STARSHIP TROUPERS IV: THE UNKNOWN GUEST
Chapter Nine: Our Next Jump's Porrima
by
Christopher
Stasheff
Copyright © 2012
At least Barry didn’t come calling “The ghost walks!” this time—which I appreciated, being the only one who suspected we had an invisible stowaway… although Merlo and Captain McCloud might have suspected it too, and not told me, not wanting to worry me. After all, that’s what I was not doing—telling them.
But Barry was humming to himself as he collected our cards, handed them to Horace to post up the pay for Hamlet, then handed them back—and that worried me. Managers aren’t supposed to be happy about paying out—especially when the younger actors pressed their thumbprints onto the “balance” square on the cards and gasped with delight. When I saw mine, I had to look twice. We had gone from two-figure checks to four-figures. Barry had needed to pay out a fat sum indeed. I wondered what was making him so happy.
It didn’t take long to find out. When Horace handed the last card back to its owner, Winston stared at his balance, then said, “We must have made quite a profit on Sandrock.”
“Morgan was very generous,” Barry said.
“He had reason to be, since we solved his first murder mystery for him,” Ogden said, “but I must admit, I didn’t expect this much!”
“Nor for you to be so jubilant, Barry,” Marnie said. “Why so cheery?”
“Because our first tour is almost done, and we'll break even at least, and probably show a profit.”
The lounge was silent for a minute, actors mute with surprise. “I suppose we will,” Ogden said. “A pleasant surprise, indeed.”
But Marnie was still suspicious. “What is our last port of call, Barry?”
“The fourth planet orbiting Porrima, the brightest star in the constellation of Virgo.” He took a deep breath, visibly bracing himself, then said, “The colonists named it ‘Wolmar.’”
“Wolmar?” Marnie exclaimed in outrage.
“Uh—exactly,” Barry said with signs of unease.
The lounge burst into shouts of dismay and howls of protest. “Wolmar!”
“The prison planet?”
“The Terran Sphere’s answer to early Australia?”
“I don’t suppose you could have picked a more dangerous planet,” Marnie said with a touch of her old acidity.
Horace tried to sidetrack the conversation. “I didn’t expect you to know the planet, Marnie.”
“I went to the planetarium once.” Marnie gave him a withering glare, then turned back to Barry. “Whatever possessed you to book us there?”
“Well,” Larry said, with a venomous glance at me, “I suppose Ramou will appreciate it.”
That remark was disappointing. Larry had been downright friendly to me on Sandrock.
“I can’t guard all of you,” I protested, “not unless we travel as a body.”
“ ‘As a body’ has a very unpleasant ring to it,” Ogden rumbled.
“Whose body did you have in mind, Ramou?” Larry asked, looking past me to Suzanne.
I couldn’t help a quick glance at her, then glanced away even more quickly—but her look of indignation branded itself in my mind. I resolved that I would keep her safe, if nobody else. Then maybe she’d start liking me again.
Barry picked up the conversational thread I had let drop. “We will be quite safe, I assure you, my friends. The stage will be enclosed with stout copper strips maintaining a force field.”
“You mean we’ll be performing in a cage?”
“I wouldn’t put it in quite those terms,” Barry answered, “but we will indeed be safe.”
Charles finally spoke up. “These aren’t your ordinary run-of-the-mill felons, my friends., no more than were the indentured servants and convicts of Australia and Georgia in the 1700s.”
“Is that supposed to be reassuring?” Horace asked.
“It is indeed,” Barry answered. “Rather than murderers or burglars, these people are political prisoners who have been transported to a planet light-years from old Earth, to be certain they won't trouble our noble electors and their ministers of state.”
The room was silent for a minute. Then Marnie asked, “You mean they’ve been condemned to a life far from home for no better reason than protesting government policies?”
“I suppose it comes down to that, yes.”
“And whose ridiculous idea was it to go there?”
“Oh, mine,” Charles said. “I read an article about the success of the prison in reforming felons.”
“Who were?” Marnie asked in an ominous tone.
