Paths to the Stars

2. A Little Space Music-3

Captain Robinson had been very sure of himself, I thought sourly, as I read the in-ship newsfeed, The Mendelian Factor, in my cabin an hour later. Before I’d even run down the ramp into the tanglefield, early arrivals on the ship had been reading, “Auditions for The Sound of Music, the premiere production of the Mendel Amateur Musical Entertainment Society (MAMES), will be held in Multipurpose Recreation Space 7 tonight beginning at 1900. MAMES is pleased to announce that Professor Peter Peak, a musical theatre professional from Earth itself, will direct. Bring a song that shows off your voice; computer accompaniment will be provided.”

Auditions were every bit as horrifying as I’d anticipated. The “Memory”-warbler was perhaps the worst...but perhaps not. “I’m Just A Girl Who Cain’t Say No” sung by an elderly female Squill with bladder—or something—control problems sticks in my mind as well. And the less said about “On the Good Ship Lollipop,” the better.

Unable to cast by appearance, I could only go by vocal skills. Fortunately, some of the Squill actually had some. I chose the best as my leads, relegated most of the rest to chorus, and suggested that a few hopeless cases join the stage crew—which they seemed thrilled to do.

In fact, all the Squill seemed permanently thrilled about everything. As the Mendel left orbit on its four-week-subjective journey to Squill Primus, I felt pretty good about the show’s prospects—assuming the cast didn’t eat the director.

Staging was simplified by the complete absence of dancing ability—or legs—among the cast, and by the fact that humans can’t read the emotional content of a Squill’s “face.” (Indeed, the computer informed me, “some scientists believe the colour of a Squill’s mucus is a better indicator of emotional state. When asked, the Squill change the subject.”) With choreography impossible, I only had to come up with simple blocking. And my being unable to read my actors’ expressions meant that if they were acting badly, I couldn’t tell—so I just pretended they were acting well.

Memorization was no problem; all of them had their music and dialogue note- and word-perfect at the first rehearsal. The movement, limited though it was, posed more of a challenge. I had to modify the set after the first on-stage rehearsal of “So Long, Farewell,” when my entire group of “children” ended up in sickbay with nasty fluorescent bruises. Squill don’t do stairs, apparently. Who knew?

Squill don’t wear clothes, either, so our only costumes were hats—wimples, Nazi caps, sailor hats—and a couple of wigs. Maria looked terrifying in a long brown one; Gretl looked cute, in a nightmarish sort of way, in blonde pigtails.

After the first few days, my fear of sudden disintegration began to fade. No Squill ever threatened me or was anything but friendly...which was more than I could say of all the human actors I’d worked with.

And I began to learn more about my cast—and just how badly I had miscast some of them. The Squill playing the Mother Superior turned out to be an elderly “it” (the Squill have three sexes that we know of). The “children” were mostly twice as old as me (three times as old, in the case of Gretl).

They were all very curious about my acting past, and we took to meeting in the main lounge after rehearsal for drinks. (The Squill drink a lot; their prodigious mucus production requires constant replenishment of fluids. Their staterooms looked more like indoor swamps, with thick black mud on the floor and a constant spray of fine mist in the air.) There I would regale them with the traditional actor-stories of forgotten lines, collapsing sets, drunks, hecklers, and wardrobe malfunctions.

It was at one of those get-togethers, four days from our opening (and closing) performance, that the matter I’d been very careful not to mention suddenly came up.

I was sitting with “Captain Von Trapp,” “Maria,” “Liesl,” and “Rolf,” and had just told a joke about a producer, a director, a writer, and an actor walking into a bar, when Rolf, the youngest member of the cast at 65 Earth years (he’d only recently been released from his mandatory adolescent confinement), put down his third glass of what I privately called Smoking Green Goo, burped, and slurred, “Prophet Matthew Broderick tellsh that shtory better, Professhor.”

Sudden, absolute silence as the babble of Squill and human voices from all around us abruptly ceased...even though I could still see mouths moving. I glanced down. Von Trapp had hurriedly slapped down on the table a little golden egg (exactly where he had had it hidden, in the absence of clothes, I preferred not to think about). A sound-dampener, presumably.

My heart jumped, then raced. Rolf blundered on. “Hash lecture at the sheminary lasht year was the besht thing I ever...” his voice trailed off at last. All three of his eyes widened, and his mouth slapped shut so suddenly gobs of mucus spattered the table. The slime oozing from his flanks took on a pinkish hue.

I looked around at the others. They were all staring at Rolf; but then, one by one, they looked at me.

My blood ran cold. But I couldn’t pretend I hadn’t heard. And we knew Squill “religionists” had stolen musical theatre. It wasn’t really a secret...

What had happened to all the actors, though, had been.

Until now?

Heart still pounding, I said, as casually as I could, “Matthew Broderick? Wasn’t he playing Henry in Old Fool, that awful musical version of On Golden Pond, back when...um...” My voice failed.

I winced as high-pitched squealing erupted around me. Squills talking their own language sound like seagulls on helium being tortured in an echo chamber.

The sound cut off as suddenly as it had begun. “We would like to tell you something,” Von Trapp said. “We had discussed doing so earlier, but had not made up our minds. Now, however…,” two of his eyes swivelled toward Rolf, whose eyestalks drooped in response, “...the matter has been settled for us.”

“Don’t tell me anything I shouldn’t know!” I said. (Squeaked, if we’re being perfectly honest.) “Much as I’d like to meet some of the great old Broadway performers in the flesh, I’m not that keen...”

“Only a Rapturer—a priest of the Order of Religious Insight Collection—would or could transport you,” Maria said. “It is unlikely any of them are aboard.”

“How unlikely?”

“Reasonably,” Liesl said. “They do sometimes travel incognito.”

“Knowing the truth does not make it any more likely you will be raptured,” said Von Trapp. “If a Rapturer is on board, you are already marked simply because you are a prophet.”

“A prophet?”

“Of musical theatre.”

A prophet of musical theatre? Musical-theatre actors had been called many things over the decades, but prophets? I didn’t like the sound of it.

I drained my beer and called for another...to no effect. Damn sound-dampener. For a moment I eyed the remnants of Rolf’s Smoking Green Goo, but I wasn’t that desperate...yet. I sighed, and met Von Trapp’s disconcerting gaze. “I’m all ears.”