Shock III Part 21

Why tell more of the show? It's not important. The little men, perhaps six inches tall, bowling marbles while someone in back shook a sheet of tin and made theatrical thunder. That's not important.

The giving to Rip of drink from a minute barrel. Rip choking and coughing, lying down to sleep. And the curtain closing and the lights staying out. And the children rustling like swishing gra.s.ses in the blackness.

All unimportant.

And the rest of it too. The curtain opening on Rip, still there, long white whiskers on his face. Rip getting up.

Perhaps it is important that Larg looked more natural as a tired old man than he had before. But the rest is of no moment.

And as I sat there, paying scant attention, I decided to go backstage and talk to Larg if I could. It would be better, I thought, than just handing in an ordinary review. Barton liked ingenuity.

But that was a pretext. There was more a" more than just a Rip Van Winkle and a twenty-year sleep and an afternoon's entertainment for a mob of pink-chopped children.

And so it ended. Rip back in town, his wife dead, the old political regime unseated, Rip almost shot as a spy. And the happy ending, as per requirement, with Rip sitting under a tree, children about him. Happy days are here again. Curtain.

One call for the actors. They stood stiffly, nodding their heads. Their eyes glittered from the footlights. And it was a sick glitter, the glitter in their eyes.

I went backstage. The little Martians were rushing around, carrying costumes, equipment, scenery. They didn't look at me. They ran past my legs. Their heads just reached my kneecaps. It was like a dream. You don't see Martians en ma.s.se very often. It was like being Gulliver all of a sudden.

I saw a man sitting on a stool, leaning against the wall as he read a paper. Every once in a while he'd lift his eyes to see if the Martians were doing their jobs right. He'd order them about harshly.

'Go on! Hurry up! Grab that flat, you two. Not that way, you dope! Right side up, right side up!'

And they all kept running around like tiny deaf-mutes, labouring at a hopeless task.

I looked around. But I couldn't see Larg. I went over to the man. He looked up. 'No one's allowed back here.'

'I'm from the Globe,' I told him, showing my card. His face changed. He looked interested.

'Yeah?' he said, 'How'd you like the show? Good, haah?'

I nodded. What else could I do?

'You give us a good write up?' he asked.

'Maybe,' I said, 'If you'll let me look around back here. Maybe talk to a few of your- actors.'

'What actors? Oh a" them. What do you wanna talk to them for?'he asked.

'Don't they talk?'I asked.

He squinted. 'Yeah,' he admitted. As though he were telling me that, sure, the parrot could talk but you can't very well converse with it.

'Look,' he said, 'You wanna see Mr. Terwilliger? He can tell you anything you wanna know.'

'I want to see Larg,' I told him.

He looked at me curiously. 'What for?'

'Just to talk to him.'

He looked at me blankly. Then he shrugged his thick shoulders.

'Go ahead, buddy,' he said, 'if you wanna waste your time. Say you'll give us a good write up?'

'Read the Globe tomorrow,' I answered.

'Yeah, I'll a" he said, 'I'll just a"

He pointed to his left. 'The Marshie is back there in the dressing room.'

'Doesn't he work?' I asked. All the other 'Marshies' were working.

The man looked disgusted. 'He's s'posed to work,' he said. 'But he's a goof-off. Thinks he's the star.'

His voice went up to a squeak as he mimicked Larg. "'I'm sick, I'm sick!"'

'I understand.' I nodded.

I went back and stood by the door. Inside I could hear a faint flutter of coughing a" like the coughing of a frail old woman.

I knocked.

The coughing increased. Then I heard him ask who it was.

'May I come in and speak to you?' I asked. 'I'm from the Globe: There was a long moment of silence. I stood there restlessly. Finally I heard him cough once more. Then he said, 'I can't keep you out.'

The room was very dimly lit. Larg was sitting on a shabby couch, his small oddly-proportioned body dwarfed the pillow he leaned on. He had his tube like legs propped up before him.

He looked up as I came in. He didn't say anything a" just looked. And then he lowered his eyes again. A cough rocked his small body.

I sat down on a chair across from him. I didn't speak. I kept watching him. He looked up finally. His eyes were yellow a" and bitter. 'Well?' he said.

His voice was pitched lower than it had been while he was portraying Rip Van Winkle.

I told him my name. I asked him how he was.

He looked at me clinically. I couldn't tell what he was thinking. His gaze was expressionless. A slight cough shook him. Then his pointed shoulders twitched back.

'Why should you care?' he asked.

I started to answer. But he interrupted.