“They called themselves the ‘Wolmen,’ ” Charles answered, “and one of the warden’s primary goals has been to integrate his so-called felons into the first wave of colonists.”
Marnie turned to Barry, asking the question with a look. He gave a micro-nod of confirmation. She turned back to Charles. “I hope it is not mere academic curiosity that has made you recommend the change of venue to Barry.”
“It is actually, yes. The article said that the warden, General Shacklar, would pay half a million credits to any entertainers who would come out to Wolmar to make the colonists feel that they are still a part of the people of Old Earth.”
I caught my breath; so did everyone else, even Marnie. She recovered quickly and said, “Half a million is not what used to be.”
“Still,” said Ogden, “it is a very substantial bit of change.”
“We do have to live, friends, and that requires money,” Barry reminded us. “Admittedly, we re-supplied ourselves on New Venus and again on Citadel, but we will need to re-stock again in a few months.”
“So we have to refuel and reload before that time is up.” Marnie nodded. “I see. There isn’t really a great deal of choice, is there?”
“But rubbing shoulders with criminals!” Lacey protested.
“The felons sent to Australia were, in effect, given a chance to build a new life,” Horace said. “Most of them did.”
“So we won’t really be performing for criminals?” Suzanne inferred.
“Oh, there will be some,” Charles said. “There always are, when you throw enough people together—and the proportion will be a bit higher than on Old Earth.”
“Not to worry, though,” Barry said. “The governor—or warden, if you prefer—keeps his prisoners under very tight control.”
“You mean he’s a tyrant?” Lacey gasped.
“Not at all,” Charles said. “General Shackler is a psychologist, in fact. Think of him as an analyst to a whole planet’s population.”
Lacey turned a jaundiced eye on him. “How is it you know so much about Wolmar, Charles?”
“I’ve been reading about it for some years,” Charles said.
“That doesn’t exactly answer the question,” Horace observed.
“Well…” For a moment, Charles was in danger of smiling. “There was a time, in my misspent youth, when I thought I might be going there myself.”
“You mean they accepted volunteers?” Suzanne asked, amazed.
“Not at all.” This time Charles did smile, then sat there like the Sphinx, waiting for the next question.
The company waited in return. Finally Barry said, “Of what crime were you guilty?”
“Teaching,” Charles said.
We gawked. At least, I did. Then Winston said, “Since when did the imparting of knowledge become a crime?”
“Ever since Thoreau published ‘Civil Disobedience,’ ” Charles said, “and Ghandi put it into practice.”
Another silence. Then Marty asked, “You mean our felons will be protestors?”
“Most of them,” Charles said. “Remember, though, that there will be some murderers and thieves among them.”
Marnie sat bolt upright. “This General Shacklar is expecting us to civilize his savages!”
“Not all in one performance, obviously,” Charles said, “but he is hoping our presentation will be part of his attempt to build the foundation for a real republic.”
“Certainly a worthy goal,” Winston said.
“How many performances?” Marnie demanded.
“Only seven and a Saturday matinee,” Barry said, “a week and an extra. The population is too small to justify more.”
“Will we be paid the full half-million?” Marnie showed an unexpected streak of practicality.
“Guaranteed,” Barry said. “When Charles told me the possibility, the General promised to post bond to guarantee payment.”
“Please don’t tell me he said his word is his bond,” Marnie said.
“There's no need,” Barry said. “The bond arrived yesterday by tachyon transmission. In fact, that is the reason I accepted General Shacklar’s invitation to perform. The government on Old Earth seems to be willing to subsidize Wolmar heavily—to guarantee keeping the ‘inmates’ away from the voters.”
We were all quiet, remembering Elector Rudders and his diatribe against us. Then Charles said, “You may be sure of a warm welcome. Anyone who was effectively chased off Old Earth will be quite popular on Wolmar.”
“A worthy cause.” Marnie lifted her chin, squaring her shoulders. “Don’t you think you should have asked us first, Barry?”
