STARSHIP TROUPERS IV: THE UNKNOWN GUEST, Chapter 12

STARSHIP TROUPERS IV: THE UNKNOWN GUEST

Chapter Twelve: Tough Crowd

Christopher Stasheff

I strolled down the street with Suzanne’s hand in mine, and I was amazed at how wonderful her touch felt. All I could see was her eyes and her face—though after the first time I stumbled down off a curb, she laughed (a lovely sound) and said, “Maybe we should watch where we’re going.”

“I am.” I was still gazing into her eyes. Her smile lit the night—no, wait a minute, that was a street light floating in front of us, moving as we moved, and the light from the window of a tavern we were passing. Suzanne glanced at the pavement as we neared the corner, and I said, “You watch where we’re going. I have better things to look at.” She beamed at me—then looked past me and frowned. “What’s Winston doing in there?”

Winston? I turned to look in surprise. We were passing a bar and grill and, sure enough, there he was, sitting at a booth in a back corner, leaning on his elbows with his head bowed. He looked haggard and defeated and, for the first time since I’d known him, old.

“He shouldn’t be that way,” Suzanne said.

“No, he shouldn’t.” I felt so buoyant with happiness that I wanted the whole world to share the feeling, most certainly my friends—and maybe even my enemies.

“He certainly shouldn’t be alone,” I said.

But Suzanne was already on her way to the door—without letting go of my hand, fortunately.

We came into the bar, and looked around—an old reflex, for me. There Winston sat, our friend and colleague, looking as though he’d been run through a laundry wringer with teeth, and was trying to find the quietest corner in the neighborhood so he could recover, maybe have a peaceful cup of coffee without worrying about a local picking a fight—if you could really say anybody here was a local—or burdening his friends with his melancholy.

He was sitting alone, both hands around a glass in front of him, head bowed over it, and the look on his face could have torn an artery out of my heart. In fact, he looked like that was what had happened to him. I didn’t know what really had, but I couldn’t leave a friend alone when he looked like that—and I was surprised to realize Winston was a friend; I’d always thought of him as one of the Grand Old Players of the troupe.

What was the difference? He needed company, that’s what. Apparently Suzanne had the same idea; she slid into the booth across from him and waited. I followed—no need to tell me. We were sharing thoughts that night.

After a while, Winston looked up at us and gave a smile of chagrin. “Surely you two have better things to do with you time than to waste it with an old man who’s lost his way.”

“We can find the route back to Cholly’s,” Suzanne said.

The smile lightened. “Bless you, child—but it’s my figurative way I’ve lost, not my geographical. Such are the penalties of age.”

“I wouldn’t call you old,” Suzanne said.

“Older than you think.” Then, with a grimace, "Old enough to know better.”

“Better than what?” I asked.

“Better than to believe a young stranger who seemed to want to become intimate,” he said. “It’s not the first time it’s happened to me, and it won’t be the last. They can see how lonely you are, they can sense your hunger, so they play up to you until you reveal yourself. Then they laugh at you and mock you and tell all the world what you are—and if you’re lucky, you’ll suffer only insults.”

I went still with shock. Then I felt anger at the one who’d hurt a defenseless old man so badly. I let a little of that anger show as I asked, “Who did it?”

He looked up in surprise and more warmth returned as he smiled. “Thank you for your concern, Ramou. He isn’t here—it happened in another tavern down this row—but I wouldn’t let you try to avenge me, anyway.”

“They learn to do it in grade school,” I said. “They spend their lives polishing their technique.”

He looked at me in genuine surprise. “Suffered it, have you?” Then, “Of course. That’s why you learned martial arts, isn’t it?”

“Part of the cost of not having a father,” I said.

“Or being the one who stood out by being too tall and developing too early, so all the other girls had a target to tease and mock.” Suzanne’s voice was harder than I’d ever heard it.

Winston stared at her in surprise; so did I. “I’d forgotten that girls do verbal bullying too,” Winston said.

“They don’t make fun of you after you’ve won a few fights,” I said.

“The disadvantage of being a perpetual stranger.” Winston nodded. “No one knows your reputation. Somehow it doesn’t protect you from having a young fellow sidle up to you and make overtures—and it definitely doesn’t protect you when he exposes you, loudly and with the worst insults he can think of. Not terribly original ones, of course.”

