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Chapter 11

 

 

I slept on top of the bedclothes, fully dressed. There was only the one bed. It smelled of Tricia Madigan's perfume and of faint, private aromas, and I just did not choose to get in between those recently used sheets. I'd gobbled down the rest of the biscuits and fruit as soon as Malcolm Porchester was gone, and I might have slept longer if I hadn't heard rustlings in the other room. 

While I was waking up, making up my mind to investigate the sounds, I heard my name called.

It was the voice of Norah Platt, my accompanist from the day—or was it the night?—before. When I peeked through the bedroom door I saw that she was standing primly in the front doorway, waiting to be invited inside, but there were two others present in the house who had not waited for an invitation. They appeared to be the same sort of small, brown men, Oriental-featured, that Shipperton had called "Kekketies." They had skinny, muscular legs sticking out of khaki shorts. They didn't bother to look at me. One of them was running a vacuum hose across the Persian carpet. The other was clattering dishes in the kitchen. The table had been cleared and the room picked up, and as soon as I was out of the bedroom both of the men ducked silently past me into it to begin stripping the bed.

"Good morning, Mr. Stennis," Norah Platt said politely. "I hope I'm not intruding. I thought you might like some help settling in."

"You never had a better thought," I told her.

Norah Platt was a tiny thing, no more than five feet tall. Her hands were in proportion. I wondered how she could span an octave on the keyboard, though she had seemed to have no trouble when she was accompanying me in my debut before the weirdies. That time she had worn a high-collared, long-sleeved evening gown. This morning she was wearing a decorously knee-length pleated skirt and a less decorous halter top. She filled it quite well.

Looking at her, it was hard to believe that this woman had been alive during the lifetime of George Washington. Apart from the fact that she was smoking a slim cigar, she looked like anyone's favorite staying-young grandma.

She acted like a grandmother, too. She began talking at once. She told me that she was aware I hadn't had much sleep and hated to wake me, but Mr. Shipperton had come up with an idea about what to do with me; no, she didn't know what it was, but he'd tell me all about it. As for "settling in," she knew what kind of assistance I needed before I knew it myself. I certainly wouldn't have to make my own bed, because the Kekkety folk would take care of all that.

"You know," she said, waving toward the little brown people, "the servants. They're called Kekketies. They come with the house. All mod cons, you know. No, they don't talk, but they'll understand when you give them orders. If you want something special, just tell them, or leave a note for them on the fridge." On the subject of clothes: "I'll help you choose a wardrobe this afternoon, if you like. There's no dress code here. A lot of the men just wear shorts. Or less." On the subject of food: "I'll make a basic list of supplies for you to give the Kekkety folk. Do you cook? So many men do, now. There are quantities of ready-cooked things available if you order them, and the Kekketies will do you a meal if you like. They're not bad on anything in the standard cookbooks. I think it's nicer to make my own. Of course," she added apologetically, "it's not like Home, is it? If there's something in particular you fancy—a particular brand, perhaps—you'll have to order it, and that can take weeks. Also, you've got to pay for it out of your earnings, and of course at present—well, I'm sure you'll have plenty of earnings once you get started. I mean, if you do get started. Can you eat kippers?"

I perceived that it was not an irrelevant question. The servant in the kitchen had not just been doing dishes. Food smells were coming from it, and one of the little men padded silently past us to deal with them. "I supposed you would want breakfast," Norah apologized, "so I took the liberty of instructing them to make you something. There wasn't all that much to choose from in Malcolm's larder. I hope it's what you can eat."

It was, actually, very little like anything I would have ordered for myself. There was a very large pitcher of what tasted exactly like fresh-squeezed orange juice—that was the good part—but there was an equally large thermos pitcher of what I hoped would be coffee but turned out to be strong, dark tea. There was a rack of thinly sliced toast (quite suitably, Englishly, cold) and something that, Norah said regretfully, "Isn't a real kipper, but it's not bad, actually. I eat the things myself when I can't get the authentic article from Home."

