If a man walks up to you, dressed in earthy clothes, while behaving and moving as if the whole area belongs to him, he must be an astronaut.
This view is perfectly logical. An astronaut's profession makes him feel as if he is in charge of everything in the world; once on Earth, he will inevitably appear to be helping the poor among the people. As to the vulgarity of his style of dress, it is certainly justifiable. It is inconceivable that a man who has spent years in a cosmic suit, better adapted to outer space than to the civilized world, should know how to dress properly. To the clothing merchants he was an unavailable customer, for there was a lot of money to be made out of him. It was said that tailors and clothing merchants gathered around the center of the rocket launching site, trying to sell "ground clothing".
It seems to me that the lanky visitor is wearing a suit cut and sewn by a tent-maker named Marr. The double shoulder padding was oversized and the shorts were cut out of shape. In these clothes, two thickly hairy thighs would be exposed when one sat down, and then there was the wrinkled, sleeveless shirt, so large that it would only fit better over a cow.
I smothered that observation without saying anything, except to buy the astronaut a drink for him with the last fifty cents of gold I had left.
I considered it an investment to do so, as astronauts are always generous spenders. As I clinked glasses, I congratulated this astronaut by saying, "Hot jets!" He quickly swept me off my feet.
I made a mistake in my first dealings with this Tucker Broadbent. Instead of responding to my toast with the terms he was supposed to use, such as "clear channel" and "safe landing," he looked me over carefully from head to toe, then said in a thin voice, "It's good that you've got this enthusiasm, but it's a good thing you're looking for a hot jet. It's great that you have this enthusiasm, but you're barking up the wrong tree. I've never traveled to space."
On such occasions, it's better to keep your mouth shut. It was true that the word pilots didn't often come to the barroom of the Cathermana Inn, which was not to their liking, and it was miles from the center of the rocket launch site. If a guy comes in wearing ground clothes, picks a dark corner, and takes offense to being called an astronaut, that's his business, and I don't give a damn. I picked that same shady corner to sit in, with the intention of seeing the action without being seen - before this, I had moved around and gotten into a small debt, which is no big deal, but it's always embarrassing for people to bump into me. I figured there must be a reason he was looking at this shady place, and as to what it was, I'd better not ask.
But, my voice is usually free and unrestrained, and I can't control it now. So I opened my mouth and chimed in, "Don't give me that, old handler. I'm sure you're not someone living on Earth, but an astronaut on another planet." Seeing the way he carefully raised his glass - a habitual gesture of living in low gravity - I picked up on it and said, "I'll bet you drink more on Mars than you do on Earth."
"Lower your voice!" He interrupted me without moving his lips. "What makes you conclude that I'm an astronaut? You don't even know me."
"I'm sorry," I said, "you can be whatever you like, it's nothing to do with me. However, I do have eyes. You revealed yourself as soon as you walked in."
He lowered his voice and asked, "Showed up how?"
"That's not something you need to worry about. I doubt anyone else will notice it. But I can see things that others can't." I handed him my card, looking more or less smug. Mind you, I was the only unique Lorenzo Smythe on the planet - a one-man theater company. Yes, I am the famous Lorenzo - music in stereo, operas on record or tape, plays, etc. are all indistinguishable from the Lorenzo name. I am "an outstanding artist who specializes in mime and mimicry".
He glanced at my business card and casually slipped it into a pocket on his sleeve - a look that really made me look at him and gasp; they had cost me a lot of money, and the words and designs on them were hand-engraved and imitated to perfection. "I get what you're saying," he said softly, "but is there something wrong with my demeanor?"
"Let me show you," I said, "I imitate the appearance of an ordinary man on Earth, walk to the door, and then walk back as you do. You see." So saying, I performed it for him, walking back from the doorway there. Fearing that his eyesight would not be accustomed to things on the ground, I purposely imitated the movements a little exaggeratedly - both feet sliding lightly on the floor as if walking on iron plates, his body leaning slightly forward to use his hips for balance, and both hands leaving his body slightly to grab things forward.
