he was asleep in the greenroom…"
"Who were you trading lines with out there?" Charles asked.
"What do you mean, 'Out there'?" Marty asked.
"Doesn't matter!" Charles snapped. "The show must go on! Ramou, cloak!"
I snatched the garment off the rack and threw it around Marty's shoulders. Charles gave him a shove, and he tailed onto the end of the procession. He was out of place but good at worming his way around, and was back in position by the time Winston gave his first line.
"Mistaken identity?" I guessed.
"Any explanation will do," Charles said. "Aren't you supposed to be out there too, Ramou?"
"Oh, yeah! See ya, Charles!" I wasn't anywhere nearly as deft as Marty, but I managed to sneak in behind the others anyway, and I wasn't too far out of position by the time Winston summoned me to ask the king if I (as Laertes) could go back to France, presumably to study at the Sorbonne. He said yes, I left, and ran to pull on my next costume over the Laertes outfit.
Onstage, Larry was saying his first few lines, talking with Claudius and Gertrude about his mourning clothes—why he was still all in black. He hesitated here and there, so I knew he was getting lines from Charles's autoprompter. I nodded—both he and the gadget were doing well. Then he said,
"But I have that within which wits do tilt,
These but the trappings and the suits of guilt."
Winston blinked, and Marnie turned to stare at Larry, taken aback. Larry looked startled, then gave his head a shake—and Marnie gave him a schoolmarm's glare, hissing, "Step over the dead body and keep going!"
Larry jumped in response, called back to duty, then shrugged off the mis-prompt and picked up the conversation about young Hamlet's costume. The show had to go on, after all. Gertrude/Marnie talked Hamlet into staying home in Denmark, instead of going back to school in Wittenberg—one of the oldest arguments parents get into, and one of the dumbest in this case—if Gertrude had had a brain in her head, she should have wanted Hamlet far away, as far as possible. The look Winston gave her while she was saying this wasn't much, but it was there, and I began to understand what actors and critics meant by subtlety.
Then Horatio (Marty) Marcellus (Suzanne) and I (Bernardo) came out to join Larry/Hamlet as the scene dissolved back to the battlements. We settled down for a nice chat, freaking out Hamlet by telling him about the ghost. The conversation took a turn toward guessing whether or not old Hamlet's ghost would be coming back that night (Surprise! He did.). Fortunately, Larry had a fairly long speech about why Papa hadn't gone on to his proper place in the afterlife, just enough for me to pull off the Bernardo cloak and helmet and come back on as Laertes.
There followed a nice long conversation between me Lacey in a gauzy gown, about why she shouldn't date Hamlet—men only want one thing, after all, and she'd better be sure he was planning on a scene involving a ring. I came pretty close to the point:
"Then if he says he loves you,
Weigh what loss your honour may sustain,
If with too credent ear you list his songs,
Or lose your heart, or your chaste treasure open
To his unmaster'd importunity.
Fear it, Ophelia, fear it, my dear sister,
And keep you in the rear of your affection,
Out of the shot and danger of desire."
Lacey/Ophelia answered that Laertes should remember that when he went out on a date—how would he treat his own girls?
A few voices in the audience called out in answer. Lacey looked at me. I looked at Lacey. We both stared in surprise.
Then Lacey shrugged—an audience is an audience, after all, and if they wanted to react, all the better—and continued:
"Do not, as some
ungracious pastors do,
Show me the steep and thorny way to heaven," she
admonished,
"Whiles, like a puff'd and reckless libertine,
Himself the primrose path of dalliance treads,
And recks not his own rede."
More shouts replied, more and more each line, with shouts like, "Statutory rape should go on till twenty-one!", "No means no!", and "No flirting on the assembly line!"
What the hey was going on? Somebody was definitely not telling us something.
We found out what during the act break. Giles St. John, the code monkey, had been dating a software developer named Wendy Hardy, and she'd been found almost dead the day after the party—of course, we'd been so busy rehearsing that we wouldn't have noticed if the sun had gone nova. She'd taken an overdose and left a note saying how distraught she was about her boyfriend's death. She hadn't known who killed him, but it hadn't been her—or any of the company.
The cast was in a dead hush. Then I asked, "Suicide?"
"Possibly a failed attempt," Barry said.
"And Giles' murderer?" I guessed.
"Perhaps," Barry said, "though the letter does seem to contradict that guess."
I started shaking, whether it was from relief at a close miss or anger that a psycho would go after a kid (younger than me, anyway).
"I shall keep you informed," Barry promised. "Morgan will tell me, and I will relay it to you—but for now, I believe we should begin the second act."
"Yes, of course." Marnie headed toward the door to backstage. Winston looked up, startled, then hurried after her. Once in the wings, we shuffled like cards in a deck, ending with Ogden and Larry tied for first place, since their scene came next. The house lights went down, the stage lights came up, and we were off.
So it went, with the Ghost asking Hamlet to do a little favor for him—taking revenge on Claudius. Why? Because Claudius poured poison in his ear while he was sleeping—only the ghost said, "Poisoned words, to slay all vision of those who labor in this kingdom." The audience got pretty restive about that, making angry noises. I thought, Hey! These guys are pretty sympathetic.