I frowned, puzzled. So did Suzanne, but very quickly, her face cleared with understanding.

Winston saw, and gave me a sardonic smile. “You hadn’t realized? Yes, Ramou, I’m gay. Does that matter?”

“Oh.” It took a minute for the change in viewpoint to sink in. “Yes, they start the gay-baiting early, don’t they?”

“Quite—and they grow up polishing that skill, too.”

I lifted my head slowly. “The advantage to a life onstage—insulation.”

He nodded. “Sometimes the illusion is kinder than the reality.”

“Isn’t that a line from a play?” Suzanne asked. “ ‘I have fought a lifelong battle with reality, and I am happy to say I have won?’ ”

“A play called Harvey.” Winston nodded.

“But you can’t go too far into fantasy.” I frowned.

“All life has its perils,” he said. “The urges lessen as you age, though, Ramou—and, thanks to hair dye and plastic surgery, I really am older than I seem.”

“Still,” I said, “it must be difficult.”

“Far more difficult for a young stallion like you to be cooped up in a starship with two lovely young women and not manage to become intimate with either of them.”

“That’s past now.” Suzanne beamed at me. “At least, it better be.”

“No question,” I said.

Winston smiled fondly, then sighed. “Appreciate emotion, young ones. There are very few as fortunate as yourselves.”

Suzanne turned to him, alarmed. “But being gay doesn’t mean there isn’t somebody special for you.”

“One tires of the search, after a while.” Winston turned toward the window, gazing off into the night. “But when a young rogue comes up to you and says, ‘What’s your preference, big guy?’ you think, ‘Why not?’ ”

“And you forget when it’s happened before?”

“Oh, yes,” Winston said softly. “At that moment, you forget very thoroughly. Indeed, yes.” Then he looked past my shoulder with something like alarm—or, at least, alertness.

I turned, and saw a kid about my age coming up with two burly buddies behind him. “Well, there’s the fairy,” he said, as loudly as he could. “Looks like you’ve picked up a partner after all.”

“Two of ’em,” one of his buddies said. “Wouldn’t mind playing with her.” He leered at Suzanne, then looked at me and said, “Oh, no wonder—another one of the actors. Are all you guys queer?”

“No.” I stood up to make a better target. “But we all learn how to fight. We call it ‘stage combat.’ ”

“Ramou,” Winston said, alarmed, “discretion is...”

“Ramou.” The punk made my name an insult. “A fairy name—Ramoooo!”

“With the emphasis on the ‘moo.’ ” I nodded. “Now we know what you are—and it isn’t a lot of bull.”

The kid lost his smile and gained a fist. It swung straight at my face.

I leaned aside and took it on the shoulder. The blow exploded, and I realized I might be numb—he could hit hard. But I stepped forward as I hooked a fist up and into his belly. He folded over it, and his buddies waded in.

I took the one on the right first, blocking with my forearm— sure enough, the left was numb. The bozo hooked fast with his right and it rocked my head. I saw stars for a minute and that was long enough for him to kick my foot out and hammer my kidneys as I fell. Then the stars cleared and I shot back up, slamming into him with a right cross. He fell back, but nobody was stepping in to fill his place. I turned to my left and saw why: Winston was catching the punches of the other back-up player—catching them, and throwing them back so hard I couldn’t believe he was as old as he claimed.

Then the lead punk climbed back to his feet and slammed a right into Winston’s eye. He swung a left, too, but I caught that one and used it to turn him around as I pivoted and threw him over my hip into the counter.

The other bozo who’d hammered my kidneys rolled over and cracked a foot into my shin. I howled at the hurt and stepped away to give him room to climb back up so I could catch him on the chin when it was waist-high—but Suzanne got there ahead of me, her punch rocking his head back.

I turned to help Winston some more and saw his bozo sprawled flat with his eyes rolled up. I stared, then looked up and said, “Old man, sure!”

He grinned, wiping blood away from the corner of his mouth and said, “Experience counts for something, Ramou. Guard the lady’s back, would you?”

I turned to look just as the first punk swung at Suzanne’s belly. I caught his wrist and used it to yank his hand up toward his shoulder blades. The puncher howled and tried to twist away. Seemed like a good idea, so I helped him with a good strong shove. He slammed into the wall, and I wondered how the window would have taken that fall.