There are a lot of other details that can't be put into words, but the point is that you have to think of yourself as an astronaut when you learn it: you have to be flexible, and you always do the balancing act unconsciously -- you have to experience it yourself. People living on the ground, walking on smooth or firm ground under normal conditions of Earth's gravity, will always inevitably stumble and fall throughout their lives, even tripping or slipping on cigarette papers and whatnot from time to time.
That doesn't happen to astronauts, however.
"See what I mean?" I asked as I sat down in my original seat.
"I think it's understood," he admitted with a look of annoyance on his face. "Is that how I left it?"
"It went like this."
"Hm...... looks like I'm going to have to ask you to take a class and teach me."
"Then you'll be walking even less like that la!" I told him matter-of-factly.
He sat there motionless, his eyes just gazing at me as if he intended to speak, but then suddenly changed his mind and stopped. He wiggled his fingers a bit and signaled to the waiter to refill his glass. When the wine was served, he actually treated himself to a bill. Once he'd had his drink, he slipped out of his seat with a flourish, moving quickly and cleanly, out of my expectation.
"Wait for me," he said quietly.
The glass of wine he had bought me was placed in front of me, and I felt too overwhelmed by the hospitality to refuse. I wasn't about to say no, either; I'd developed an interest in him. Even though we had only known each other for ten minutes, I liked him. He can be said to be a big man, although his appearance is not good, but not ugly, the woman will look at the heart, the man see obedience.
He crossed the room with a light, dashing gait and walked past the table of four Martians sitting in the doorway. I don't like Martians, and I wouldn't have expected to meet such a monster: looking like a tree trunk with a parasol-like hat over the top, but it's all about the privileges of an Earthling. The limbs that grow on their bodies are false, and it is revolting to look at them. For that look reminds me of a snake that is crawling out of its hole. The way they kind of look at people or things is not pleasant to look at either. They can look in all directions at once without turning their heads (if they have heads alive, which they don't). Also, they give off a weird odor that screams!
I'm sure no one will accuse me of harboring racial prejudice. I've never cared much for the color, race, or religion of anyone, no matter what their color, race, or religion. However, people are always people. Martians, on the other hand, are effectively an object. To me, they don't even look like animals at all. I'd rather have a pig with me someday than this Martian alien, and it just doesn't seem right to me that they should be allowed free access to restaurants and bars reserved for Earthlings. The problem is that the Earthlings and the Martians have signed a treaty, which is clearly stipulated, so what can I do?
The four Martians weren't there when I came in, or I would have shooed them away. They must not have been there yet either when I did my astronaut walk earlier. Now they were standing around a table with padded seats at their feet, pretending to be human. I didn't even hear the air regulator speeding up, so I don't know when they slipped in.
The glass of wine sitting in front of me that someone had already paid for didn't appeal to me much either. I just hoped that the man who had invited me to come back soon so that I could politely bid him farewell, and somehow it occurred to me that just a moment before he had walked out of the bar in a hurry, he had glanced quickly in that direction, and I wondered if the Martian's appearance had had anything to do with his hasty departure. I craned my head to look around, to see again that the Martians weren't paying very much attention to our table-but who could say what the Martians were looking at or thinking? Again, this called to me as revolting.
I sat like this for several minutes, fiddling with my glass as I thought. And then wondered: what had happened to my Word Voyager friend who had generously treated me to a drink? I had hoped that he would continue to be hospitable and take me to dinner again, or that if we had a better conversation he might be generous enough to lend me a small sum of money. As for any other hope - I must admit - it's a long shot.
It's a shame to say. I've telephoned my agent twice recently, and his automated secretary has merely written me down without a word of reply. Unless I have coins to put in the door, I will have no room to go into that night ...... See, I have been reduced to such destitution that I don't even have a roof over my head, and have to make do with sleeping in one of my small bedrooms that opens automatically with a coin.