It was close enough to a real kipper to fool me. I've never liked the things enough to have much practice with them. I managed to get some of it down and filled up on cold toast and orange juice, while Norah consented to accept a cup of tea, talking away as I ate. 

When I dawdled over the last of the cold toast she got up, wincing a little, and courteously took a seat on the couch before lighting up another cigar. She shifted position two or three times before she found one she liked on the couch. "It's the damp," she said, trying to settle herself comfortably. "Old bones, you know."

I had already noticed that the air was distinctly soggy. They kept the humidity that way, she explained, for the convenience of some of the "natives"—"Poor Barak, for instance, he does dry out so, and some of the others rather need to stay in water all the time. And there's more oxygen in the air here, they tell me, though I've long since got so accustomed to it I don't notice things like that. You do understand what Narabedla is like? I mean physically?"

I didn't. She tried to tell me. "It looks rather like a soup tin, one might say—or a series of tins, one within the other. We're in almost the outermost shell. There are two shells that are principally for artists like ourselves, when we're not on tour, and then there are five or six others for natives. Some of them do require such special conditions, poor dears."

"Oh, yes," I said. 'The poor dears. But look, that sounds more like a spaceship than a moon."

"It does, doesn't it? They say it used to be a moon, though, and then somebody, I think it was the Aiurdi, but it might've been one of the others, rebuilt it. Oh, not for us! But then they didn't need it for whatever it was meant to be in the first place, and now they let us have it. Well, part of it. But I mustn't keep on jabbering away! You're to be in Mr. Shipperton's office in half an hour, so I won't make a real visit of it this time, but I'm at Fifteen, The Crescent, and I'd be delighted to offer you dinner tonight. Perhaps a few friends might join us? There are some very nice people here—although not usually," she added, with a disdainful little smile, "on this particular street. Nolly? If you'd rather not come to dinner . . ."

I realized I'd been staring into my teacup. Norah must have thought I was trying to think of a good way out of accepting her invitation. "Oh, sorry, Norah. I was just thinking about—about . . ."

"Of course," she said with sympathy. "One is always—what shall I say?—pensif, a. bit, just at first. But usually one isn't brought here if there's a wife and kiddies or anything of that sort?" The tone of her voice made it a question.

"There isn't anyone like that," I said, "but I do have friends, and I'm a little worried about them." I told her about Marlene and Irene Madigan, and my worry that Henry Davidson-Jones would do something unpleasant to them if they got curious about me.

"Oh," she said, nodding, "Irene Madigan. That would be the cousin of our Tricia. She's a silly young thing, but there's no real harm in her."

It took me a moment to realize she was talking about Tricia, not Irene. "Anyway," I said, "I don't want them kidnapped too. I've got to get back before they get into trouble."

Norah puffed cigar smoke at me sympathetically. "Yes, we all feel that way at first."

I said forcefully, "I'll go right on feeling that way! These people have no right to abduct human beings, or trick them into coming here. I don't care how pleasant this place is, it's a prison, and I'm going to get out."

"Nolly, dear, it's simply not possible to get back, you see. I know it's quite a wrench at first—"

"It's a crime."

She said crossly, "Well, of course it is, if one takes that point of view." She stubbed her cigar out vigorously, then smiled. "I sometimes wonder," she said, all bright-eyed and accommodating again, "if there's something in the air in this house. Malcolm Porchester used to go on saying that sort of thing, too. And he wasn't the first. Of course, Malcolm's never tried to do anything serious about it—what is there that one could do, really?—but he did go on endlessly on the subject. Well, Nolly," she said practically, "mustn't keep Mr. Shipperton waiting. You know the way to his office? Second left past the Execution—and don't forget dinner tonight. Sevenish, if that's convenient for you."