“A little help, Ramou!”

I turned back to see my sweet gentle girl stepping around a grizzled brawler and aiding him across the bar with her boot. His second stepped in with a snarl, but I stepped between them, and he changed his mind, backing toward the door.

That reminded me—the trio might have buddies. I spun to look around the place, and here they came through the door, half a dozen leather-skinned, callous-handed men and women in hard-weave work clothes, tired of watching through the window and wanting in on the action.

“Back to back,” Winston snapped, and we formed up into a triangle, fists out. The convicts surrounded us, and there was a minute’s silence as they looked us up and down, trying to find the weak spot. I could see them choosing Suzanne and got ready to crush any fists that came at her.

There it came, the opening punch. I caught it and turned the arm until its owner howled and his buddy swung at my chin. I used his pal as a shield, then downed him with a sweep-kick.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Suzanne kicking someone in the belly and blocking the return punch.

That was all I could see clearly—just flailing fists and flying feet and shouting and howling all around me. Then suddenly, they were backing off—and there came Merlo as the point of a flying wedge with Barry and Marnie right behind him and Lazaro bringing up the rear, back to back with Marnie, swinging Shaklar’s cane like the blades of a turbine, lashing out with it whenever he had a clear shot. I stared, amazed, then heard my sweet gentle girl saying, “Quit staring and start helping, Ramou!”

I jolted back to the moment, saw the ape grabbing at her, and caught his fist, bearing down and turning him. His elbow slammed into my short-ribs and I doubled over, out of wind but not adrenaline—so while I was down there, I caught his ankle and hung onto it while I sucked in a breath and straightened up. He fell back right where I wanted him, head cracking into the fist that was swinging toward Winston. It hit his shoulder instead of his ear, but left his wrist open for a quick grab-and-crush. While he was busy howling about it, I turned toward Suzanne and saw her cracking her fist into the nose of a bruiser twice her weight. He staggered back; I caught him and tossed him in again. She obligingly slammed another punch into his ear while she yelled, “What did you send him back for?”

“We don’t keep the small fry,” I shouted.

Suddenly, things got quiet, but everybody except our dozen or so fighters were, convicts or not, all sitting in their booths and chairs, watching.

And, so help me, they applauded.

Winston gave them his broadest smile and, would you believe it, a bow.

What could I do but imitate the master?

The applause doubled, so we took a second bow. Then, as it slackened, we hobbled out of the tavern, leaning on each other.

We made it back to Cholly’s with no further damage, and were surprised to discover our starship’s captain, Gavin McLeod. “I came down from the Cotton Blossom to watch our opening,” he explained, “and here you go staging a brawl without inviting me!”

“It was impromptu, Gavin,” Barry explained. “Believe me, we would have welcomed your participation.” McLeod accepted that and watched with a grin as Horace tut-tutted, fitting us with bandages for our bruises and sirloin for our eyes while we soaked our knuckles in ice.

“You’ll need more make-up than usual tomorrow,” Horace said. “Whatever will our audience think?”

“Think?” Winston grinned. “They’ll think before they heckle, Horace! I don’t suppose some anesthetic comes with your ministrations?”

“Of course.” Horace sighed, turning away to the bar. “How would you like your anesthetic tonight—up, or on the rocks?”

“Straight, I think,” Marnie said. “We’ve had quite enough rocks for one night, thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” I said with a grin. “Pretty handy yourself, leading lady.”

“Why, thank you, juvenile,” she said, “assuming that was intended as a compliment.”

“Consider the source,” Barry said.

“A point.” Marnie thought it over and nodded. “It was a compliment.”

“And I thought I was in this for laughs.” Marty had an ice bag cradling his jaw. I hadn’t seen him until the end of the fight, when I pulled a semi-conscious convict to his feet and found Marty underneath, somewhat bruised but nonetheless game. He didn’t really seem disappointed about missing most of the fight—but he had tried.

“Next time,” McLeod said, “wait for me before you swing the first punch, okay?”

“We’ll reserve you a space,” I promised.

Marnie turned to Suzanne. “See what you have to look forward to if you stay in this business, young lady?”