I tightly locked eyebrows, into the painful contemplation, trying to find a way out of the predicament. It was at this point that a waiter touched my arm and said, "Sir, please answer the phone."
"Oh, yes, I'll listen. Can you bring the telephone to the table, please, my friend?"
"I'm sorry, sir. I can't carry that telephone. Public phone room number twelve is in the porch of the hotel, so you can listen to it yourself!"
"Thanks a lot," I replied dismally, speaking in a tone that seemed as cordial and friendly as possible, since I really didn't have the money for a tip. As I walked out, I made a big detour to avoid the Martians.
After a while, I realized why he couldn't bring the phone up to the desk. Number twelve was an absolutely secure telephone room, in which talking could neither be seen nor heard, and which was equipped with a scrambler to prevent eavesdropping. I couldn't see the image on the fluorescent screen, and even after I went in and locked the door, the screen remained blurry, and it wasn't until I sat down and turned my face to the screen so that the other person could see my image that the hole-white clouds began to dissipate. Only gradually did I see my astronaut friend.
"I'm sorry, I had a bit of an emergency earlier and left without saying goodbye."
He said sharply, "I want you to come to room 2106 of the Eisenhower Hotel immediately."
He offered no explanation. The Eisenhower Hotel, like the Cathermena Inn, is not a place astronauts like to come.
I realized there had to be something in it for him to ask me to go: one doesn't just happen to meet a stranger in a wine bar and insist that he go to a private hotel room-hey, at least one doesn't always ask someone of the same gender to go!
"Why would you ask me to go?" I asked.
The astronaut blanched at my question, as if some people who were used to giving orders always demanded absolute obedience and no dissent. With a kind of professional curiosity, I scrutinized his expression - not quite one of anger, but a bit like a kind of thundercloud before a storm. He controlled his feelings and calmly he said, "Well, Lorenzo, there's no time to explain to you, do you want the job or not?"
"Do you mean a professional job?" I slowed down he said. At once I was stunned. I was a little skeptical that he would let me do ...... Ugh, you know - he was talking about a job. Up until now, despite my bad luck, repeated setbacks, and a lot of sour, sweet, bitter, and spicy, I've always been proud of my profession.
"Oh, of course it's professional!" He immediately interjected. "We need to identify the best of the best actors."
I really felt infinite relief at hearing that, but didn't let it show on my face. Indeed, I actually had it in my heart to do any kind of professional work - even to play no part whatsoever in a production of 'Zoomeo and Juliet', to serve only as a balcony and as a prop was willing - but, in my heart of hearts, I thought, I must not show too much eagerness.
"How long is the employment for?" I asked, "My schedule is pretty full." He took my words in stride and simply ignored them.
"I can't say over the phone. Perhaps you don't understand the wonders of this type of telephone; with the proper equipment, destroying the scrambler is a no-brainer. Any anti-scrambling wiring is likely to fail - you'd better get to me quickly!"
There was a look of urgency on his face, so I had even less use for urgency. "Now I have to ask," I said, defying him, "what kind of character do you think I am? An innkeeper? A fledgling actor playing a child's part? Or a character who just wants to earn the honor of being a runner on stage? Know that I am Lorenzo!" I looked up with feigned disbelief, indicating a great deal of irritation. "How much are you willing to pay?"
"Hey, for fuck's sake, I can't go into details over the phone. How much are you taking right now?"
"What? Are you asking about my salary as an actor?"
"Yes, yes!"
"And do you mean how much you get paid for a show, or by the week, or regular payments on a contract?"
"Hey, it doesn't matter much. How much do you take by the day?"
"The minimum pay for a night's performance is one hundred gold coins." Simple he said, and that was the case. Oh, sometimes I was forced to pay a rather large commission. However, the figure on my receipt will not be less than what I deserve. A man should always have his own standard, or worth. Pay too little and I'd rather starve than work.