“I certainly do,” he replied, “but the message only arrived last week, and we were rather busy at the time.”
“I call the question, then.” Winston raised a hand.
“Is there any debate?” Barry looked from one to another.
Reluctantly, Marnie said, “Not from me, if he really has posted a bond for his bribe.”
“Interesting term for the price of admission,” Ogden said, “but there is overhead and production costs to be considered. How much will each of us net, Barry?”
“Exactly ten times the amount you received today.”
Everyone gasped. Everyone stared.
“Now… all in favor of performing on Wolmar?” Barry asked.
Every hand went up.
“Fine, then.” Barry turned to McCloud. “Would you set course for Wolmar, Captain?”
“Already did,” McCloud said. “I have faith in you folks.”
“Faith in greed?” Horace asked with a bleak smile.
“How about ‘survival instinct’?” Larry said. “Or doesn’t that mean anything to an engineer, Ramou?”
I turned to Merlo. “Any more swordfights in this one?”
“I can always arrange a few,” Merlo answered.
Larry paled and turned away.
“An interesting question,” Marnie said. “What play are we performing, Barry?”
“It’s nearing Christmas time on Old Earth,” said Barry, “so our text will be ‘Saint George and the Dragon.’ ”
We all stared again. Then Ogden said, “Not the most educational piece in the galaxy, Barry.”
“Oh, but it is.” Barry smiled. “You see, we will be performing Dr. Smead’s version.”
It turned out Dr. John Smead had written a version of the medieval farce that gave the audience a sample of the medieval world-view. As we started the read-through, however, I still didn’t see how a medieval mummers’ play could help educate people toward becoming effective citizens of a democracy. By the time we finished it, though, I could see why the English had conquered half of Old Earth and left behind a legal system that helped its citizens develop a real, functioning body of international law, a universal language, and an infrastructure that allowed for a speed of communication that helped governments be more efficient in bringing the opinions of the people to their elected representatives. St. George stood as the lone bulwark against giants, dragons, the Ottoman Turks’ attempts to conquer Europe, and inadequate medical knowledge. It might not have been a lesson in political science, but it certainly helped fill in the background that people needed to puzzle out the problems that good citizens have to think through.
We also did a lot of laughing.
“Plenty of room for some prime pratfalls,” Marty said, grinning.
“I’m glad you think so,” said Barry, “since you will be performing the part of the Doctor.”
Marty gave a hoot of delight.
“A drunken quack?” Larry said. “Appropriate.”
Marty gave him an impersonation of a wacky quack straight out of a mid-century cartoon. “Watch out, or I’ll slip a mickey into your potion!”
I grinned. “Play nice, Larry.”
“Sound advice,” Barry said, “since Larry will play St. George...”
Now it was Larry’s turn to whoop with delight.
“Two leads in a row?” Lacey scowled. “Not terribly fair.”
“Be still, child,” Marnie said. “We play the parts we’re given, and are grateful for them.”
“Entirely true,” Ogden agreed. “Be glad you’re in work, and that an audience will see you. We never know who may be watching.”
“On a prison planet?”
“General Shacklar has a wide range of acquaintances,” Charles hinted.
Lacey started a comeback, then closed her mouth with a snap.
“You will undertake the part of Little Jackie, Ms. Lark.” Barry said.
“Don’t take it too far under,” Marnie advised.
“Ramou, did we bring that prop skull?” Marty asked.
I felt a chill down my back. “What for?”
“For the undertaker.”
“A grave undertaking indeed,” Barry said. “Ms. Souci, you will be the Queen of Egypt’s daughter.”
Winston frowned. “I thought it was the King of Egypt, Barry.”
“Fortunately, the play can be adjusted to the demands of the company. Ogden, you will play Blunderbore the giant.”
“Of course,” Ogden grumbled. “Let a man put a few notches on his belt, and his roles are more limited than his size.”
“You know where you’re needed, old fellow.”
“Well, that’s the whole cast,” Winston said with a frown. “What about the dragon, Barry?”