 

Norah Platt hadn't left me a whole lot of time, but there was enough for a quick shower. I took it. I needed it. I was irritated by the fact that I didn't have time to get aerobic first—I hate to bathe and then work up a sweat—but there wasn't anything to keep me from taking another shower later on, if I found some way to work out.

The discontented (but not deprived) Malcolm Porchester hadn't left me much of a wardrobe that fit, but there were clean socks and underwear at least, and I helped myself. He had, after all, put only his whiskey, his books, and his Fortnum and Mason packages off-limits.

All this made me, I thought without guilt, probably a little late for my next go-round with Sam Shipperton, but why should I worry about inconveniencing a kidnapper? So I didn't rush to his office. I took time to smile at a couple of passersby (who smiled back affably enough, but kept on going on their own errands), and to look around this soup-can sort of a moon I was living on.

Having been clued in, I saw that Norah Platt's description of the moon called Narabedla might well be accurate. Looking back down the ill-named "Riverside Drive" I thought I could see that the road did, in fact, seem to curve up slightly at the end. It was hard to tell, because the street dead-ended at a duster of trees. In fact, anywhere I looked I could see no farther than a few dozen yards, never more than fifty or so, before something blocked the view. There wasn't any sun in the sky, either. There wasn't even any sky. What had looked like blue sky with fleecy clouds was actually a ceiling no more than twenty feet over my head. As soon as I studied it closely I could see that it wasn't real. I didn't study the grisly sculpture Norah Platt had called "the Execution," because I didn't like looking at it, and besides I wasn't enjoying my sightseeing. I was too busy rehearsing what I wanted to say to Shipperton.

He didn't give me a chance. "You're late," he greeted me affably, "but that's cool; Barak won't be ready for us for a little while yet. Did you ever conduct?" 

He caught me off balance. "Conduct what?" 

"Conduct an opera, naturally. You certainly can't sing. Sorry, but you just don't have the voice anymore. Well, maybe the natives wouldn't know that, but we have a reputation to maintain, you know. But Jonesy sent along a lot of stuff about your career when you were in opera, and Barak's taken an interest in you. That's what we have to do now, go and talk to Barak. Then if he's still interested, and if Meretekabinnda and the Mother go along, you might fit in. Somehow. Not singing, naturally. What I thought of was conducting, maybe, but there's always the chance that Binnda'll want to do that himself. That would be out then, of course, but there must be something you could do. I hear they have prompters that don't sing at all, just keep the real singers going—"

"Hold it," I said. "What are you talking about? What do you mean, prompter?"

"Isn't that what you call them? I mean some little job you could do. You must know something about opera."

"Shipperton," I said, nettled, "I know a lot about opera, but you're going too fast for me. Back up. Who are these people you're talking about?"

"What people?"

"Well, this mother, to start with."

"Not 'this mother,' the Mother. The Tlotta-Mother, to be exact. And Barak and Meretekabinnda. They're the bookers, who else? And the tour managers, and the impresarios. Even Neereeieeree—"

"Who?"

He repeated it slowly, and more distinctly. It sounded like a five-syllable whinny. "Neereeieeree. He's one of the ones you sang for. He said he might be interested in an opera company. He's Aiurdi. I don't guess you know what that means, but they've got three whole planets, not counting colonies, so there'd be a whole tour right there if Neereeieeree said yes."

That diverted me from my purpose for a moment. "He liked my voice?"

"He thought your voice sucked," Shipperton said patiently, "but you don't have to sing, do you? There's never been a whole human opera company here, and Binnda's been talking about wanting one for a long time. Of course, it isn't up to him, but if Barak gets behind it, and the Mother doesn't object—hell. Let's take one thing at a time. Now, don't interrupt for a while, okay? Here's what we have to do—"

"Shipperton," I said, "it's no use telling me not to interrupt, because I'm not going to do anything until I get some answers. Are you telling me that Davidson-Jones makes his money out of what, in effect, is white slavery?"