"All right, it's settled," he immediately interjected with alacrity, "I'll give you a hundred gold coins in cash as soon as you get here. But be quick!"
"Huh?" I suddenly felt a bit of regret. I could have offered two hundred dollars, or even two hundred and fifty. "But I haven't agreed to accept it yet regarding the deadline."
"That's not a big problem! We'll talk about it when you get here! Even if you refuse, the hundred dollars in cash is still yours. If you accept it - it's a bonus, and we'll figure out the paycheck separately. Stop nagging, now can you come?"
I nodded. "Of course, sir, bear with me."
Thankfully, the Eisenhower Hotel wasn't far from the Cathermena Inn. I was so broke myself that I couldn't even pay for a subway ride. But it was nice to walk on two feet. Even though I'd long since lost my taste for the art of walking, I was still interested in it, and besides, walking would give me time to think things over. I'm no fool; I know that there's something fishy going on when a man is eager to shove a large sum of money down your throat. I had to watch carefully, and I am now certain that this matter involves activities that are either illegal, dangerous and thrifty, or both illegal and risky. I've never been overly concerned with legal mumbo-jumbo, and I agree with Shakespeare that the law often seems like an idiot. On the whole, though, I'm a man of the rules, after all, and have never broken a law, much less a good one.
However, at the moment I do not possess sufficient material in my son to confirm my doubts. With that in mind, I left it alone. I threw my shawl over my right shoulder and stepped out into the street.
The autumn climate is warm and pleasant, coupled with the colorful and flowery scene in the big city, the heart really is a bit fluttering, can be said to be rare and relaxed. To the hotel, I decided not to go through the front door, but from the basement by rapid elevator straight to the 21st floor. At this point I had a vague feeling that I could not be recognized by the audience in such a place. My astronaut friend immediately invited me in.
"You spent a lot of time on the road," he said in a stern voice.
"Did I?" I scanned around for a limit, not going to contradict him. I wasn't surprised: it was an expensive, lavishly furnished guest room, except that it was cluttered.
Only used wine glasses were littered everywhere, at least a dozen of them, and a number of coffee cups were placed over there. It was already easy to tell from such signs that a number of guests had come before me. On the sofa was lying another person, lazily stretching his limbs and staring at me with glaring eyes. From my initial observations, this man was also an astronaut. I gave him a searching look. There was no one to make some introductions for me.
"Hey, you're finally here. Now let's get down to business!"
"Talk! Which reminds me," I then added, "there was some mention of a bonus or an advance or something!"
"Well, good." He turned to the man lying on the couch and said, "Jacques, pay him." "Pay what?"
"Pay him!"
Now I knew who was the superior of the two men - and later I learned that wherever Tucker Borodbent was present, there was no doubt that he was usually in command of everything. When the other man heard Tucker's words, he immediately stood up, his eyes still staring straight at me, and counted out to me one fifty and five ten-dollar gold coins. Without even counting the numbers, I took the money and immediately shoved it casually into my pocket, then said, "Now I'm at your mercy, gentlemen."
The big man bit his lip. "First of all, I want you to make a solemn oath that this is a matter that you cannot talk about, even in your dreams."
"If I simply him say an oath that I promise not to talk about it, then an oath would be good. What do you say?" The small astronaut was still lying on the couch. I glanced at him. "I don't think we've met before. My name is Lorenzo."
He stared at me, but turned his head away. The friend I'd met at the bar said hastily, "Names are irrelevant in such matters."
"Irrelevant? My father, on his deathbed, made me promise to do three things: first, never mix anything but water with whiskey: second, never pay any attention to anonymous letters; and third, never talk to any stranger who won't give his real name. Good-bye, gentlemen." With that I headed straight for the door, the hundred dollars in gold coins in my pocket making my heart feel hot again.
"Stop!" I stopped. Only to hear him continue, "You're absolutely right. My name is ......"
"Captain!"
