The Stardance Trilogy (11 page)

It seemed that we were occupying the only portion of the room that was not intensely fascinating. They knew. They watched TV, they read the papers. Even as we watched, one of the students stepped out in front of the rest. “All right,” she said to them, “let’s take it from the top, I’ll give you three for nothing and—
one
,” and the whole group resumed their workout. The new leader would not meet Norrey’s eyes, refused to accept or even acknowledge the gratitude there—but she seemed to be smiling gently, as she danced, at nothing in particular.

Norrey turned back to me. “I’ll have to change.”

“Not much, I hope.”

She grinned again and was gone. My cheeks itched, and when I absently scratched them I discovered that they were soaking wet.

The afternoon outdoors struck us both with wonder. New colors seemed to boil up out of the spectrum and splash themselves everywhere in celebration of fall. It was one of those October days of which, in Toronto anyway, one can say either “Gee, it’s chilly” or “Gee, it’s warm” and be agreed with. We walked through it together arm in arm, speaking only occasionally and then only with our eyes. My stuffed head began to clear; my leg throbbed less.

Le Maintenant was still there then, but it looked shabbier than ever. Fat Humphrey caught sight of us through the kitchen window as we entered and came out to greet us. He is both the fattest happy man and the happiest fat man I’ve ever seen. I’ve seen him outdoors in February in his shirt sleeves, and they say that once a would-be burglar stabbed him three times without effect. He burst through the swinging doors and rushed toward us, a mountain with a smile on top. “Mist’ Armstead, Miz Drummond! Welcome!”

“Hey there, Fat,” I called out, removing my filters, “God bless your face. Got a good table?”

“Sure thing, in the cellar somewheres, I’ll bring it up.”

“I’m sorry
I
brought it up.”

“There’s certainly
some
thing wrong with your upbringing,” Norrey agreed drily.

Fat Humphrey laughing aloud is like an earthquake in the Canadian Rockies. “Good to see you, good to see you both. You been away to long, Mist’ Armstead.”

“Tell you about it later, Fat, okay?”

“Sure thing. Lemme see: you look like about a pound of sirloin, some bake’ potato, peas Italian hold the garlic and a bucket of milk. Miz Drummond, I figure you for tuna salad on whole wheat toast, side of slice’ tomatoes and a glass of skim milk. Salad all around. Eh?”

We both burst out laughing. “Right again, as usual. Why do you bother to print menus?”

“Would you believe it? There’s a law. How would you like that steak cooked?”

“Gee, that’d be terrific,” I agreed, and took Norrey’s coat and filtermask. Fat Humphrey howled and slapped his mighty thigh, and took my own gear while I was hanging Norrey’s. “Been missin’ you in this joint, Mist’ Armstead. None of these other turkeys know a straight line when they hear it. This way.” He led us to a small table in the back, and as I sat down I realized that it was the same table Norrey and Shara and I had shared so long ago. That didn’t hurt a bit: it felt right. Fat Humphrey rolled us a joint by hand from his personal stash, and left the bag and a packet of Drums on the table. “Smoke hearty,” he said and returned to the kitchen, his retreating buttocks like wrestling zeppelins.

I had not smoked in weeks; at the first taste I started to buzz. Norrey’s fingers brushed mine as we passed the digit, and their touch was warm and electric. My nose, which had started to fill as we came indoors, flooded, and between toking and honking the joint was gone before a word had been spoken. I was acutely aware of how silly I must look, but too exhilarated to fret about it. I tried to review mentally all that must be said and all that must be asked, but I kept falling into Norrey’s warm brown eyes and getting lost. The candle put highlights in them, and in her brown hair. I rummaged in my head for the right words.

“Well, here we are,” is what I came up with.

Norrey half smiled. “That’s a hell of a cold.”

“My nose clamped down twenty hours after I hit dirt, and I’ve never properly thanked it. Do you have any
idea
how rotten this planet smells?”

“I’d have thought a closed system’d smell worse.”

I shook my head. “There’s a smell to space, to a space station I mean. And a p-suit can get pretty ripe. But Earth is a
stew
of smells, mostly bad.”

She nodded judiciously. “No smokestacks in space.”

“No garbage dumps.”

“No sewage.”

“No cow farts.”

“How did she die, Charlie?”