That, Larry and Ogden dealt with superbly, throwing in a few ad libs about the monarch's duty to the people, which filled the audience with more angry muttering. The actors' only problem was the autoprompter—once again, Ogden didn't remember a bit about being onstage, and when I asked him why he'd tossed in the ad lib, he looked very indignant and hissed, "I have my lines letter-perfect, Ramou!" Odd.
Larry did a pretty good job showing Hamlet deciding to be crazy, which I had to admit was good acting—whatever else I might say about him, Larry had always appeared to be totally sane. Then the king and queen asked Rosencrantz and Guidenstern to see if they couldn't calm Hamlet down some—he was overdoing the crazy bit. Of course, when he worked in that tidbit about killing off the duo offstage, the audience begin to mutter—they seemed to have a real sense of justice, or maybe it was just sympathy with the underdog.
Then somewhat shouted, "The mummers are coming!" and the Elizabethan version of a troupe of travelling actors made their Elsinore debut—their big chance to play the palace, no doubt. Hamlet greeted the mummers with a little script he'd dashed off, the pantomime showing Claudius pouring poison into old Hamlet's ear—only why did Larry take over as the dumb-show actor? Charles was supposed to take that part—and why did he stare at Morgan, down there front row center, while he poured? Even more confusing, Morgan stared him down, growing tense as a rock and eyes glittering—you'd almost think he was happy about it. Winston, according to plan, let out a blood-curdling shriek and ran offstage, followed by the whole court—except Hamlet, who marched straight down to the audience, rubbing his hands with glee and grinning like a crescent moon as he said, "Now we see whom our seemers be!"... which was the right line, but the wrong play. Then the back wall lit up with diagonal streaks that settled into a man's face, saying in a rich announcer voice, "We interrupt this performance to being you an urgent bulletin. The president of the Silicon Crafters' Union has been murdered by a person or persons unknown. May the rights of the people remain sovereign and triumph!"
The audience answered with howls of indignation, but Morgan applauded. The people nearest him turned to stare, then the ones behind them and more and more, until the whole audience was glaring as the announcer said, "This channel will keep you informed as events develop." Then the face disappeared into zigzags again. They faded and Morgan leaned over to Barry and said, very loudly, "Excellent interpolation. How did you manage it?"
Barry answered smoothly, with scarcely a pause, "I'd have to ask my technical director for the details, but as to the overview, you probably know as well as I, if not better."
Morgan chuckled, still clapping and nodding as he said, "I've always doubted that Shakespeare can be updated to reflect the issues of the time, but you have me convinced now. How did you manage the screen and the announcer?"
"Oh… you know…" Barry made a careless throwing-away gesture. "One doesn't ask the technical magicians to reveal their secrets."
Marnie, however, realized that things could very easily become unmanageable. "We certainly don't want a riot on our hands," she said, and marched out to wave both hands in a shushing gesture. However her reputation may have dwindled on Earth, the colonists knew very well who she was—her epics must have been drawing big audiences even there. They quieted down, and Marnie said, "Dear friends, I am delighted to see that our humble words and minor changes have stirred so much emotion in your breasts—but we cannot show you the outcome of the plot unless you allow us to speak. Do you wish us to continue with our adaptation of this greatest of the works of the Bard of Stratford-on-Avon?"
"Yes! Yes!" a few voices cried, then more and more. Somebody started clapping, and in a few minutes, they were all calling for the rest of the play. Marnie waited for the applause to crest, like the pro she was, then beamed, bowed, and said, "Your wish is our command!" and swept off the stage in full control of the situation. "Quickly!" she said to Larry. "Your monologue!"
Larry's head snapped up; he blinked, then followed Marnie onto the stage and went on with his lines. The scene between the two of them captured the audience; they fell silent, and beside me, Suzanne whispered, "When I grow up, I wanna be just like her!"
The second intermission came, and not a minute too soon. As Marnie made her exit and the applause began, the house lights came up and Marnie snapped, "Greenroom!"
We blinked; I glanced at Horace, but he only shrugged and said, "Why not?"
As we entered, Marnie whirled to face us and demanded, "What the hell was that all about?"
"An excellent question," Barry said behind her.
She turned on him. "I hope you have an excellent answer!"
"Not really," Barry said, "no."
"No," Charles said, coming behind him with even more perfect timing. "The question should be addressed to me."
"All right, then," Marnie said, "answer it!"
"The problems fall into two categories," Charles explained, "stage effects and faulty prompting."
"I admit that Merlo's ghost is excellent," Marnie said reluctantly, "but…"
"Yes, 'but'…" Merlo was shaking his head. "It wasn't my ghost."
"Oh, stuff and nonsense," Marnie snapped. "It was an excellent…" Her voice trailed off because Merlo was still shaking his head. "No projection. I don't know where it came from."
"Perhaps the same source as the faults in the prompting," Charles said.
"Which is?" Marnie demanded.
"A ghost," Charles said.
The room was silent for a moment. Then Ogden said, "You mean the lines I spoke were not Shakespeare's?"