“It will be done Chinese style,” Barry said. “You will operate the head, and anyone free will back you up as the body.”
Winston grinned. “Type cast again.”
I almost said Marnie was the company dragon, but I caught myself in time.
“Only one part left,” Ogden rumbled. “Who shall portray the Turkish Knight, Barry? We’re out of actors.”
“Oh, the part goes to Ramou, of course.”
“That’s a relief,” Merlo said. “Glad you’re here, Ramou, or it would have been me.”
Larry blanched—he knew the play.
Merlo gave him a predatory grin. “That’s right, kid—another fight scene with Ramou. May I suggest the two of you be real nice to each other?”
Sounded like a good suggestion to me—but I buttonholed Larry after rehearsal just to be sure. “You trying to be a pain again?”
“I don’t have to try with you around.”
As Merlo had advised, I tried to be nice. “I thought having the lead in Hamlet made you friendlier to the whole company.”
“Friendly?” Larry stared. “What are you talking about, Ramou?”
I stared at him for a moment, then turned away, muttering, “No more Mr. Nice Guy.”
Apparently, he hadn’t even known he was being nice. There was a very short list of explanations… and I didn’t like any of them.
Captain McCloud called us all to web into our chairs for ‘rendezvous.’ Being on the bridge with him, Merlo, and Barry, I had the chance to ask, “Why not ‘landing’? Or ‘planetfall’ or something?”
“No one lands on the surface of Wolmar, Ramou,” McCloud told him. “Against the law.”
The light dawned. “A gang of convicts could ambush the ship and escape?”
“Haven’t done it yet,” McCloud said, “and I don’t intend my ship to be the first.”
“So where do we land?” I asked, puzzled.
“On the moon. Take your choice—Wolmar has three.”
“The biggest one?”
“Right on the money.” McCloud started the descent—which meant he pointed the Cotton Blossom’s bow toward the tiny disc that was the moon and fired up the rockets. The force pushed me down into my couch, but not much. No problem for a young buck like me, but I was sure going to check on the old folks—especially Ogden—as soon as McCloud pronounced us landed (or whatever). Maybe Suzanne would be checking on Ogden, too. That way, she might answer me.
“So what do we do when we get there?” I asked. “Land? Dock?”
“We put down anchors,” McCloud said, “and wait for the shuttle.”
“Then we take the shuttle down and leave the ship in orbit?” Merlo guessed.
McCloud nodded. “You leave me in orbit, too—no way I’m going to leave this ship empty.”
“How do new prisoners land on the surface of the planet?” Barry asked.
“Same way we’re going to,” Barry said, “by the shuttle.”
Merlo looked at the viewscreen. “I think I see it approaching.”
“You do.” McCloud hit the “all stations” patch on the intercom. “Belt in, friends. Our taxi is coming.”
The shuttle—time was when we would have called it a local supersonic transport—was decidedly short of creature comforts, and there was absolutely nothing of luxury about it—only bare walls without portholes or viewscreens, and chairs that had seen better service in an amusement park. Still, its pilot assured us it was safe and extended a boarding ramp/tunnel that McCloud coupled to the Cotton Blossom’s hatch. We trooped through it, a little uncertain about the softness and give of the footing. We found seats—there was plenty of room for the whole company, including Grudy.
“This will be an ordeal,” Lacey said.
“The troupers of old experienced much worse,” Horace assured us, then turned toward the speaker in the sealed door of the pilot’s cockpit, “Why no viewscreens?”
“We don’t want the new fish to see where they’re going,” the pilot answered.
Marnie frowned. “That sounds ominous.”
“Brace yourself for an uncomfortable ride,” Merlo warned.
“Turbulence?” Winston asked.
“You could call it that," Merlo answered. “Think turbulence squared.”
Back at the dawn of space travel, one astronaut had compared the return to Earth to skipping a flat pebble over a pond. The spacecraft hits the atmosphere, then bounces back up into space. It falls again, bounces again, and keeps on skipping all the way around the planet, shedding a little speed with each bounce, until it has finally slowed enough to glide down to the surface.