'It's an interview you want, isn't it?' he said. 'An "interview with the funny little marionette. With the ugly, little yellow-eyed Martian.'

'I didn't come to-'

'To be insulted?'

His voice was shrill again. He pushed himself back against the pillow and his small stubby nostrils flared out. Then he closed his eyes. Suddenly. His hands dropped in his lap.

'No, of course not,' he said. 'You want some pleasant little anecdote. Boy on Mars yearning for the theatre life.

The big chance a" cheers a" flowers a" romance of the footlights. G.o.d bless Earth.'

He opened his eyes and looked at me. 'That's what you want, isn't it?' he asked.

I was quiet for a moment. Then I said, 'I didn't come for an interview. I'm only supposed to write up the performance.'

'Then why are you here?' he asked. 'Curiosity? Burning desire to goggle?'

'No,' I said.

Then we sat in painful silence. I had no idea of what to say I felt terribly ill at ease.

Not because I was alone with a strange extraterrestrial being. That wasn't it. I've seen enough pictures, enough shows, enough movies. The shock of appearances wears down quickly.

I'll tell you why I was shocked.

Because I was realizing more and more that this small 'creature', as you would call him, wasn't a mere creature.

He was not, as I had been brought up to believe, some subspecies of animal life with only gifts for mimicking other languages. Not at all. He was an intelligent person.

And he hated me. That's why I felt ill at ease. Because to be hated by an animal is nothing. But to be hated by a rational being is a lot.

'What do you want?' he asked.

'I'd a" like to talk to you.' I hesitated.

He started to speak. But then a violent fit of coughing tore at his voice. His fragile hands shot out to grab a towel from the couch beside him.

He plunged his face into it. And I sat there watching, his toothpick shoulders tremble. And hearing his pathetic gagging m.u.f.fled in the towel, and the horrible coughing.

The coughing eased. He gasped for breath. There were tears shining in his eyes. 'Go away please,' he said, his voice broken and humiliated. He avoided my gaze.

'You need a doctor,' I said.

His chest shuddered again. It was laughter this time. Laughter that had no amus.e.m.e.nt in it.

'You're very amusing,' he wheezed. 'Now will you leave me alone?'

I spoke impatiently a" as we do when we do not understand. 'Listen, I'm not trying to be funny. You're ill and you need a doctor.'

The coughing stopped. He looked at me. 'You don't understand,' he said, 'I'm a Martian.'

'I don't seea'

'You're supposed to laugh at me!'

And I felt myself tighten with rage. No a" not at him. The rage was for those far-flung generations that had taught me and my brothers to consider Martians as inferior stock.

Because here a" in a split second a" the entire lie had been flung into my teeth. And there is no more stunning and enraging shock than to have centuries of lies explode in your face.

He leaned weakly against the pillow, the towel held in his lap. I noticed that it was spotted with dark splotches. His blood. When he saw that I noticed, he quickly folded the towel so that Only clean surfaces showed.

'Larg,' I said, 'if you feel up to it, will you tell me about yourself? And about your people?'

'For publication?' he asked, his tone slightly less cynical. 'For an amusing froth in the Sunday supplement?'

I shook my head. 'No, just for me.'

He looked at me carefully. I couldn't tell whether he believed me or not. But I could still feel his shrinking, his distaste for me.

He said, 'I suppose you saw my people working backstage.'

I nodded. 'Yes, I did.'

He rubbed a hand over his pale lips. 'They're like me,' he said, 'all sick. All exiles. Exiles of economy.'

'I don'ta'

He coughed once. 'We're all here, you see, because we need the money.'

'Can't you work on your own planet?'

He glanced at me as though he thought I joked. Then he shook his head. 'No, there's nothing there,' he said. 'Nothing.'

We sat in silence a moment. Once again he began to cough into the towel, his face colouring apoplectically. When the spasm had pa.s.sed his breath came in tortured gasps.

'You'd better not speak any more,' I said.

'Why not?' he said. 'It doesn't make any difference.'

'Are you married, Larg?' I asked.

He smiled bitterly at something I could not see. 'I think so,' he said, 'I'm not sure a" anymore.'

'When did you see your wife last?'

He looked down at his hands. Blankly. 'Fifteen years ago,' he said.

'Fifteen!'

'Yes.'

'But-but why?'

'It's very simple,' he said, the undercurrent of hate and resentment hard in his voice. 'I was teacher of history at the Rakasa School, as you Earth people called it' He paused. 'Before you tore it down,' he said.