"Shut up! Jacques! I am Tucker Borodbent. The man staring at us with both eyes is Jacques Dobois. We're all astronauts - capable astronauts, no matter what tonnage or how fast the ship is."
I nodded a little. "Lorenzo Smythe." I said modestly, "A bard and an artist - letters may be forwarded by the Lambeth Club." Actually, I'll have to take it to heart and never forget to pay the dues.
"Come on, Jacques, don't keep a straight face, you can smile now. Lorenzo, you agree to keep this matter of ours a secret?"
"It must be kept secret. It is a gentleman's agreement."
"Whether you take the job or not, from now on you have to keep it a secret?"
"Confidential whether we understand each other and come to an agreement or not. I'm a human being, and weaknesses are inevitable, but as long as I'm not forced to use illegal torture methods, I will never reveal your secrets."
"Lorenzo, I am well aware of what a new anesthetic can do to a person's brain. We are not expecting any miracles."
"Tucker," Dobois couldn't wait he said, "this is going to be a mistake, we have to at least ......"
"Shut up, Jacques. I'm not looking to bring in some hypnotist here and now, Lorenzo, listen, we want you to play a role. Play it so realistically, so exquisitely, that no one - and I mean no one in the great world of the universe - will ever know that it ever happened. Can you do this job?"
I frowned: "The primary question is not 'Can I do it or can't I win?' The most important question is 'Do I want to do it?' What's the specifics? You tell me!"
"Hey, we'll talk about the details later. In a nutshell, it's pretty much the same as if you were playing a celebrity character on a regular basis. The difference is that you're required to be so convincing that even those who know him very well wouldn't recognize him if they looked at him close up. It's not just reviewing a parade from a viewing platform or awarding medals on a Girl Scout, it's not that easy." He gazed at me with a wry, otherworldly gleam, and with an odd look. "It takes the special talents of a veritable artist."
"No way!" I immediately disagreed.
"Hey! You don't know anything about this mission yet, so don't be too quick to take a stand. If you feel guilty about asking, I can assure you that you will never harm that celebrity by playing him, nor will you ever harm anyone else's legitimate interests. In short, the job must be done!"
"No!"
"Hey, Jesus, why not? You don't even know how much we plan to pay you yet!"
"I don't intend to jail any payment!" I said firmly. "I'm an actor, not a substitute for a real person."
"I simply can't figure this out. You really can't call it comprehensible. There are plenty of actors who stand in for celebrities to make some extra bucks!"
"I wouldn't recognize those kinds of people as peers. I'd rather call them whores. I've got to get this straight. Can a writer respect someone who catches a pen for a pen? Would you respect a painter who let others put their name on his work just for the money? The spirit of the artist may be alien to you, sir. But let me explain it in your jargon: if you were the one who actually piloted a spaceship, and someone else, who did not have your skill, was wearing a spacesuit and receiving public praise, and even being hailed as a master astronaut, would you be willing to do that for a little money? Would you do it willingly for a few dollars? Would you?"
"Dobois grunted, "How much?"
Borodbent frowned and glanced at him askance. "I think it's perfectly understandable for you to see it that way and object."
"What is vital to an artist, sir, is honor. Money is merely a means used to create art. Or rather, money is merely a vulgar means."
"Well, well said! So you don't do it for money, so what would you do for other reasons? If you thought it was something you had to do, and that only you could do it, would you do it?"
"If that's the case, that's something to consider! I can't imagine such a thing right now."
Dobois suddenly jumped up from the couch. "Hey, Tucker, you can't ...... you don't have the authority ......"
"Shut up, Jacques! Make sure he knows."
"Right now it's not necessary for him to know, especially here. Besides, you have no right to tell him to the detriment of all the others. Not to mention that you don't really know anything about him at all."
"This was supposed to be a planned adventure." Borodbent turned to me.