Shipperton stared at me. "Boy, you're some kind of a weirdo, aren't you? Listen, Nolly, don't even mention that. Most of the Fifteen Peoples would throw up at the thought of having sex with a human being."

"I don't mean that kind of white slavery." 

"I know what you mean. Jesus, pal, get off this kick. Narabedla doesn't do anything terrible. Nobody's a slave. Oh, sure, when they sign a contract they maybe think they're going to Buenos Aires or Saudi Arabia instead of here, but they sign up to do a job. And they do it. And they get the pay. What's wrong with that? Davy can't put an ad in Variety to say what he's doing, you know. He's not allowed to let people on the Earth know about the other civilizations."

"What do you mean, 'allowed'?"

"I mean by the terms of his trade franchise contract. Not just the artists; there's all the commodity stuff, and that's a lot bigger. The Fifteen Peoples are real strict about that contract. They don't want people on Earth to know about them. So he has to comply with the terms of the deal, same as you artists."

"I didn't make any deal!"

"Well, if you want to be technical, no, you didn't," he conceded. "On the other hand, if you'd come along in the regular way you probably wouldn't have had any contract to sign, because they probably wouldn't have accepted you. You just aren't good enough. You're just a wimp that got in the way, understand? You're stuck here."

"That's your opinion. It isn't mine. I'm not staying here, Shipperton, and when I get back I'm going to clean this whole stinking mess out," I said grimly.

"Oh, shit," said Shipperton, shaking his head. "I was wrong. You're not just a wimp. You're a wimp that wants to be a hero."

The reflexes of my mouth started opening it to respond to that, but then my forebrain took over.

I closed my mouth again. I didn't like what he said. But I had heard things like that before. The macho things I'd spent so much time doing, the hang-gliding, the muscle-building, the jogging, the marathon runs—for that matter, the recent half-witted attempt to break in on Henry Davidson-Jones in his hotel—I was acting out some kind of Clint Eastwood make-my-day fantasy. So Marlene had told me very kindly, and others less so, and what they were saying was that I was overcompensating for my unfortunate inability to prong the pretty ladies anymore.

So I didn't answer him. I just scowled. I didn't pursue the subject, and he didn't care about the scowl.

"That's better," he said again, and his face fell. "Oh, hell," he said. "Now what?"

I said, almost apologetically, "I just can't believe all this."

My tone must have struck him as plaintive, rather than belligerent, because he asked, quite tolerantly, "What can't you believe?"

"I can't believe that all these trillions of—well, people—all these incredibly advanced alien interstellar races spend all their time watching some human being play piano."

"Oh, grow up, Nolly! Most of them never heard of us. Most of the ones that have don't care. Look. Back home you had a nice little business handling taxes, right? But how many people ever heard of you? Well, it's the same thing here, proportionately. Narabedla's just another nice little business, and the word to remember is 'little.' There are three or four other undeveloped planets, like the Earth, that provide entertainers and commodities and things; we're tiny."

"All right," I said unwillingly, "but why entertainers?"

"Who else would be worth bringing in?"

"I don't know. Scientists?"

"Human scientists? Stennis," he said sorrowfully, "you just haven't grasped the picture, have you? We don't have any scientists, by their standards. Maybe in another hundred years—" He closed his mouth on the end of the sentence.

I pressed. "What were you saying?"

"Just that maybe in a hundred years," he said reluctantly, "could be a thousand, maybe we'll grow up enough so we can join. Maybe not, too. They've had some bad experiences. Anyway, I don't expect to live to see it, and the way you're going you won't even come close. Now, do you want to hear what's going to happen or not? There's always the alternative of slow-down if you'd rather."

"I'll listen," I said glumly.

"Thought you would. So, first, we have to talk to Barak. Who knows? It might work out, and it'd be better for you than trying to find some other way for you to pay your way here. We already have plenty of singers."

"And an orchestra?"

