Damon Knight - Orbit 20

Yet if the drug had been in the egg I ate last night, then the egg I held was harmless. Concentrating on that thought, I forced myself to eat it all, then stretched myself upon the bed to wait.

Very briefly I slept and dreamed. Ellen was bending over me, caressing me with a soft, long-fingered hand. It was only for an instant, but sufficient to make me hope that dreams are prophecies.

If the drug was in the egg I consumed, that dream was its only result. I got up and washed, and changed my clothes, sprinkling my fresh shirt liberally with our Pamir rosewater, which I have observed the Americans hold in high regard. Making certain my ticket and pistol were both in place, I left for the theater.

The play was still Mary Rose. I intentionally entered late (after Harry and Mrs. Otery had been talking for several minutes), then lingered at the back of the last row as though I were too polite to disturb the audience by taking my seat. Mrs. Otery made her exit; Harry pulled his knife from the wood of the packing case and threw it again, and when the mists of the past had marched across the stage, Harry was gone, and Moreland and the parson were chatting to the tune of Mrs. Moreland’s knitting needles. Mary Rose would be on stage soon. My hope that she would come out to watch the opening scene had come to nothing; I would have to wait until she vanished at the end of Act II before I could expect to see her.

I was looking for a vacant seat when I became conscious of someone standing near me. In the dim light I could tell little except that he was rather slender, and a few centimeters shorter than I.

Finding no seat, I moved back a step or two. The newcomer touched my arm and asked in a whisper if I could light his cigarette. I had already seen that it was customary to smoke in the theaters here, and I had fallen into the habit of carrying matches to light the candles in my room. The flare of the flame showed the narrow eyes and high cheekbones of Harry—or as I preferred to think of him, Kreton. Taken somewhat aback, I murmured some inane remark about the excellence of his performance.

“Did you like it? It is the least of all parts—I pull the curtain to open the show, then pull it again to tell everyone it’s time to go home.”

Several people in the audience were looking angrily at us, so we retreated to a point at the head of the aisle that was at least legally in the lobby, where I told him I had seen him in Visit to a Small Planet as well.

“Now there is a play. The character—as I am sure you saw—is good and bad at once. He is benign, he is mischievous, he is hellish.”

“You carried it off wonderfully well, I thought.”

“Thank you. This turkey here—do you know how many roles it has?”

“Well, there’s yourself, Mrs. Otery, Mr. Amy—”

“No, no.” He touched my arm to stop me. “I mean roles, parts that require real acting. There’s one—the girl. She gets to skip about the stage as an eighteen-year-old whose brain atrophied at ten; and at least half what she does is wasted on the audience because they don’t realize what’s wrong with her until Act I is almost over.”

“She’s wonderful,” I said. “I mean Mlle. Dahl.”

Kreton nodded and drew on his cigarette. “She is a very competent ingenue, though it would be better if she weren’t quite so tall.”

“Do you think there’s any chance that she might come out here —as you did?”

“Ah,” he said, and looked me up and down.

For a moment I could have sworn that the telepathic ability he was credited with in Visit to a Small Planet was no fiction; nevertheless, I repeated my question: “Is it probable or not?”

“There’s no reason to get angry—no, it’s not likely. Is that enough payment for your match?”

“She vanishes at the end of the second act, and doesn’t come on stage again until near the close of the third.”

Kreton smiled. “You’ve read the play?”

“I was here last night. She must be off for nearly forty minutes, including the intermission.”

“That’s right. But she won’t be here. It’s true she goes out front sometimes—as I did myself tonight—but I happen to know she has company backstage.”

“Might I ask who?”

“You might. It’s even possible I might answer. You’re Moslem, I suppose—do you drink?”

“I’m not a strict Moslem; but no, I don’t. I’ll buy you a drink gladly though, if you want one, and have coffee with you while you drink it.”

We left by a side door and elbowed our way through the crowd in the street. A flight of narrow and dirty steps descending from the sidewalk led us to a cellar tavern that had all the atmosphere of a private club. There was a bar with a picture (now much dimmed by dirt and smoke) of the cast of a play I did not recognize behind it, three tables, and a few alcoves. Kreton and I slipped into one of these and ordered from a barman with a misshapen head. I suppose I must have stared at him, because Kreton said, “I sprained my ankle stepping out of a saucer, and now I am a convalescent soldier. Should we make up something for him too? Can’t we just say the potter is angry sometimes?”

“The potter?” I asked.

“ ‘None answered this; but after Silence spake/A Vessel of a more ungainly Make:/They sneer at me for leaning all awry;/ What! Did the Hand then of the Potter shake?’ ”

I shook my head. “I’ve never heard that; but you’re right, he looks as though his head had been shaped in clay, then knocked in on one side while it was still wet.”

“This is a republic of hideousness as you have no doubt already seen. Our national symbol is supposed to be an extinct eagle; it is in fact the nightmare.”

“I find it a very beautiful country,” I said. “Though I confess that many of your people are unsightly. Still there are the ruins, and you have such skies as we never see at home.”

“Our chimneys have been filled with wind for a long time.”

“That may be for the best. Blue skies are better than most of the things made in factories.”

“And not all our people are unsightly,” Kreton murmured.

“Oh no. Mlle. Dahl—”

“I had myself in mind.”

I saw that he was baiting me, but I said, “No, you aren’t hideous —in fact, I would call you handsome in an exotic way. Unfortunately, my tastes run more toward Mlle. Dahl.”

“Call her Ardis—she won’t mind.”

The barman brought Kreton a glass of green liqueur, and me a cup of the weak, bitter American coffee.

“You were going to tell me who she is entertaining.”

“Behind the scenes.” Kreton smiled. “I just thought of that— I’ve used the phrase a thousand times, as I suppose everyone has. This time it happens to be literally correct, and its birth is suddenly made plain, like Oedipus’s. No, I don’t think I promised I would tell you that—though I suppose I said I might. Aren’t there other things you would really rather know? The secret hidden beneath Mount Rushmore, or how you might meet her yourself?”

“I will give you twenty rials to introduce me to her, with some assurance that something will come of the introduction. No one need ever find out.”

Kreton laughed. “Believe me, I would be more likely to boast of my profit than keep it secret—though I would probably have to divide my fee with the lady to fulfil the guarantee.”

“You’ll do it then?”

He shook his head, still laughing. “I only pretend to be corrupt; it goes with this face. Come backstage after the show tonight, and I’ll see that you meet Ardis. You’re very wealthy, I presume, and if you’re not, we’ll say you are anyway. What are you doing here?”

“Studying your art and architecture.”