“Does it really happen that often?” Suzanne asked.

“Very rarely.”

“Just as well—there are some bruises that are very difficult to cover with foundation.” Suzanne grinned. “It was a good fight, though.”

“Yeah, it sure was,” Merlo said around his ice bag. He turned to Lazaro. “I’ve been wondering how you managed with this frontier rough stuff.”

“Well, it helps to have friends,” Lazaro said. “They enjoy heckling, but they appreciate my comebacks even more.”

I was being very quiet as I nursed my knuckles.

Merlo tried again, trying to pin Lazaro down. “Where’d you learn how to fight with a cane?”

“One learns all manner of things, on the road,” Lazaro replied, and turned to General Shaklar, who was watching us with almost-hidden delight. “Thank you for the loan.”

“Always a pleasure,” the general said.

“Keep this up,” said Winston, “and you’ll have to buy one of your own.”

“Not really advisable,” the general said. “You don’t want your opponents to expect you to fight as you did tonight.”

“Only the fourth time in twenty years,” Lazaro said. “Not often enough to ruin the element of surprise.”

“Surprised me,” Marty said from under an icepack of his own. “Maybe I’d better start taking lessons.”

“Stage combat’s a good way to break in,” Merlo said without answering.

Lacey and Larry sat in a corner, scowling and trying to figure out whether or not they had been smart to stay out of the fight.

McLeod watched from the lounge doorway, not wanting to get too close to the anesthetic. “Don’t mistake me,” Barry said, “but why did you want pitch in, Gavin? It wasn’t really your fight.”

“Your company, your ship,” the captain answered, “but as long as I’m your skipper, you’re my people. When I signed on, I made a commitment to you folks, and I’ll keep it.”

Marnie nodded. “I may not be the most pleasant person, but I keep my promises. One has to, in the theater, or the parts stop coming.”

Lacey gave her a very intent gaze.

“I’ve served as actor, director, and producer,” Barry said, “and in all three functions, dependability is more important than talent or skill.”

Larry stared in shock.

“Would you agree, Horace?” Barry asked.

“Oh, without question,” Horace said, “though in my case, it was generally my employers who did not fulfill their commitments, though of course they expected me to do so as long as the ratings held up.”

Lazaro seemed disappointed. “You never married, then?”

“There was a brief interlude that ended in mutual disenchantment,” Horace admitted.

I stared at him. I’d never thought him to be the kind of guy who jumped ship—but Lazaro smiled with understanding. “She hadn’t expected to spend the evenings alone? Or realized that marrying an actor did not turn her into one?”

“Not so,” Horace said. “She was an actor, too, and began to do somewhat better than I did—then began to seem impatient with me as I struggled to make my way. Then she met a more handsome gentleman with a steady and rather impressive income.”

“Ah.” Lazaro nodded with sad understanding.

I began to wonder what I was doing in this business.

“However,” Horace said, “I take it you were describing your own case—that your wife had expected to be cast with you?”

“I can’t say,” Lazaro answered, “but I think so. Certainly she seemed outraged that I was cast and she was not—in fact, that she would not even be allowed to accompany me backstage.” He gave Horace a somewhat wintry smile. “Or that I did not have a private dressing room, either.”

“What she’d seen in the 3DTs,” Horace inferred, “which means that she had thought stage actors would be paid as well as their mass-media counterparts. Had she expected you to be cast in leading roles?”

“Well, she did seem rather disappointed when I failed to become wealthy and famous after we’d been married a year,” Lazaro admitted. “I did offer to seek regular employment and forsake the stage, though, and was amazed at her rage. She said she had not given up her freedom to be bound to a shop clerk.”

I sat up straighter—you kinda have to, when the chill goes tingling down your back. When it hit my hips and vanished, I said, “Don’t you mean a mail carrier?”

Lazaro looked at me kinda funny, and I realized I had croaked instead of talking. The words seemed to have been clear enough, though, because he said, “No, shop clerk was her term—uttered in considerable anger, with numerous aspersions on my character and a list of my shortcomings, all delivered at a volume that was positively painful to hear.”

“I imagine it would have been,” Horace said with sympathy.

“Yes—she had never learned to project, and was shouting. I winced at the notion of what it must have been doing to her vocal folds.”

