Sometime after lunch the ship from Gone West docked, and my earlier fix of that band problem came unglued again. Seems that the Jinnits agent on board got into an argument with the captain about how much fine had been assessed to the band, rather than to Conway personally. By this time the captain was fairly tired of the Jinnits band, from drums to keyboard and back again, and she expressed this in my ear with some force, offering to space the lot of them if I didn’t do something. Murray, of course, had disappeared as soon as he saw me mouth “Jinnits…” I swore up and down that the Jinnits did indeed have a contract engagement, that they had a good record on this colony and had never been in a fight that I knew of, that we would guarantee (how I didn’t know) that they wouldn’t cause any trouble for the ship’s crew should the crew stay for Wheel Days. To which, of course, I lavishly invited them.
Somewhere in the next twenty-four hours, which you might think would be the worst, is a lull—never at the same point two years running—when for six hours or so everything seems to hang on a knob of time and wait. All the committee chairs were exhausted but triumphant. What could be done had been done, and we all looked at each other and wondered what we’d see four days later, when the whole thing was over. A hush settled over the Chamber offices. Peg and Gordie and I had a last quiet meal (no ringing phones!), and I even lay down with my shoes off for a brief nap.
Finally it was opening day, with two hours to go before the Chairman cut the ribbon for the official start of Wheel Days, and everything I’d worked for as President of the Chamber this past year was out there on the line. I had already been in the office for three hours, checking in that last shipment of porta-potties, and making sure that they got where they needed to go. Checking on the bands (Dairy and the Creamers were peacefully eating breakfast; the Jinnits hadn’t come out of their suite yet). Checking to make sure that the Scouts had picked up their armbands (green wheels on a blue background) and directional flags (green arrows on blue). Taking a look into the low-grav storage bays where the floats constructed here are aligned for the parade start. Finding an emergency ground crew to help with someone’s unexpected float being unloaded at the Port, and entering it into the parade as entry 62 (61 had come in overnight). Racing home when I realized that I’d never changed from my worksuit the night before, and had to be in some kind of dress outfit for the Opening.
I got to the opening ceremonies just in time, and was glad to see that Connie Lee (our veep this year) was standing by in case I didn’t make it. Last year’s Miss LaPorte-Centro-501 posed gracefully beside the large silver wheel tied with a bright green ribbon. First came the Colony Chair’s speech (short: that’s one reason we elected Sam), then my speech (“Welcome to Wheel Days”), and then he cut the ribbon and Lori Belhausen took a good hold on the wheel and shoved it into motion. And then I went on with the rest of the welcome: “Rolling into the future with the Wheel of Progress, right here at LaPorte-Centro-501, the Hub of the Industrial Center of the Solar System.” And it doesn’t sound a bit silly, coming over the speakers like that, with the silver wheel flashing in the lights and Lori grinning for all the cameras.
It was when the candidates for this year’s Miss LaPorte-Centro-501 honors came out to be cheered and photographed, and to toss handfuls of little gilt wheels into the audience, that I remembered that I’d forgotten to include something in my message to Ernest. I hadn’t warned him about the wheels.
It’s nothing unique. Lots of festivals have visitor requirements of the same sort. If you don’t carry a six-shooter (a paper cut-out is enough) at Gone West’s Pioneer Days, for example, you’ll be put in “jail” until you’re ransomed. They have a cute little cage you have to stand in, just outside the Lily Langtry Saloon, and everyone giggles and teases until you can persuade one of the honkytonk girls (if you’re male) or bartenders (if you’re female) to accept a donation for a kiss. They make a big deal of being persuaded, too, and the hapless prisoner has to do more than wave some money out the jail’s window. All proceeds go to the Vacuum Victims Fund, and most people take it as it’s meant, a big joke and a good way to earn money for the Fund.
At Wheel Days, we “arrest” everyone who enters the central festival area without a wheel… a pin, a dangler, something in the shape of a wheel, a circle with spokes. Most people simply pin on one of the hundreds of free wheels tossed into the crowd at the opening ceremonies, or handed out by any of the Miss LaPorte-Centro-501 contestants. It’s true that no one is told what the wheels are for, but most people know (or find out quickly). We’re lenient—we let a Shakespeare-revival streetdancer get by with a ruff—but we make a sizeable donation to the Vacuum Victims Fund every year. Anyway, I hadn’t warned Ernest… and I knew his attitude towards “commercial junk.” He would be the last person to pin on a cheap plastic gilt wheel for the fun of it.
I really meant to call the Port, but even before I left the platform a long snaky arm in cerise, fringed with silver, had wrapped firmly around my shoulders. “We got a problem, son,” said the raspy voice of the Jinnits lead singer, just as the crowd realized who that was and started oohing. I hardly had time to gulp before the Jinnits, all of them, whisked me away and into the nearest doorway.
I don’t pretend to understand musicians. I like music, sure, and Peg and I love to dance. But the way musicians think is beyond me. Murray’s had us over when Conway was visiting, and I always felt a little uncomfortable, knowing that he’s never sat behind a desk from nine to five in his entire life. Now I was surrounded by them, strange-looking people in bright, shimmery suits, with gold and silver fringe on arms and shoulders and hips and ankles. Cerise male and female, tangerine male and female, caution-yellow male and midnight blue male. All bright-eyed, all very alert, and all very upset about something.
As it turned out, they had three problems. Someone had put only two porta-potties in the cubbyholes off Main Stage, and they needed at least four (three M, one F) because they’d brought along a whole new stage crew, much bigger than last year. I gave myself a pat on the back for sequestering one set in the Chamber offices, and said I’ve have someone bring the others right away. That got me a nod from the female in cerise and the male in tangerine, but the band leader didn’t budge.
There was this ship captain, he said. I had formerly heard all of this from the ship captain’s point of view; now I heard it from the band’s. Conway, they agreed (patting Conway, whom I hadn’t recognized with this year’s hair-color and a shimmering yellow catsuit) had gone a little overboard with Zetta (the ex-wife), but it was mostly Zetta’s fault. She’d threatened to leave him for a fat-cat management type at Central Belt Mining & Exploration, who was going to get her a permanent position there. So Conway had put the moves on a corporate wife, being hurt and lonesome and willing to make some CBM&E husband unhappy in return, and then Zetta had had a row with her new lover and come tearing in to find Conway embracing what’shername. Some brunette with plenty of miles, the cerise female said admiringly, but a lot of horsepower under the hood. Conway nodded, at this point, and said she was made for more than a middle manager’s wife. No one said a word about the corporate wife’s husband. I thought of Peg, who in a hotsuit and hood could pass for twenty, and decided to keep her far away from Conway.