On the positive side, Unfettered Destiny appeared to be constructed of glass all the way through, not just in the receiving bay. As we walked, I could glance behind my shoulder and see our ship drawing away from the Hemlock. We drifted silently into the blackness as another small ship from the crusade took our former position at Hemlock’s airlock. Lady Bell must have sent instructions to her followers while she was at that control console back in the receiving bay; now the disciples were hurrying to obey their prophet’s commands.
I could not help thinking, It must be excellent to be a prophet, if people do whatever you say. So I spent a brief time wondering how one became a prophet in the Cashling culture, and if there were any negative aspects to a prophet’s calling. Having a flotilla of docile adherents was all very well, but prophethood would not be so fine if one was required to practice overzealous chastity or to cut out one’s heart in a ritual manner at the coming of winter. On the other hand, if one simply declared, "I am prophet," and people bent themselves obsequiously to fulfill your slightest whim…
That would not be a bad profession for a woman trying to make her way in an unfamiliar world. It would not be a bad job at all.
21: WHEREIN I MAKE A VAIN ATTEMPT TO BECOME A RECORDING STAR
Reaching The Studio
"Oar? Oar? Oar!"
Someone was tugging on my arm — Festina, gripping me tightly in Unfettered Destiny’s corridor.
"What is wrong?" I asked.
"We’re here. At the studio. You walked straight past it." She stared at me keenly. "Are you all right?"
"I am fine, Festina. I was simply lost in thought."
"Really." She did not let go of my arm. "You’re sure you’re okay? Sergeant Aarhus told me you passed out in Nimbus’s room… and I noticed you acting strangely in Hemlock’s transport bay."
"There is nothing wrong with me," I said, detaching myself from her grasp. "If you think my brain has become faulty, you are quite mistaken." The look of concern on her face did not lessen. "Truly," I told her, "I am perfectly well… though I have not eaten in four years, and therefore would benefit from the intake of appropriate nourishment."
"We’ll get you some food, don’t worry," Festina said. "Come into the studio and sit down; I’ll ask Lady Bell… no, I’ll ask Lord Rye to bring you something from the galley."
She attempted to take me by the arm and guide me through a nearby door. I did not wish to be guided — I was not some frail muddle-head whose brain might go blank at any moment, I had simply been distracted by the notion of becoming a prophet. There is nothing sinister about a momentary preoccupation; it was most annoying for Festina to Show Undue Concern. Therefore, I shrugged off her efforts to baby me, and surged boldly through the door myself.
I had never visited a broadcast studio before, but I expected such a place to contain ostentatious banks of Technology. Instead, the room was just a large empty space with jet-black carpet on the floor. The walls were glass, but with a fuzzy feathered texture; this had the effect of suppressing echoes, for the room was extremely quiet, as if some Uncanny Force were muting every sound we made. The very air seemed to press against my eardrums, stifling noises before they reached me: a most eerie and disturbing effect. Compared to the clutter in the rest of the ship, an area with no knickknacks or dead animals should have cheered my heart… but the atmosphere made me most edgy, as if I were cut off from important auditory input that might warn me of danger. Lady Bell, on the other hand, was clearly glad to reach the place after fretting through so much delay. No sooner had she entered than she threw herself down on the carpet… and the woolly black surface reshaped itself beneath her, the floor acquiring bumps and hollows molded perfectly to the lady’s body. I had to admit she looked striking, the frost green of her skin almost fluorescent against the heavy black background. This might have been why the floor was so dark; she would not have stood out as well against the ship’s clear glass.
"Sit down, sit down," she said with expansive cheer, gesturing to the floor beside her. "Make yourself comfortable. Can my darling husband get you anything? Accelerants? Placations? Our synthesizers have complete pharmaceutical indices for Earthlings and Divians; it’ll only take a second to whip up your favorite stimulant."
"How about food?" Festina said, making no effort to seat herself. "Something humans can digest." She glanced in my direction. "Preferably transparent."
I lowered my head, trying not to show shame. It is mortifying when your Faithful Sidekick believes you are crazed with hunger and she makes a scene to ensure you are properly fed. I knew I could not the from starvation, but I was not so certain about embarrassment.
Fortunately, Lady Bell was not such a one as could feel urgency about someone else’s problem. She therefore did not make a fuss: Oh yes, we must quickly bring sustenance for the poor dear and make her lie down in the meantime. She merely told Rye, "See to that, darling!" and puckered several of her cranial orifices at him. He muttered something in the universal language of unappreciated persons and slunk out of the studio.
"Now everyone just sit down!" Lady Bell said brightly. "I don’t want you pacing during the show. Pacing will upset the audience — not to mention that the lights and cameras will have a hard time following you. Shadows on one’s face can completely ruin credibility. Sit down, sit down!"
"Where are the cameras?" I asked, looking around the blank room.
"Built into the walls, dear."
"But the walls are clear glass. They do not contain cameras."
"You’re clear glass, and you contain all kinds of things: lungs, kidneys, a heart… pity you only have one of those, but let’s pray it holds out till the recording is over. And your heart will last ten times longer if you just sit down."
Grudgingly, I lowered myself to the floor. I do not enjoy anyone offering advice about my health; and I knew I would not enjoy the floor either. Sure enough, the moment my bottom touched the carpet, it began to squirm beneath me. (The carpet, I mean, not my bottom.) A sizable gully sank down to accommodate my feet, while a woolly black hump rose to support my back. I grant that the seat was comfortable — like reclining on a mound of dead sheep whose bones have been softened with hammers. The problem was I did not wish to be comfortable. I did not wish to be soothed because…
…I worried I would not retain consciousness.
There. I have said it. Though I told Festina I was fine and resented her suggesting otherwise, I feared my mind would go blank if I allowed myself to relax. Perhaps it would happen even if I did not relax. Nomatter how hard I fought the Tiredness, I still was most terrified I would sink into the cozy carpet and my brain would cease to function. Mental emptiness had swallowed me too often in the past few hours; it seemed as if I could not spend an idle minute without slipping away from the world. Being forced to sit in a comfy place was almost a sentence of execution… but of course I could not say that for fear of being called a coward.
So I sat and cringed and shivered.
"Excellent," Lady Bell said as the others also claimed sections of carpet. Festina sat right beside me, probably wishing to be within reach in case my brain dribbled out my ears: a gesture which infuriated me greatly.
"Now," said Bell, "we’ll record everything before we broadcast, so we can edit out slips of the tongue, and perhaps passages of testimony that don’t work… though I don’t want anyone to be self-conscious, just say whatever you want and let me decide whether you’re being tedious and pedantic. By the way, I hope you can all take direction. And perhaps it would be best to do vocal warm-ups right now: run through some tongue-twisters, practice speaking from the diaphragm. You all have diaphragms, correct? Except for you, cloud man, I don’t know what you have. Why don’t you practice holding a nice solid shape rather than wavering about. Try to look like a person instead of a pukka -ball. And make your arms bulgy to suggest muscles. Viewers like muscles. Taut lean muscles gleaming with sweat. Perforated with tight puckered orifices and preferably highlighted in at least two of the primary colors. Umm, well… work on that, do your best. Meanwhile, I’ll call a newsbroker I know on Jalmut — have him put out the word that we’ll soon have some hydrogen-hot footage for sale."