"Oh, yeah," he said, grinning. "You want to know about the orchestra. I keep forgetting you're new here. Come on, we'll take a go-box to Barak's place and we'll meet the orchestra there."

***

It turned out that a "go-box" was one of those things that looked on the inside like a little elevator, and on the outside like a comfort station in a public park. When the door closed behind us Shipperton said, "Barak," and turned to me. "The go-boxes go anywhere on Narabedla, but you have to have authorization to go to the alien parts. You don't have it. The thing's got a record of every human voice on Narabedla, so it'll know who you are. It just won't accept an unauthorized command from you. Barak's part of Narabedla's off-limits for you, except when you're escorted. Like with me now. You follow? You get in the go-box, you say where you want to go. You can go all over the human quarters on Narabedla, nobody will bother you, but that's all. You know what Narabedla is?"

"Somebody said it was the second moon of the seventh planet of the star Aldebaran."

"Yeah, but it's been remodeled a lot. It's your home base. There's four hundred human artists, all based here—didn't Norah Platt tell you all this?" 

"Some of it."

"Well, the rest you'll pick up as you go along. We're here. Don't worry if some of the natives look, uh, funny. They won't hurt you. I mean, unless you do something to them first."

 

I didn't get a chance to see how funny the natives looked right away, because Barak's house was only a step from the go-box entrance and we didn't run into any natives. What I did find funny was how I felt. I'd been aware that my step had been springier than usual all morning, but now it was positively buoyant. I felt as though I'd lost fifty pounds in thirty seconds. When I said something to Shipperton he said, "You have. We're four levels up. A lot less gravity here. Come on, here's the place."

Barak's house wasn't a house like any of the ones I'd seen in the human quarter. None of the structures on this level looked even a little bit normal. The thing Barak lived in was a featureless, floor-to-ceiling prism of milky green glass. You couldn't see inside it, but a section of the angle split open when Shipperton stopped in front of it and pronounced Barak's name again.

There was a sound of piano music from inside. I hesitated.

Not long; Shipperton grabbed my arm to hustle me in—just in time, because the green-glass doors clicked shut about two inches behind my feet. It was a pity that they closed so fast. They cut us off from the outside air, and, oh my God, Barak's place stank. Years ago I dated a woman who kept five cats and lived in a one and a half room apartment. The aroma that came from Barak's room took me right back to the last time she'd failed to change the kitty litter.

That was the first thing that threatened to turn my stomach. The second was Barak himself. Barak was the source of both the music and the smell. He sat on a plump pillow in the middle of a sort of diamond-shaped room that was surrounded on all four walls by heavy, lustrous drapes. There were pillows scattered around a glassy tile floor, and a fountain was playing. The sound of the fountain was nice, and so was the piano that tinkled behind it, but they didn't help the stink. Barak himself was about the size of a collie, if you can imagine a collie shaped more or less like a starfish. Two of his arms were picking out a tune on a piano keyboard by his pillow—the music-lover at home, whiling away the moments as he waited for his guests to arrive—and four or five of his eyes swiveled toward us as we came in. Shipperton had seriously understated the case. Barak didn't look just funny. He looked really, truly, bizarrely weird. "Come-in-come-in," he said, in a voice that burped out the words like a series of farts, and lifted his body off the pillow on the other four of his legs so I could get a good look at him.

I think he did that on purpose. I think Barak was vain of the way he looked.

It takes all kinds to make up a universe. Maybe if I'd been Barak, or a female of Barak's species, I would have thought him pretty handsome, too. I wasn't. I didn't. I thought he looked awful. More than anything else he resembled a six-legged starfish who had been chrome-plated. All the "arms" (or "legs"—Barak didn't seem to make any distinction) ended in little clusters of pulpy digits; those were what he had been playing the showier parts of Chopin's "Fantasie-impromptu" with. The bottom part of the body wasn't shiny; it was hairy and not at all well kept—in fact, it was where most of the smell seemed to come from. It struck me that that was the bodily part that civilized people, or even beings, generally kept covered up. Barak didn't, and it didn't seem to bother him any more than the smell did.

