Paths to the Stars

2. A Little Space Music-5

I was not at my best for dress rehearsal the next day. But the Squill were, and if you closed your eyes and ignored the multicoloured trails of slime all over the stage (the cleaner ’bots just couldn’t keep up), you could imagine you were hearing, if not a Broadway show, at least a good-quality regional production.

The next day we entered orbit around Squill Primus. After a one-Squill-day (29-hour) quarantine, the pilgrims would disembark to worship at the feet of the Broadway Prophets, Original Cast.

And that meant it was show time.

I gave the traditional Pre-Opening Pep Talk. “You’re ready,” I informed the cast. “You’re good. I admit I had my doubts going in, especially with such a short rehearsal time, but you’ve all done a terrific job. I’m proud of you all. And if Rogers and Hammerstein were here—” And not busy spinning in their graves... “they’d be proud of you, too. Break a...” I hesitated, looking at the sea of slugs before me. “Um, good luck.”

The stage manager’s voice squealed over the monitor. I still couldn’t understand Squill, but I knew what he had just said: “Places.”

I made my way out front. The audience of humans, non-performing Squill, and one or two non-Squill aliens quieted as the lights went down. “Dixit Dominus Domino meo, sede a dextris meis,” sang eight Squill in wimples as they slithered up the aisle onto the stage, and we were off. Scene followed scene, and if “I Am Sixteen Going on Seventeen” looked more like a nature documentary about the mating of garden slugs than a touching musical tribute to young love in troubled times, no one seemed to care. The audience watched raptly, completely caught up in a tale whose historical elements must have been incomprehensible to most of them. By the time the family slithered off, leaving a rainbow of slime behind them, to “Climb Every Mountain,” there wasn’t a dry...well, much of anything, considering the preponderance of Squill...in the house.

Squill don’t applaud; if they see something they like, they pay it the honour of being silent, while their slime turns bright blue. Our audience paid us the greatest compliment of all: a Silent Blue Departure.

Like they’re leaving church, I thought.

The ear-splitting cast party more than made up for the audience’s silence. Enormous quantities of Smoking Green Goo disappeared down gaping maws, and even larger quantities of squirming blobs of shapeless protoplasm, the Squill equivalent of potato chips.

Still a little alcohol-shy, I confined myself to a glass of the champagne sent to my dressing room by Captain Robinson. I was just finishing it when “Redbeard” himself appeared. He seized my free hand and pumped it. “Fabulous! Bravo! Bravissimo! I admit I had my doubts about you when you first came aboard, but you’ve proven them groundless.”

I looked around. The Squill had congregated in the furthest corner of the large banquet room, watching a holorecording of “The Lonely Goatherd.” For some reason, puppets fascinated them.

“Thank you for the champagne, Captain,” I said. “Can I pour you a glass?”

“I’d be honoured.”

I filled one for him, and decided to risk a second one for myself. “Tell me, Captain,” I said casually as I handed him his drink, “have you ever heard of the Rapturers?”

Did his glass hesitate, ever-so-slightly, on its way to his lips? He took a sip, lowered the glass, and said, “What an...odd question. Why do you ask?”

The Squill were still engrossed, but I lowered my voice anyway. “Someone in the cast let it slip. Captain, I know what happened to Broadway!”

“Really? What?” He took another sip of champagne, sharp blue eyes focused on me over the rim of the flute.

I recounted what Von Trapp and the others had told me. He said nothing until I was finished, then set down his now-empty glass. “Interesting. Well, Professor, I must prepare for disembarkation...”

“Interesting!” I grabbed his arm. “Didn’t you hear what I said, Captain? There are humans being held prisoner on Squill! Shouldn’t you...tell someone? Shouldn’t there be government protests? A rescue, even?”

The Captain removed my hand from his arm as though lifting damp garbage from a pristine floor. “Professor, I run a liner, not a battleship. I suggest you make a report to the human authorities at our next port of call after Squill Primus.” He gave me a cold smile. “For now, enjoy your success.”

I poured a third glass of champagne. I seemed to have regained my taste for alcohol.