Robert Silverberg - Exiled from Earth

I took a deep breath. I felt cold and miserable inside, and I glanced around at the tense ring of faces before I told the lie. “Yeah,” I said. “Sure, Howard. I fixed it all up. Leave it to old Erik. Everything’s fine.”

A pathetic trusting childlike smile slowly blossomed on his face. I scowled and snapped to a couple of others, “Carry him into my office. Then get finished making up for tonight’s show.”

Ludwig protested, “But Howard doesn’t have an understudy. How can we—”

“Don’t worry,” I barked. “I’ll play Lear tonight, if Howard’s out.”

I supervised as they carried Howard, bed and all, through the corridor into my office. Then, sweating nervously, I collared the three Damoorans and said, “Are you boys doing anything for the next half hour or so?”

“We’re free,” they said in unison. They looked like a trio of tall, red, flashy animated corkscrews with bulbous eyes in their forehead. They weren’t pretty, but they were masters of their trade and fine showmen. They hung around Goznor’s Circus all the time, even when they weren’t on.

I explained very carefully to them just what I wanted them to do. It was an idea I’d held in reserve, in case all else failed. They were dubious, but liberal application of platinum double stellar coins persuaded them to give in. They vanished into my office and shut the door behind them. While I was waiting, I found Howard’s makeup kit and started turning myself into King Lear.

Perhaps fifteen minutes later the Damoorans filed out again, and nodded to me. “You had better go in there, now. He’s on Earth. It was a very good trip.”

I tiptoed into the office. Howard lay sprawled on the bed, eyes screwed tight shut, mouth moving slowly. His skin was a frightening waxy white. I put an ear near his lips to hear what he was mumbling.

My mind filled in the stage direction: Dies. Act Five, Scene Two. Hamlet’s last speech.

Bravo, I thought. I looked down at Howard Brian. His voice had ceased, and his throat was still. His part was played. Howard Brian had acted Hamlet at last, and it was his finest moment on Broadway.

He was smiling even in death.

The Damoorans had done their job well. For thirty years I had watched them perform, and I had faith in their illusion-creating ability. Howard had probably lived months in these last fifteen minutes. The long journey to Earth, the tickertape parade down Fifth Avenue, the thronged opening-night house, deafening applause. Certainly the Damoorans had manufactured good notices for him in the late editions.

Anyway, it was over. Howard Brian had cheated them after all. He had returned to Earth for his swansong performance.

I shook a little as I left the office and shut the door behind me. The on-stage bell sounded. I heard Kent and Gloucester begin their scene.

I went out there as Lear and maybe I did a good job. The cast told me later that I did, and the Salvori loved it. It didn’t matter. Howard would have wanted the show to go on.

But I couldn’t help thinking, during the solemn aftershow moments when they carried Howard out, that my turn was coming. You can’t go back to Earth; but someday in the next twenty years I was going to want to go back with all my heart, as Howard had wanted. The thought worried me. I only hoped there’d be a few Damoorans around, when my time came.