"Sit-down," he belched invitingly. Shipperton picked a pillow for himself and pointed one out to me. There was something familiar about the way Barak spoke, and after a moment I figured out what it was. I'd had a voice coach who'd suffered from cancer of the larynx. As long as it was just bad he still managed to croak out scales and show me intonation. Then he had the whole larynx out. When I saw him after that he'd given up coaching. He had to. He'd had to learn to talk all over again, sort of burping out words in clusters. It was not a pleasing sound.

Neither was Barak's voice when he introduced himself. "Nolly-Stennis," he coughed, "my-name-is-Barak. You-once-were . . . Barak-too. Is-that-correct?"

I started to deny it, since I didn't have any idea what he was talking about, but Shipperton hissed, "Say yes. I think he's talking about some role in an opera."

Light dawned. "Oh, the role," I said, trying to remember all the parts I'd ever sung. Then it clicked. "You mean, like, I sang the role of Barak once? The servant in the Busoni Turandot?"

He waved a couple of arms affirmatively. "You-were-Barak-yes?"

"Ah, I see what you mean. Yes, I guess I was." I reflected for a moment; it wasn't quite true. I decided to tell the truth, if only to show this weirdo that Narabedla's information agencies didn't always get the facts straight. "I did contract to sing the role, yes, I rehearsed it, and I was all ready to perform, but then I got sick." I hesitated a moment, then decided to try a joke—not one that I really thought very funny. "After that I would have been better cast as Truffaldino."

I could see from Shipperton's scowl that I had lost him. Barak protested, "No-no-voice-is-wrong." Then the starfish thought for a moment, while the six limbs stirred restlessly, then they folded themselves into what I took to be the equivalent of a nod, Barak laughed—I think—and said, "Ha-ha-ha-ha. Now-see-your-point. Understand. Lost-your-balls."

Even a dozen years after the fact, even when it was a silver-plated starfish that put it that way, I found myself flushing. It was bad enough to have to say such things to myself. Hearing them from somebody else was really nasty. But I only said, "That's approximately what I meant."

The starfish explained it to Shipperton. "Truffaldino . . . chief-eunuch-in-opera. Understand!" The punctuated voice sounded almost enthusiastic. "Is-good-joke-you-make. Is-good-thing-to-hear. You-understand . . . Shipperton?" He didn't wait for Shipperton to answer. He burped on, "Is-interesting . . . human-societal . . . document-opera. You-Knollwood! Wish-to-know-all . . . strange-sexual . . . questions-raised. Turandot! Her-male-parent . . . order-sex-with-stranger. She-not-want. She-rather-die. Is-possible-so?"

Shipperton gave me a warning look. "As you can see, Barak is very interested in human social customs, as well as our music."

"I can see that," I said. The look in his eye told me I should take this dumb conversation seriously, so I thought for a moment before I added carefully, "Of course, operas are not exactly realistic depictions of life, Barak. But that particular element of the plot is, yes, based on things that have sometimes happened with human beings. Both men and women sometimes have been known to commit suicide for love, either because they were forced to, ah, have sex with somebody they didn't want to, or because they couldn't do it with somebody they did want."

"Fantastic!" burped the starfish.

Shipperton nodded approval. I hesitated for a moment, then offered, "But, look, Barak. That's not really a very good opera, you know. I mean, hardly anybody does it anymore; the only Turandot you ever hear in the major houses is Puccini's."

"Makes-no-difference!" Barak was silent for a moment, looking thoughtfully at me—that is, that's what I thought he was doing with most of those eyes, which were as featureless as a lobster's. Then he suddenly changed the subject. "Okay-you-sing-now."

I said, "I beg your pardon?"

"You-sing-now! What-role-you-know?"

"Sing something," Shipperton hissed uneasily.

I hissed back, "But you said I stank."

