We arrived just after sunset, landing on the pad behind the Embassy. The wide boggy plain surrounding the place was lit with torches and cooking fires. The air was filled with the surprisingly mouthwatering smell of roasting mrr’hhg.
Maire informed us that they only cooked the things on high occasions.
Like wars. Or funerals.
The great man himself met us at the pad, puffing gin fumes and exuding his usual anticharm. In most cases the person in charge of these sorts of affairs tends toward one of two states: either they are in a fractal dither, worry sprouting from anxiety unfolding from borderline panic; or they have this smug and lofty conviction that their plans are perfect, the wogs will be wowed, and the universe will bend itself to their will. Dork was in some sour, semi-pickled state between.
He looked us up and down, pronounced our dress acceptable, then strode self-importantly off with a curt gesture that we should follow. We heaved a collective sigh, picked up our cases and fell into step behind. He led us through the maze painted on the embassy floor, snapping conflicting orders at his scurrying staff like an imperious impresario, and leaving puzzled looks, rolling eyes, and an impressive catalog of obscene gestures in his wake.
The two-meter-high stage had been set up on the opposite side of the embassy. Because of the sk’rrli prejudice against walls there was no backdrop behind it nor curtain in front.
Still, I do have to give Dork credit for trying to make the best of difficult circumstances. If nothing else, he had produced an event the likes of which the natives had surely never seen. Colored spots flooded the stage with pastel light. The front of the platform had been draped with banners in the official ETDS orange and black, and bedecked with sconces of native flowers. Most Sk’rrl plants are insectivores, so the bouquets writhed and snapped at bugs drawn by the light. Maire was enchanted with this odd snatch of the decorator’s art. I could tell she dearly wanted a corsage. Atop the stage and past the footlights were three hard chairs for us and the ornate throne from Dork’s office for him.
Normally an embassy soiree would have featured champagne—getting the visitors hammered considered a fair home team-advantage. None was being served to the guests at this bash, but a clever steward had found out that the sk’rrli did like Yummi-Ade—you know, that neon colored, sticky sweet instant drink—and even caught a modest buzz from the artificial colors and flavors. So a punch fountain had been set up, squirting gallons of the stuff into the air and then raining down to fill a huge crystal bowl. The table was mobbed with thirsty natives. It looked like Happy Hour at the Lobster Bar from Hell.
The stage was high enough to create a rare pocket of privacy behind it. “You are ready to play, aren’t you?” Dork demanded when we got there. Like we’d shown up lugging our instruments in full orchestra drag in hopes of playing volleyball.
“We’re ready,” I said soothingly. “All we have to do is unpack our instruments and stands. Oh yes, it would be helpful if one of your people could place our sound system.”
He looked annoyed. “We already have one.”
I tried to keep the pity out of my smile. “Not as good as ours. Besides, it’s already tuned to our instruments.”
“Whatever.” He snapped his fingers at a very attractive woman in a very revealing dress who had been hovering very closely by. The adoring looks she’d been beaming Rube’s way made it clear they weren’t exactly strangers. For his part, he seemed to be trying to telepathically implant urgent sexual urges in her brain. Totally focused on Rube, she didn’t hear Dork’s summons.
“Here, Thornton!” Dork barked. “Now!”
I moved in before he could order her to heel or fetch, and placed myself between her and the leering object of her desire. “Would you mind taking this,” I handed her the Klipsh-Kleinmann Sonicaster, “and placing it on the front edge of the stage, in the center, the side with the silver logo facing out?”
“Um, sure,” she murmured, hugging the breadloaf-sized, matte black sonic device to her creamy scenic bosom. Her gaze slid past me and went back to Rube.
“Now, Thornton!” Dork bawled.
“Uh, yes sir.” She fired Rube one last sultry look and undulated away. Maire and I watched her depart, both of us thinking similar unworthy thoughts.
Dork peeled back a lacy cuff and consulted his gold watch. “You go on in five minutes. I have some last minute details I must see to. Be ready by the time I return, and we’ll show these refugees from a bad batch of bisque what real culture is like.”
He stumped off. As he was leaving a steward materialized with a refreshment cart, appearing so silently it was like he too had wheels. He cut a glance toward the departing Dork, made a fist with his thumb stuck out, mimed someone drinking. Then he placed a tray with glasses and carafes of water and fruit juice within easy reach, winked and rolled silently away.
We gathered around and helped ourselves, then I began our ritual preconcert pep talk.
“OK,” I said softly. “You know and I know that this is a terrible gig. Dork is a puffed-up putz without even the innate culture of a decent cup of yogurt. We’re all seasoned pros, and know the piece so well that the challenge will be staying awake through it. Chances are our audience would be just as likely to appreciate the sound of rush hour traffic as what we’re about to offer them. But.”
I looked them each in the eye. “But we are professionals, and we have our own standards to maintain. We’ve dedicated our lives to this art. We will go out there and perform wholeheartedly and brilliantly because the music deserves no less than our best. We will go out there and play with passion and precision because each of us deserves the absolute best the others have to offer. We will go out there and make our instruments sing because with luck we’ll get some plus points and be that much closer to the magic moment when we can tell the ETDS to go fuck itself.”
I put out my hand palm-down. “So how shall we play?”
“Brilliantly!” they chorused, covering my hand with theirs.
“How shall we play?” I repeated.
“We’ll kill them!” they answered, giving the ritual response.
“How shall we play?” I asked for the last time.
“Like our lives depended on it!”
We held our hands together for a moment longer, then each turned to remove our instruments and stands from their cases.
Just as we were finishing up Dork came bustling back with bright eyes, flushed cheeks and hundred proof breath.
It was showtime.
Even when you’re about to play for an audience so unfamiliar with the repertoire you could present them with a veritable clambake of muffed notes and they’d be none the wiser, there still comes a moment when you have to swallow back butterflies. When that audience is comprised of large excitable aliens known to be prone to precipitous violence the butterflies metamorphose into something more akin to agitated bats.
Applause was sparse and perfunctory when we mounted the stage. All of it came from embassy staffers who were probably just following orders. The sole exception was our pickup roadie, the luscious Ms. Thornton. She clapped in Rube’s direction with a zeal that made me slightly envious. That must have been one hell of a matinee.
As for the crowd…
Try to imagine a Whakmusik biker-punk headbanger revival concert envisioned by Bosch on heavy-duty hallucinogens. Before us were hundreds of rowdy, semi-drunk red lobbears waving their orange and black disposable cups in the air or primly dunking and munching wriggling mrr’hhg like animated scones in neon tea. A considerable number of them had their eyestalks turned our way and were clicking their finger and toe pincers impatiently. Several dozen scattered couples were having noisy writhing Yummi-Ade lubricated sex. Others were arguing politics or art with the reasoned restraint of mutant versions of the Three Stooges.