It was a rough ride indeed. Of course, we would scarcely have noticed it aboard the Cotton Blossom, with its insulation and cushioning of each deck and couch—the passengers’ comfort was the primary concern on a luxury liner; no one would want to travel if it weren’t—but on a military shuttle like this, no money had been wasted on so trivial a factor as cushioning.
Then we struck down. Not touched, struck. Everybody sat tense, waiting for the next nasty surprise. Finally the pilot’s voice came over the speakers. “We’re there, folks, docked and still. You can step off now.”
“With pleasure.” I stood up, then looked back at Ogden, suddenly remembering that our senior member might be having a tough time of it. Sure enough, he was looking a little green around the gills. Suzanne was there before me, checking his pulse and his blood pressure.
“He okay?”
She nodded to me, then looked away—at Ogden, who was a convenient excuse.
I sighed, sawing back on my frustration. This was getting to be a little much. I was on the verge of declaring myself to be a friend—and nothing more.
First, though, we had to get Ogden on his feet. I clasped his arm and set myself. “You do the pulling, not me.”
“I’m no lightweight, Ramou,” the old trouper warned.
Suzanne stepped up on his other side. “I’m sure he can manage, Mr. Wellesley. Up you come.”
With a sharp pull on my arm, Ogden came to his feet. He tottered for a minute, Suzanne stabilizing him, then stepped away on his own. “Thank you, young ones. I certainly hope our return to orbit will be much gentler than this.”
“Should be, from everything I hear. Let’s join the line.”
The rest of the company stood in the aisle, waiting. Then solenoids clunked and the hatch swung open. We stepped out into a lovely warm autumn day. The leaves in the distance may not have been the ones we were used to, but they were golden and scarlet nonetheless, and the sky was a brilliant blue.
We started down the ramp into the spaceport—and stopped in surprise at seeing a limousine parked there, complete with uniformed chauffer standing by the front door and an even more uniformed officer with a chest full of medals and a cap visor full of brass filigree, standing there at ease, clearly waiting for us.
“Barry,” Ogden said, “I believe this is your ceremony.”
Charles stepped up, said, “Allow me to test it first,” then turned and walked down the ramp. The officer strode forward to clasp his hand, then embraced him with an arm around the shoulders. “Such a great relief to see you, old fellow! We have heard the most alarming reports of your progress! But now, praise Heaven, you are here and safe!”
Charles pumped his arm with both hands, grinning like a piano. “Thank you for sanctuary, General! A thousand thanks!”
Horace leaned over to Barry and said, “I think they know each other.”
“A little too well for my liking,” Marnie said. “We may have provided the transport… but I think we are the ones who have been taken for a ride.”
Charles turned to us, keeping one hand on the general’s shoulder, as though to keep him from getting away. “Friends and colleagues, may I introduce General Shacklar, the warden and governor of Wolmar.”
We were quiet for a moment, trying to process this new information—and its implications. Then Barry stepped forward and gave a small bow. “Our pleasure, General. However, under the circumstances, I believe you would not consider us overly inquisitive if we asked for an explanation.”
“Or several,” Winston said.
“Of course, of course,” the General said. “May I suggest, though, that we conduct this seminar in a cocktail lounge of my acquaintance?”
Barry managed a smile. “After the discomforts of our landing, General, that would be deeply appreciated.”
“So good of you. If you’ll step into my transport, we’ll be at the Back Room Tavern in a few minutes.”
We all filed into the gravcar, and found it even more luxurious inside than outside, with velvet walls and ceiling, and real leather seats bearing the seal of Earth, looking to be hand-tooled.
I came last, and looked back as the vehicle started to move, to reassure myself that the shuttle was still there and our escape route, by implication, open. It was—but a small ship, built for speed and little or no cargo, hovered over the fire-hardened surface of a blast pit. It was a courier vessel, made to take messages and extremely important people. It lowered a cable… from the end of which the Man in Grey swung down.
