Paths to the Stars

2. A Little Space Music-2

This nightmare had begun the moment I boarded the LSS Mendel, rushing down the loading ramp as though the hounds of hell were after me—not far from the truth, considering Governor Fexeldub’s minions sported long black fur, long blue teeth, and bioluminescent eyes that radiated heavily in the longer wavelengths of visible light.

One thing neither of the two possessed, however, was a boarding pass for the Mendel. The security tanglefield stopped them in their tracks at the top of the ramp. My elation evaporated two seconds later when, at the bottom of the ramp, the tanglefield likewise wrapped me in molasses, and hardened to amber. Immobilized, I watched the ship’s security hatch open, revealing a stocky, auburn-haired-and-bearded man wearing a bright-red uniform liberally adorned with gold buttons and braid. He looked like he’d just stepped offstage from playing the Major General in The Pirates of Penzance. “Professor Peak, I presume?” he said.

I found myself rather breathless, though probably due more to the tanglefield’s compression of my lungs than the sudden outbreak of alliteration. “You have...the advantage...of me...sir.”

“Forgive me. Robert Robespierre Robinson, Captain of the multi-species-capable luxury liner LSS Mendel, pride of the Blue Nebula Line, at your service.” The Captain inclined his head slightly. “My friends call me Redbeard. You can call me Captain. Or ‘sir.’” He looked back at the security hatch and made a cutting-his-own-throat gesture, which alarmed me until the tanglefield suddenly shut off and I realized it hadn’t been a signal for summary execution. I staggered. The Captain caught me and straightened me up, then released me.

I took a couple of deep breaths. “I’m honoured you felt it necessary to greet me in person...sir.”

“I’m sure.” The Captain looked up the ramp. Fexeldub’s hellhounds snarled at him. He turned on his heel. “Come with me, ‘Professor.’ We have matters to discuss.”

Relieved but alarmed, I followed the Captain, through corridors panelled with pearl and carpeted in pink, to his spacious stateroom. From the platinum-floored foyer he led me into an office, and pointed me to a grey blob of pseudoleather facing a desk of black metal, topped with glass. He eased himself down on the identical grey blob on the other side of the desk; it swelled and puffed into a comfortable-looking armchair. I sat down on my blob, and it instantly sprang into a rigid, straight-backed shape with all the give of a block of steel. Okay, then, I thought. At least I know where I stand...er, sit.

The Captain steepled his fingers under his chin and looked at me. “You’re a wanted man, Professor. And not just by your friends on the loading dock.” He tapped the desktop, and the faint glow of a holodisplay, indecipherable from where I sat, sprang into existence above the desk. “There are outstanding warrants for your apprehension on half a dozen different planets.”

I cleared my throat. “Cultural misunderstandings. I’m a businessman trying to make an honest living, that’s all.”

Captain Robinson barked a laugh. “You’re a con man. ‘Professor Peter Peak’ is not your real name. Too alliterative, for one thing.”

I felt my left eyebrow lift. The Captain noticed. “I never said Robert Robespierre ‘Redbeard’ Robinson was my real name either, did I? But we’re discussing your past, not mine.”

“With all due respect, I’d rather talk about my future.”

“In good time.” The Captain tapped the desktop again. “Before you became Professor Peter Peak, purveyor of programmable paramours, you went by the name Aristotle Atkinson, and sold life-long subscriptions to Encyclopedia Galactica...until someone realized there’s no such thing. Before that, you were Dr. Schroeder Petering, sole authorized human sales agent for life-extension nanomachines from Tofuni Secundus...quite a feat, since Tofuni has no planets.”

“An unfortunate accident involving a planet-eating nanoswarm,” I said. “Hardly my fault. As I explained.”

“And yet, your customers tried to lynch you just the same. People can be so unreasonable.” He shook his head. “But never mind. The version of you I’m interested in is the original.”

I stiffened.

“Jerry Smith,” he said (and the sound of my birth name made my heart skip a beat), “this is your life.” He tapped, and the holodisplay suddenly became visible to me, revealing all the sordid details of my past, including birthplace (Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan), birthdate (much longer ago than I liked to admit), parents, and education. But what terrified me was something I had thought long-since lost in the mists of decaying data storage: a head-and-shoulders shot of a much-younger me. The Captain pointed at it, and the computer began reading the text of a press release: “Persephone Theatre is pleased to announce that Saskatchewan’s own Jerry Smith will be playing the leading role of Bobby in this fall’s production of Stephen Sondheim’s Company. Smith, originally from Moose Jaw—”

Captain Robinson pointed again, and the computer’s voice cut off. “You’re not just a con man,” the Captain said. “You’re an actor, singer, and dancer—in short, a musical theatre performer. A triple threat, in fact.” He made it sound like a sentence of execution...and I knew it very well could be.

But I couldn’t argue with the evidence. “Was. For about eight years. You know the difference between a stage actor and a pizza?”

“A pizza can feed a family of four. Yes, I’ve heard the joke.” He leaned forward, like a cat tensing to leap at a mouse. “But that was on Earth, ‘Professor.’ You’re not in Kansas anymore.”

“Actually, I’ve never been to—”

“Here on the LSS Mendel, you can make enough money to feed a family of four. Not as an actor, perhaps, but certainly as...a director.”

