“Hello in there?” I called. “Anybody home? Don’t you get it? We just found something the sk’rrli really like. Give them more of this kind of music and I’ll bet they’ll farm all the mrr’hhg you want.”
At first he looked appalled, then his eyes narrowed in calculation.
“Ah, dawn breaks inside that murky noggin!” I grinned, preparing to really put the boot in. “The thing is, your position as ambassador asks—nay, demands that you not let them think it’s anything less than a splendid thing you’re offering.”
He shook his head, his elegant coiff now spiked in all directions. “I don’t—”
“You have to sit there, listen, and make them think you’re enjoying it as much as they do.”
He went even paler than before. “Smile through more of that ghastly noise?” he croaked.
“Smile until it hurts. After all, Dork my man, instituting a successful trade mission here is the only way to get enough points for reassignment. Someplace nice, with lots of walls, and far away from what will soon be Rock and Roll Heaven.”
“Mrr’hhg,” he said. This time I don’t think he was talking about the local wildlife.
Since music of that sort was Maire’s specialty, she picked the rest of that night’s programme. Some pieces were classics most musicians would have heard at some point, others were more obscure ones I only knew from her EJ nights. We played, and we played for keeps. When we finally left the stage a bit after local midnight we were wringing with sweat, our hands and arms numb from the workout we’d given them.
Rock/Pop In The Eye wasn’t our usual repertoire, but Triaxion gave the sk’rrli a concert they would be talking about for years. We performed take-no-prisoners, eardrum-blowing versions of such ancient masterpieces as “Pinball Wizard,” “Satisfaction,” “I Want To Hold Your Hand,” “Born To Run,” “The Red Shoes,” “Rock Around the Clock,” “Suffragette City,” “Proud Mary,” and “Don’t Fear The Reaper.” Maire sang the lyrics on some of the compositions, belting them out through the embassy’s translator mike, which produced as much feedback as comprehensible sound, which was just fine with our audience.
When it was all over Dork tottered off clutching several packets of headache remedy, a fresh bottle of gin, and an armful of pillows to wrap around his head. The embassy’s staff insisted on following us back to our ship for an after-performance bash. For just a few hours there we were the toast of Sk’rrl, and most everyone got toasted in our honor.
Late the next morning the remaining crumbs scraped themselves up and headed back to the embassy. About the time Maire and I were settling into the galley for coffee our ship lifted, taking us away from the scene of our triumph. Rube remained sacked out, done in from his encores with the apparently insatiable and insomniac Ms. Thornton.
Maire looked fairly chipper. That wasn’t any great surprise, since she and her former guide, Edwina, had equipped themselves with a split of champagne and set off toward her compartment somewhere around three. More exploring, no doubt.
I was probably in the best shape since I don’t drink anymore. Retiring to my compartment at about 3:30 with a dark-haired, dark-eyed, mocha-skinned communications officer named Clistalinda hadn’t hurt much either. She had really liked the way I played, loved the way I’d mashed Dork’s toes, and had absolutely no difficulty communicating her feelings in a clear and unmistakable manner.
After a cup of coffee to rosin my bow and tighten my pegs, I put down my mug and bowed to Maire across the table. “Congratulations,” I said solemnly.
She eyed me quizzically. “For what?”
“For your new status as holder of the baton.”
She snorted and refilled our cups. “That was only temporary.”
I took a long slug, then said, “It doesn’t have to be.”
“I think it should. You’re our leader, Mo. Rube and I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“Some leader. You’re the one who hauled our chestnuts out of the fire last night.”
She shrugged. “I just changed the evening programme, that’s all. You’re the one who spiked Dork to the wall and made him squirm. You’re good at handling us and dealing with schmucks like him. All I want to do is see a few more sights while I serve out my time, then go back to Earth.” The way she said this rang with the unspoken statement that maybe I didn’t want to serve out or go back home. I let it slide.
“Getting out takes points, Maire. The leader gets extra plus points when we do well.”
“And extra minus points when some tin-eared, puckerbunged worshipper at the holy altar of protocol isn’t satisfied.” She picked up her cup, took a swig, then regarded me over the rim. “You know, I’ve heard rumors that there were times you juggled points around, transferring some of yours to former trio members who couldn’t handle living like this.”
I shrugged. “People tell stories.”
“People love legends. You’re out of the limelight now, but like it or not, you still are one. Tell me, how many points do you have, anyway?”
I stared down at my cup. “I haven’t really checked lately.”
She just let my admission hang there for a minute. We drained our coffees. She refilled them once more, then said, “So, are we going to practice today?”
I grinned at her, glad the subject had been changed. “Don’t you think we’ve earned a day off?”
“Probably. But just think how much Rube will bitch.”
“Good point. I suppose I could order a session.”
“You could. You’re the boss.”
I looked her in the eye. “Remember, I don’t have to be.”
She looked me right back and smiled fondly. “Actually, I think you do.”
Maire was probably right. Our concert on Sk’rrl was over three years ago. Both she and Rube reached their plus point quota and moved on, but I’m still here leading Triaxion.
But enough ancient history. How about some music?
My new partners are pretty good. We can play damn near any tune you name.
But we’d really rather you didn’t request The Four Seasons.