“You endeavored to calm her, of course,” Horace noted.

“Certainly, but it only increased her anger. She ordered me to leave and never return. What could I do but comply?”

“Yes,” Horace said heavily. “Insisting on staying would have been harassment, or worse.”

The chilly thing with lots of legs was back, working its way up my spine this time.

Lazaro’s gaze strayed to the floor, buried in sadness.

“You did return the next day?” Horace asked.

“Yes, and found the door locked. That was no surprise, but when my key no longer worked, I took the hint.” Lazaro sighed. “I was serving in a rather elaborate restaurant at the time, and a gentleman at one of my tables handed me a folded sheet of blue paper. It notified me that she had filed for divorce.”

The chilly thing with lots of legs started dancing. I leaned forward. “Don’t you mean you barged into her office and threw the paper down right then and there?”

“Why, no,” Lazaro said, shocked. “How could I do such a thing?”

Right, by contrast; I expect he hadn’t had the nerve to do it—but I couldn’t help asking, “Did you even try to work it out with her?”

“When I gained the booking with the music concert, yes. I rushed home to tell her the good news.” He sighed. “She was not impressed. That was when she ordered me not to go—but I was determined to make her proud of me by gaining more engagements, so I promised to be home for dinner, and left.”

“When you proposed to her,” I asked, “didn’t you promise to become a star and give her a mansion?”

“Certainly not.” Lazaro didn’t give me a peculiar look—that would have required too much chutzpah. He only seemed to wilt even more. “The realities of our profession make that impossible to assure.” He looked up at Horace. “With your one relationship—did you explain the vagaries of our employment?”

“Vagaries don’t matter to a vagrant,” I snapped.

“Ramou…” Suzanne covered my hand with hers, and I subsided. If there was anyone I was going to listen to that night, it was Suzanne.

Horace looked distinctly relieved.

“The fans have also heard a great deal about stars extorting ever-higher pay from their producers,” Lazaro said. “They never seem to realize that only a handful of performers ever gain that kind of leverage.”

“Or that in the theater, ‘success’ means being able to earn a living, not to gain fame and fortune.” Horace nodded. “One is almost afraid to say the word ‘commitment.’ I never know in whom it will trigger a spasm of pain.”

“More than a spasm.” Then Lazaro forced a smile. “Speaking of a trigger, on this particular issue, we should be grateful none of the couples we have mentioned spent their honeymoons near the cascades that, according to legend, generated subsonics that increased sexual desire.”

Horace grinned—then, suddenly, he was on his feet. “If you are going to speak like that, sir, come out of the shadows so that we can all see you!”

Lazaro stared in shock, then answered with a slow smile. “If you insist.” He stepped up onto the stage. “Am I visible enough here?”

“Indeed you are!” Horace climbed the stage from the other side and shook his fist in Lazaro’s face. “Be careful what you say, sirrah!”

I didn’t know what had brought this on, but I couldn’t let them hurt each other. I started for the stage, saying, “What the hey is going…”

But Suzanne anchored me by her hand. “It’s a classic vaudeville sketch, Ramou. Sit back and enjoy it.” She sat in the nearest chair and patted the one next to it.

How could I refuse?

“The lady is well-educated.” Lazaro asked Horace, “Is that your doing?”

“No, but she is a delight in so many ways that I should not be surprised.”

I squeezed Suzanne’s hand. “Boy, does he have the right of it.” She returned the pressure with a smile that made me feel like a king.

There were enough customers now to constitute an audience. From their midst, a hat came sailing through the air like a flying saucer, and Winston called, “You might need it!”

“Thank you, my friend!” Horace caught the fedora, settled it on his head, and turned to Lazaro. “So, then, you attempted to commit marriage but fell afoul?”

“It wasn’t the fowl that did it, but the falls.”

“I see. You did manage to tie the knot, though?”

“We did,” said Lazaro, “and celebrated with a lavish dinner for ten of our closest friends. Then we caught the train for…” His voice sank to a hush; he looked about and whispered loudly enough so that we could all hear. “…for… dare I say it?”

“If you went to a cascade for a honeymoon,” I said, “it must have been Niagara Falls!”

Lazaro cringed. “Don’t say it, sir, don’t say it! For even before we arrived at our destination…” He turned away from Horace and wiped an imaginary tear. “I caught my new wife in the arms of my best friend.”