"Do it."

There was no point in getting huffy, and the surroundings weren't right for starting an argument. So I said, "Well, I suppose I could—not any of the Barak arias, I'm afraid; I don't remember them at all—"

Barak's burps began to sound irritated. "Sing-some-damn-warhorse! Know-Pagliacci-prologo?"

"Well, sure, everybody knows that. I suppose I could manage that, if I had some kind of accompaniment—"

Barak waved an arm to shut me up. Without raising his voice he belched out an order: "Purry-you-come."

The drapes against the wall rippled, and through them a sort of sweet-potato-shaped creature came rolling and skipping into the room.

Purry was, maybe, even stranger looking than Barak, though that's a close call. Purry was about the same size as Barak, and it did (or he did) have short legs along the bottom of its (or his) body. He (or it) also had perforations all over the surface of its body, each cavity equipped with a set of muscles like lips or—well, like some other kind of orifice muscles worse than lips. Although it had warm puppy eyes, they were not attached to a head of any kind that I could detect, but that didn't keep it from speaking. "Here I am, Barak," it said in beautiful, golden tones that seemed to come from the holes in its skin. "Hello, Mr. Shipperton. Hello, Mr. Stennis. I'm Purry. I'll be your orchestra. Would you like me to play something?"

"Pagliacci-prologo," Barak commanded—and instantly out of that little creature began to come a volume of sound I would not have believed possible.

An orchestra? You bet Purry was an orchestra. Not just your skimpy thirty-piece opera bunch, either, but what sounded like the Chicago Symphony or the New York Philharmonic with all the seats in the pit filled, all ready for Mahler. It began:

"Dum dee-dum, dum . . . deedle-eedle-eedle-ee . . ."

It was the opening notes of the introduction to the Pagliacci prologue, as fine as I'd ever heard it played. I could make out every instrument, all from that one ocarina-shaped body that pulsed and swelled as it puffed air through all its holes.

Thank heaven, there are several bars of the introduction before the baritone has to come in. It gave me a chance to get my wits together, if not my voice. So when my cue came I was right there. There was a bad moment when I took a deep breath for the opening and almost strangled on that Parisian-pissoir stink that had hit me when I first entered the room, but I recovered and sang out:

 

Si puo! Si puo.

Signori! Signore!

Scusatemi, se solo mi presento . . .

 

And so on right to the end of the aria. It certainly wasn't the best performance of my life. But for somebody who didn't really have much of a voice left I belted it out pretty good, even hitting real close to that hard A-flat near the end that gives everybody trouble. I almost expected applause when I finished.

I didn't get any. Barak was silent for a moment. Then he said, "Purry-go-now. Shipperton-wait-outside."

Shipperton just got up and left. The little ocarina said politely, "Thank you, Barak. So long, Mr. Stennis; see you later. You were great!"

But I knew that wasn't true, and I hadn't heard from the impresario himself. I never waited for the next morning's reviews with more impatience than I waited to hear what that shiny starfish thought of my singing.

I never did hear that. After a silent moment, his arms writhing and his eyes wandering all over the room, all he pumped out was, "I-want-to-give-you . . . fatherly-advice."

That took me aback, because for a moment there I had almost forgotten about Marlene and Irene and Narabedla and the fact that the genius I was singing for was only a stinking starfish. I had almost felt like a real singer again.

Barak brought me down. I waited for the "fatherly advice" without joy. I'd never had much satisfaction out of it from my own father, and didn't expect any from a starfish.

I was right. He flailed three or four arms in my general direction. "Knollwood-Stennis!" he blatted. "You-live-by-rules-here!"

I said, "I beg your pardon? What rules are you talking about?"

"Rules-of-behavior! You-talk-go-home . . . okay-no-crime. But-you-hurt-somebody . . . you-get-hurt-back! You-kill-you-die! Not-counting-servants-of-course. Now-you-go!"

 

 

 

 

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Framed