"Not unless he was angry at a murderer, and demanding justice from the ruler of the land."
"Morgan?" Marnie asked.
"Here."
We all jumped and turned around to see the general manager standing inside the door.
"A timely entrance," Barry said.
"And a very quiet one," Marnie agreed.
"Yes," Horace said. "One is tempted to say you move like a ghost."
"Please don't," Marnie said. "Simply tell us why this is happening."
"Because there is a ghost in the machine," Morgan said.
We were all silent, looking at one another. Then Marty said, "Impossible."
We all turned to him, shocked. "You're no engineer," I said. "How would you know?"
"Because I took some philosophy courses," Marty said, "and in one of them, we had to prove that dualist systems like Descartes', where the brain is multi-tasking, are valid. At the same time it's trying to figure out a problem, it's also overseeing physical action, such as breathing and walking, but we don't know how they interact. The philosophers have labeled that 'the ghost in the machine.'"
"I beg your pardon?" Marnie spoke for all of us—absolutely befuddled.
Except Charles. "The question is whether we can think while we are doing physical tasks. That's drastically oversimplified, of course."
"But in this case," Barry said, "it would seem to be an apt description of what's happening."
Merlo nodded. "The planet's made of silicon and so are our computers, so anything that can travel through the rocks and stones of this planet can slide on in here."
Silence again. Then Ogden huffed, "Ridiculous! You mean to say that when I spoke as the ghost, I did not have full control of my own mind?"
"Something like that." Charles nodded.
"Uh.. you didn't remember what you'd said when you came offstage," I reminded him.
"A momentary lapse!" Ogden insisted. "I went too far into character. We've all done it, one time or another."
"You mean a kind of trance?" Larry asked.
Ogden turned to him with the ghost of a smile. "Begun to experience it yourself, have you?"
"But what about Scene One?" Marty asked. "I don't remember what I said, either—and the ghost didn't look like Ogden at all."
"Nonsense!" Ogden said again. "That's no more possible than the beverage dispenser in my room mixing brandy with my morning coffee!"
I looked at Suzanne. Suzanne looked at me. Then she looked away again, fast.
But Ogden noticed. "Have you two been adjusting my beverages?"
"Not us," I said. "Not this time. No."
"I thought the taste was much improved," Ogden muttered. Then the rest of what I'd said sank in. "This time?"
I shrugged. "We were talking about spirits in the machine, weren't we?"
"Before we become too absorbed in the issue," Barry said, "we must decide whether to continue with the performance."
"Oh, go right ahead," Morgan said. "Can't disappoint the Cultural Committee, after all."
"But the lines criticizing you for not preventing a murder…" Horace protested.
"I have always advocated freedom of speech," Morgan said.
"Even when it works against you?" Marnie asked with a skeptical tone.
"Then most of all."
Ogden gave him a quick, sharp glance, then looked away. I figured he was thinking about a certain notorious rock band.
"Well then, the show must go on!" Marnie swept out toward the stage.
"Places, everybody!" Charles called, back in his persona as stage manager.
We all followed Marnie, but I eeled in next to Horace. "The show must go on? Why?"
"Because it's the prime ethic of the profession," he ansered. "It would be unspeakable to disappoint an eager audience. Besides, they might all want refunds."
I shuddered at the problem of trying to figure out who had paid what and followed him onto the stage.
Surprisingly, everything went well—if you don't count Larry reading Hamlet's letter with a small addition, changing the name of the intended victim of the assassination—one of those cases when Shakespeare would probably be happy not to get the credit—or me hearing a voice in my ear during my conference with Winston/Claudius about Hamlet's guilt and how to kill him. This time, being forewarned, I was able to ignore it and invent a line of my own (one that would have sent Shakespeare turning in his grave, if he hadn't been light-years too far away to hear it).
Some of the other actors weren't quite so well prepared, of course. Marty wound up proclaiming that all governments are implied contracts that are supposed to guarantee life and liberty, as well as some other things. Lacey, in Ophelia's coffin with her eyes closed, started to rise of her own accord—flat on her back. I realized what was happening in time to slip my hands under her to make it look as though I was lifting her, and Larry caught on fast enough to support the illusion from his side. It was a little odd, the two of us standing there holding her like the rope in a tug-of-war while we argued about who had killed her and what the punishment should be, but the audience accepted it. When I made it backstage, I glanced at the surveillance camera's screen to see how Morgan was taking it. He was back in his front-row seat, smiling and nodding as though everything was going just the way he'd planned.
Maybe it was… and he had… I began to smell something that really was rotten in the state of Denmark—or at least on Gemma.
But the highpoint of the evening came when Horace, as first gravedigger, managed to get Hamlet and Horatio laughing, then lifted the third skull out of the grave and coaxed Hamlet into guessing whose it was, then telling him, "This same skull, sir, was Yorick's skull, the king's jester."
Larry broke off the laughter and said, "This?"
"E'en that," Horace confirmed.
"Let me see," Larry demanded. He took the skull and gazed at it, saying, "Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio: a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy."
The skull rotated in his hand and said, "Who you calling fancy, kid?"