Uh-oh. “Contrary to cliché, all I’ve ever really wanted to do is avoid directing.”

The Captain pointed at the holodisplay. “You’ve directed at least five shows.”

“That résumé is twenty years out of date.”

“It’s like riding a bicycle.”

“I can’t ride a bike.”

The Captain sighed. “Professor Peak, I really don’t have time for this. You’ve been in space a long time. You know as well as I do that of all the culture Earth has produced, all the artwork, all the novels, all the symphonies, only one thing holds the slightest interest for any of our alien neighbours.”

I decided to try playing dumb. “You tell me.”

“Musical theatre, Professor.” The Captain tapped the desktop, and on every wall, previously opaque screens suddenly displayed...theatre posters. Oklahoma. Oliver! The Sound of Music. Sweeney Todd. My Fair Lady. The Most Happy Fella. Candide. West Side Story. Chicago. Cats. Starlight Express, for God’s sake. Wicked. The Light in the Piazza. Avenue Q. Passion. Hamilton. Dear Evan Hansen. Thunder in the Night. What the Cat Dragged In. Jimi! Apollo 13: The Musical. The posters kept changing; by the time I’d looked through them once, there was a new batch on display.

“I collect them,” said the Captain. “I have a poster from every musical that ran on Broadway from Show Boat in 1927 to The Singularity in 2024, the last new Broadway musical produced...”

Suddenly furious, I forgot about playing dumb. “Yeah, because a Squill spaceship the size of Yankee Stadium appeared over Times Square one Saturday night and mysteriously vanished the casts of every show,” I snarled. “And because over the next week, any actor who dared to step out on stage and burst into song vanished, too. Which is why Jerry Smith disappeared, too—into a different line of work.”

“A criminal line of work.”

“I was an actor. I wasn’t suited for honest work.”

“My Squill passengers are hungry for musical theatre, Professor Peak.” He gestured at the walls. “As am I.”

“Squill!” My voice actually squeaked. “You have Squill on board?”

He had the nerve to smile. “Didn’t you know? Most of the vessel is currently occupied by Squill on a...pilgrimage, I suppose you’d call it...to their homeworld.”

Worse and worse. “We’re going to Squill Primus?” I hadn’t had time, what with hellhounds after me, to check exactly where the only ship in port would take me. “And you want me to direct musical theatre?”

“I told you, my passengers are hungry for it.”

“Maybe literally! We still don’t know where all those actors went. Maybe the Squill are serving up ham sandwiches—with bits of real ham!—on their homeworld right now.”

“They don’t eat people, they eat algae and the occasional sulphurous rock,” the Captain said. “And anyway, they said they were sorry. And they gave us the spacetime drive by way of reparation. If not for Broadway, we’d still be stuck puttering around the Earth and Moon, Professor. We owe musical theatre a huge debt of gratitude.”

“You’re welcome.” I stood up. “Now, if that’s all you wanted—”

“I want you to direct a musical, Professor,” the Captain said. “The first live musical to hit the boards since the sad but profitable demise of Broadway. And I want you to cast my passengers.”

My knees buckled and I hit the pseudoleather hard. “Oh, God. You want me to direct Squill.” No, it was worse than that. “Amateur Squill!”

“Squill this time. But next time...” He spread his hands. “Who knows? It could be Hellhounds. Skitterings. Even humans. And as for being amateurs...well, Professor, remember that amateurs are those who do something because they love it. Presumably you first went into theatre because you loved it, Professor. Reach down deep into your heart, if you still have one, and...” His grin widened. “Feel the love.”

“Scripts...orchestra...stagehands...” Like a drowning man, I grasped at straws.

“Scripts are in the ship’s database. The computer will provide the accompaniment. And I’m sure, in time-honoured community theatre tradition, that those not cast for roles will be happy to serve as stagehands.”

“I’m not the only performer in hiding,” I said. “There must be others with more directing experience. Why me?”

“You’re here. And you…” He waved at the holodisplay. “...have an incentive they do not.”

“This is blackmail.”

“Of course it is! Feel free to complain to the local constabulary.” He flicked a finger, and the holodisplay showed a sudden close-up of the red-eyed, slavering visage of one of Fexeldub’s hellhounds. “Oh, look! There’s a peace officer now.”

I knew when I was beaten. “How long do I have?”

“It’s four weeks, ship-time, to Squill Primus. I’m looking forward to seeing your production on the penultimate evening of our voyage. It will be a wonderful treat for our passengers on the eve of their big festival.”

“Festival?” I couldn’t imagine Squill partying. “What kind of Festival do giant slugs gather for?”

“It’s a religious festival, Professor. I told you they were on pilgrimage.”

I groaned. Not just Squill, but religious Squill. “We apologize for the action of our religionists,” had been the message from the second giant spaceship, which had entered Earth orbit shortly after the performer-eating one had departed. “We offer reparations.”

For a moment I seriously considered taking my chances with the hellhounds...but only for a moment. I doubted I’d still be in one piece two minutes after they dragged me out of sight.

I glared at the Captain. “I hope, when I’m spirited away by Squill fanatics, you’ll at least have the grace to feel guilty.”

“Should that happen, I’ll do my best.”

I sighed. “When do we start auditions?”