I tensed.

“It’s just an act, dear,” Suzanne whispered.

I forced myself to relax. On the little stage, Lazaro was saying, “Suddenly my brain snapped. Anger at his betrayal welled up within me. I knew I would never be satisfied until I had my bony fingers wrapped around his throat. So with murder in my heart... slooooooowly I turned…” And he did, turned slowly, then prowled toward Horace. “Step by step… step by step… I crept upon him…”

Horace turned away, pressing a hand over his eyes. “I cannot bear to see it!”

Lazaro leaped on him, catching him by the lapels and yanking him close. “…and when I saw the stare in his face... I struck and I grabbed him!” He turned Horace and slammed him against the wall.

I reminded myself that it was just playacting, that my new-found father wasn’t really hurting my friend. Suzanne stroked my hand. That helped.

Lazaro’s head snapped around as though hearing a voice. He gave his head a shake, stepped away, the picture of rueful regret. “My poor friend, I’m sorry. But every time I hear the words ‘Niagara Falls,’ I simply want to kill! I’m so sorry, my friend, so sorry!”

“I understand, my good fellow, I understand!”

“Understand what?” asked Lazaro. He turned away, looking to left and right. “What is there to understand?”

“Why,” said Horace, “that every time you hear someone say ‘Niagara Falls’—”

“Niagara Falls!!!!” Lazaro cried. “Oohh, I knew I’d never be satisfied until I had his blood running between my fingers!” Lazaro held up his hands like claws, and I could almost see the imaginary scarlet streams trickling down his knuckles. “So slowly I turned…” He rotated toward Horace. “Step by step…” He paced like a panther toward Horace. “…step by step I crept upon him…”

Horace backed away, realizing what was coming.

“…and when I saw the streak of fear on his countenance, I grabbed him…” Lazaro seized Horace by the lapels again. “…and I couldn’t help myself…” He threw Horace against the wall and began beating him up. I knew it was a stage fight, could see some of the techniques Merlo had taught me, but Horace was my friend! And the only thing holding me in my seat was Suzanne’s hand clamping mine like iron.

“…and I was going out of my mind…”

Horace stepped to the side, saying, “Calm down, good sir, calm down!”

Lazaro gulped in huge hoarse breaths, then looked up to say, “My poor friend! I did it again, didn’t I?”

“It’s all right,” Horace assured him, “it’s all right.”

Lazaro puckered up as though he were going to cry. “What’s happening to me?”

Horace assured him, “It’s not happening to you, brother, it’s all happening over here!”

“Just... don’t use that name....” Lazaro stumbled away, pleading, “Don’t... don’t... don’t... don’t…” coming perilously close to the edge of the stage.

“Quick!” Marnie called. “Catch him before he falls!”

Lazaro froze, then lifted his head with a look of total incredulity. “Falls?”

“I mean ‘trips’!” Marnie said quickly.

“Trips?” Lazaro asked in a voice from the verge of madness. “Wedding trips?”

Horace stopped him with a hand to the breastbone, saying, “Stumbles!”

Marnie hugged herself, saying, “It’s grown so cold! Someone be a darling and fetch my angora, won’t you?” She shook herself as with chill.

“My angora?” Lazaro said, goggle-eyed. “Niangora Falls!” His voice soared upward as he said it, then turned into a whine that ran down the scale. “Soooo slowly I turned! Step by step, step by step…”

The audience, locals and actors alike, were getting in the mood as they watched Lazaro stalking Horace, who was doing his best to retreat but kept running into the sides of the stage.

“…and when I crept upon him,” Lazaro said, “I seized him and beat him and pummeled him…” He repeatedly slammed Horace into the wall a few times, finally throwing him across the stage to the other wall, knocking his hat off.

Finally, Horace began to lose his patience. “Just a minute... just a minute! Now you’ve been getting away with murder. Enough is enough. You understand that? I’ve stood by and watched all this! And I’ve let you get away with it... but no more!” He bent down and picked up his hat. “These things cost money, y’ know. Be careful how you handle them!”

The locals roared with laughter. So did the actors—it had really been an excellent performance. Horace and Lazaro took a bow, then another bow and another.