Oof
. “Magnificently.”

“I read the papers. I
know
that’s bullshit, and…and you were
there
.”

“Yeah.” I had told the story over a hundred times in the last three weeks—but I had never told a
friend,
and I discovered I needed to. And Norrey certainly deserved to know of her sister’s dying.

And so I told her of the aliens’ coming, of Shara’s intuitive understanding that the beings communicated by dance, and her instant decision to reply to them. I told her of Shara’s slow realization that the aliens were hostile, territorially aggressive, determined to have our planet for a spawning ground. And I told her, as best I could, of the
Stardance
.

“She danced them right out of the solar system, Norrey. She danced everything she had in her—and she had all of us in her. She danced what we are, what she was, and she scared them silly. They weren’t afraid of military lasers, but she scared ’em right the hell back to deep space. Oh, they’ll be back some day—I don’t know why, but I feel it in my bones. But it might not be in our lifetime. She told them what it is to be human. She gave them the Stardance.”

Norrey was silent a long time, and then she nodded. “Uh huh.” Her face twisted suddenly. “But why did she have to die, Charlie?”

“She was done, honey,” I said and took her hand. “She was acclimated all the way to free fall by then, and it’s a one-way street. She could never have returned to Earth, not even to the one-sixth gee in Skyfac. Oh, she could have lived in free fall. But
Carrington
owns everything in free fall except military hardware—and she didn’t have any more reason to take anything from him. She’d danced her Stardance, and I’d taped it, and she was done.”

“Carrington,” she said, and her fingers gripped my hand fiercely. “Where is he now?”

“I just found out myself this morning. He tried to grab all the tapes and all the money for Skyfac Incorporated, i.e., him. But he’d neglected to have Shara sign an actual contract, and Tom McGillicuddy found an airtight holograph will in her effects. It leaves everything fifty-fifty to you and me. So Carrington tried to buy a probate judge, and he picked the wrong judge. It would have hit the news this afternoon. The thought of even a short sentence in one gee was more than he could take. I think at the last he convinced himself that he had actually loved her, because he tried to copy her exit. He bungled it. He didn’t know anything about leaving a rotating Ring, and he let go too late. It’s the most common beginner’s error.”

Norrey looked puzzled.

“Instead of becoming a meteorite like her, he was last seen heading in the general direction of Betelgeuse. I imagine it’s on the news by now.” I glanced at my watch. “In fact, I would estimate that he’s just running out of air about now—if he had the guts to wait.”

Norrey smiled, and her fingers relaxed. “Let’s hold that thought,” she purred.

If captured—don’t let them give you to the women.

The salad arrived then. Thousand Islands for Norrey and French for me, just as we would have ordered if we’d thought of it. The portions were unequal, and each was
precisely
as much as the recipient felt like eating. I don’t know how Fat Humphrey does it. At what point does that kind of empathy become telepathy?

There was further sporadic conversation as we ate, but nothing significant. Fat Humphrey’s cuisine demanded respectful attention. The meal itself arrived as we were finishing the salad, and when we had eaten our fill, both plates were empty and the coffee was cool enough to drink. Slices of Fat’s fresh apricot pie were produced warm from the oven, and reverently dealt with. More coffee was poured. I took some pseudoephedrine for my nose. The conversation reawoke groggily, and there was only one question left for her to ask now so I asked her first.

“So what’s happening with you, Norrey?”

She made a face. “Nothing much.”

Lovely answer. Push.

“Norrey, on the day there is nothing much happening in your life, there’ll be honest government in Ottawa. I hear you stood still, once, for over an hour—but the guy that said it was a famous liar. Come on, you know I’ve been out of touch.”

She frowned, and that was it for me, that was the trigger. I had been thinking furiously ever since I came off standby in Norrey’s arms back at the studio, and I had already figured out a lot of things. But the sight of that frown completed the process; all at once the jumble in my subconscious fell into shape with an almost audible click. They can come that way, you know. Flashes of insight. In the middle of a sentence, in a microsecond, you make a quantum jump in understanding. You look back on twenty years of blind stupidity without wincing, and perceive the immediate future in detail. Later you will marvel—at that instant you only accept and nod. The Sicilians have a thing like it, that they call
the thunder-bolt
. It is said to bring deep calm and great gravity. It made me break up.

