One evening Arch Riker attended a rehearsal and was so impressed that he proposed a private preview for prominent citizens. Invitations were immediately mailed to local officials, educators, business leaders, and officers of important organizations with replies requested. To Riker's dismay, few responded; he called an executive meeting to analyze the situation.
"I think," Hixie ventured, "they're all waiting to find out what's on TV Monday night."
"You've got it all wrong," said Junior Goodwinter, who was a native and entitled to know. "It's like this: The stuffed shirts in this backwater county never reply to an invitation till they know who else is going to be there. You've got to drop a few names."
"Or let them know you're spiking the punch," Qwilleran suggested.
"We should have specified a champagne afterglow," Hixie said.
Junior shook his head. "Champagne is not the drink of choice up here. 'Free booze' would have more impact."
"Well, you should know," said Riker. "The rest of us are innocents from Down Below."
"Let me write a piece and splash it on the front page," the young editor said. "I'll twist a few political arms. They're all up for re-election next month."
Accordingly, Friday's edition of the paper carried this news item:
MOOSE COUNTY DESTROYED BY FIRE... IN 1869
History will come to life Monday evening when civic leaders will preview a live docu-drama titled "The Big Burning of 1869." Following the private premiere at the Gage mansion on Goodwinter Boulevard, the Moose County Something will offer the show to schools, churches, and clubs as a public service.
There followed the magic name of Jim Qwilleran, who was not only popular as a columnist but rich as Croesus. In addition, the mayor, council president, and county commissioners were quoted as saying they would attend the history-making event. As soon as the paper hit the street the telephones in Junior's office started jangling with acceptances from persons who now perceived themselves as civic leaders. Furthermore, "live" was a buzz word in a community jaded with slide shows and video presentations. Hixie went into action, borrowing folding chairs from the Dingleberry Funeral Home, renting coatracks for guests' wraps, and hiring a caterer.
On the gala evening the Gage mansion - with all windows alight - glowed like a lantern among the gloomy stone castles on the boulevard. Flashbulbs popped as the civic leaders approached the front steps. The publisher of the newspaper greeted them; the managing editor checked their wraps; the political columnist handed out programs; the sports editor directed them to the marble staircase leading to the ballroom on the lower level. The reporters who were providing valet parking carried one elderly man in a wheelchair up the front steps and wheeled him to the elevator, which was one of the mansion's special amenities.
Meanwhile, Qwilleran was sweating out his opening-night jitters backstage in the ballroom - a large, turn-of-the-century hall with Art Deco murals and light fixtures. More than a hundred chairs faced the band platform, where musicians had once played for the waltz and the turkey trot. The stage set was minimaclass="underline" a plain wood table and chair for the announcer with an old-fashioned upright telephone and a replica of an early microphone. Off to one side was a table for the "studio engineer." Cables snaked across the platform, connecting the speakers and lighting tripods to the control board.
"Do they look messy?" Qwilleran asked Hixie.
"No, they look high tech," she decided.
"Good! Then let's throw a few more around." He uncoiled a long yellow extension cord that was not being used and added it to the tangle.
"Perfect!" Hixie said. "It gives the set a certain je ne sais quoi."
A sweatered audience filed into the ballroom and filled the chairs. Pickax was a sweater city in winter - for all occasions except weddings and funerals. The house lights dimmed, and the lilting notes of "Anitra's Dance" filled the hall until the announcer rushed on-stage from a door at the rear and spoke the first ominous words: "We interrupt this program to bring you a bulletin..."
Forty-five minutes later he delivered the final message: "No one will ever forget what happened here on October 17, 1869." It was an ironic punch line, considering that few persons in the county had ever heard of the Big Burning.
Climactic music burst from the speakers; the audience applauded wildly; and the mayor of Pickax jumped to his feet, saying, "We owe a debt of gratitude to these talented folks from Down Below who have made us see and hear and feel this forgotten chapter in our history."
The presenters bowed: Hixie with her buoyant smile and Qwilleran with his usual morose expression. Then, as the ballroom emptied, they packed the props and mechanical equipment into carrying cases.
"We did it!" Hixie exulted. "We've got a smash hit!"
"Yes, it went pretty well," Qwilleran agreed modestly. "Your timing was perfect, Hixie. Congratulations!"
A small boy in large eyeglasses and a red sweater, who had been in the audience with his father, stayed behind to watch the striking of the set. "What's that yellow wire for?" he asked.
Qwilleran replied with overblown pomposity, "That, young man, happens to be the major power conduit used by our engineer for operating our computerized sound and light system."
"Oh," the boy said. Then, after a moment's puzzled contemplation, he asked, "Why wasn't it connected?"
"Why don't you go upstairs and have some cookies?" Qwilleran countered. To Hixie he muttered, "Kids! Always asking questions! Not only that, but they're notorious carriers of the common cold. If we're taking this show on the road, I can't afford to be laid up."
"I predict we'll be swamped with bookings," she said.
"Undoubtedly. Moose County can't resist anything that's free."
"Should we extend our territory to Lockmaster County?"
"Only if they pay for it... Now let's go upstairs and get some of that free grub." After the excitement of a first night and after forty-five minutes of intense concentration on his role, Qwilleran felt empty and parched.
On the main floor the guests were milling about the large, empty rooms, admiring the coffered paneling of the high ceiling and the lavishly carved fireplaces. They carried plates of hors d'oeuvres and glass cups of amber punch. The Siamese were milling about, too, dodging feet and hunting for dropped crumbs. Koko sniffed certain trousered legs and nylon-clad ankles; Yum Yum eluded the clutches of a young boy in a red sweater.
Qwilleran pushed through the crowd to the dining room, where a caterer's long table was draped in a white cloth and laden with warming trays of stuffed mushrooms, bacon-wrapped olives, cheese puffs, and other morsels too dainty for a hungry actor. There were two punch bowls, and he headed for the end of the table where Mildred Hanstable was ladling amber punch into glass cups.
"Cider?" he asked.
"No, this is Fish House punch made with two kinds of rum and two kinds of brandy," she warned him. "I think you'll want the other punch, Qwill. It's cranberry juice and Chinese tea with lemon grass."
"Sounds delicious," he grumbled. "How come no one is drinking it?"
Polly Duncan, looking radiant in a pink mohair sweater, was presiding over the unpopular bowl of pink punch. "Qwill, dear, you were splendid!" she said in her mellow voice that always gave him a frisson of pleasure. "Now I know why you were so totally preoccupied for the last two weeks. It was time well invested."
"Sorry to be so asocial," he apologized, "but we'll make up for it. We'll do something special this weekend, like bird watching." This was a gesture of abject penitence on his part. He loathed birding.