“What’s so funny?”

“Don’t know if I can explain it, hon. I guess I just figured out how Fat Humphrey does it.”

“Huh?”

“Tell you later. You were saying…”

The frown returned. “Mostly I wasn’t saying. What’s happening with me, in twenty-five words or less? I haven’t asked myself in quite a while. Maybe too long.” She sipped coffee. “Okay. You know that John Koerner album, the last commercial one he made?
Running Jumping Standing Still?
That’s what I’ve been doing, I think. I’ve been putting out a lot of energy, doing satisfying things, and I’m not satisfied. I’m…I’m almost bored.”

She floundered, so I decided to play devil’s advocate. “But you’re right where you’ve always wanted to be,” I said, and began rolling a joint.

She grimaced. “Maybe that’s the trouble. Maybe a life’s ambition shouldn’t be something that can be achieved—because what do you do then? You remember Koerner’s movie?”

“Yeah.
The Sound of Sleep
. Nutball flick, nice cherries on top.”

“Remember what he said the meaning of life was?”

“Sure. ‘Do the next thing.’” I suited action to the word, licked it, sealed it and twisted the ends, then lit it. “Always thought it was terrific advice. It got me through some tough spots.”

She toked, held it and exhaled before replying. “I’m ready to do the next thing—but I’m not sure what that is. I’ve toured with the company, I’ve soloed in New York, I’ve choreographed, I’ve directed the whole damn school and now I’m an artistic director. I’ve got full autonomy now; I can even teach a class again if I feel like it. Every year from now until Hell freezes TDT’s repertoire will include one of my pieces, and I’ll always have superb bodies to work with. I’ve been working on childhood dreams all my life, Charlie, and
I hadn’t thought ahead any farther than this when I was a kid
. I don’t know what ‘the next thing’ is. I need a new dream.”

She toked again, passed it to me. I stared at the glowing tip conspiratorially, and it winked at me. “Any clues? Directions at least?”

She exhaled carefully, spoke to her hands. “I thought I might like to try working one of those commune-companies, where everybody choreographs every piece. I’d like to try working with a group-head. But there’s really no one here I could start one with, and the only existing group-head that suits me is New Pilobolus—and for that I’d have to live in
America
.”

“Forget that.”

“Hell, yes. I…Charlie, I don’t know, I’ve even thought of chucking it all and going out to PEI to farm. I always meant to, and never really did. Shara left the place in good shape, I could…oh, that’s crazy. I don’t really want to farm. I just want
something new
. Something different. Unmapped territory, something that—Charlie Armstead, what the hell are you grinning about?”

“Sometimes it’s purely magical.”

“What?”

“Listen. Can you hear them up there?”

“Hear who?”

“I oughta tell Humphrey. There’s gonna be reindeer shit all over his roof.”

“Charlie!”

“Go ahead, little girl, tug on the whiskers all you want—they’re real. Sit right here on my lap and place your order. Ho ho ho. Pick a number from one to two.”

She was giggling now; she didn’t know why but she was giggling. “Charlie…”

“Pick a number from one to two.”

“Two.”

“That’s a very good number. A very good number. You have just won one perfectly good factory-fresh dream, with all accessories and no warranty at all. This offer is not available through the stores. A very good number. How soon can you leave town?”

“Leave town! Charlie…” She was beginning to get a glimmer. “You can’t mean—”

“How would you like a half interest in a lot of vacuum, baby? I got
plenty
o’ nuttin’, or at least the use of it, and you’re welcome to all you want. Talk about being on top of the world!”

The giggle was gone. “Charlie, you can’t mean what I think you—”

“I’m offering you a simple partnership in a commune company—a real commune company. I mean, we’ll all have to live together for the first season at least.
Lots
of real estate, but a bit of a housing shortage at first. We’ll spring for expenses, and it’s a free fall.”

She leaned across the table, put one elbow in her coffee and the other in her apricot pie, grabbed my turtleneck and shook me. “Stop babbling and tell me straight, dammit.”

“I am, honey, I am. I’m proposing a company of choreographers, a true commune. It’ll have to be. Company members will live together, share equally in the profits, and I’ll put up all the expenses just for the hell of it. Oh yeah, we’re rich, did I tell you? About to be, anyway.”