Dobois grabbed him by the arm and twisted his body around as hard as he could. "To hell with any planned adventure! Tucker, I've followed you and done everything you wanted, but this time, if you don't stop talking, I'm going to fight you. If one of us gets hurt, we'll never get away with it again!"
Borodbent froze in shock, and he smiled coldly and slightly at Dobois. "You want to show off, don't you, old boy?"
Dobois eyed him angrily, showing no weakness. Borod Bent was a head taller than him and weighed 20 kilos more. It was then that I found myself head over heels in love with Dobois. I had often seen kittens with their teeth and claws, or stumpy chickens with their belligerence, and I had seen little men who would rather die on their feet than live on their knees, and I felt that way at that moment, and was y moved by it. Though I reckoned that Borodbent was not so far gone as to kill him, I could well imagine Dobois being bullied in the future.
I am not going to interfere. Everyone has the right to choose when and how to destroy themselves well!
I saw the tension between the two of them grow, and Borod Bent suddenly let out a laugh and grabbed Dobois by the shoulders.
"Well done, Jacques!" He turned to me and said quietly, "Excuse me for a moment, he and I will have to get together,"
The set of suites had a corner used as a soundproof room, which housed a telephone and an autograph book. Borodbent was seen taking Dobois by the hand and leading him to that corner, where they stood as if arguing about burning military matters.
Soundproofing in a public ****ing place like a hotel is sometimes not ideal, and sound waves inevitably get out as usual. But the Eisenhower Hotel was a luxury-class building, and the quality level of its equipment certainly didn't speak for itself, and would never fail. I could only see their lips moving, but I couldn't hear the sound.
Their lips did move, that I saw. Borodbent's face was turned outward toward me, and I glanced at Dobois in one of the wall mirrors. It reminded me of when I was a child performing my specialty, telekinesis. My father had always spanked me until I learned the talent of understanding what people were saying by watching their lip movements - I used to perform my telekinesis in brightly lit halls, and with glasses - not that there was much of a problem without them at the moment! --I do my best to understand what they are talking about by the movements of their lips.
Dobois seemed to be saying, "Tucker, you cruel and stupid brute, what you are doing and intend to do is entirely illegal and very mean and nasty and unpleasant. Do you want us both to put our money on this fellow, and end up losing it all? This pretentious, sinister villain is bound to end up giving away all the secrets."
I barely heard Borodbent's reply. How dare this fellow call me pretentious? Indeed, I did have a bit of self-appreciation for my own genius, but it never showed on my face.
I consider myself a very modest man.
Borodbent said, "...... It would not matter if the trick became very ingenious, not to mention that it was a unique set of tricks in town? Jacques, there is no one else to be found but to utilize him."
Dobois said, "Well, then Dr. Scordia will be called in to hypnotize him and fill him with wine. Even so, the vital issues should not be told to him, not until he is fully under our control. Especially not while we're still on the ground, it should never be spoken of."
Only Borodbent said, "Well, Skordia himself once told me that to get that man to play that role we need, it won't help by hypnotism or narcotics. We have to win him over so that he will voluntarily cooperate with us."
What Borodbent said, Dobois scoffed at. He said, "What voluntary cooperation? Open your eyes and look at him like that. Can a phoenix come out of a crow's nest? Not bad, he's the right length and shape for his body. His skull also looks quite like that leading figure, but it's likely that he's just migrating; he may be similar in form but not in spirit. Maybe he will suddenly panic or become furious, and as a result, he will give away the secret of the world. In my opinion, he cannot play this role. He's a crappy actor at best!"
If the immortal opera singer Caruso had been criticized for being out of tune, he would have taken it as a great insult. Yet after hearing the above, I suddenly felt that it was a greater insult to me than to Caruso. But I could still be deserving of his claim that I had carried on the traditions of Pabitch and Booth. I continued to polish my nails, trying my best to ignore the words and just remember one thing: one day, I'm going to make my friend Dobois look good. I'm going to make him cry and laugh in twenty seconds. I waited some more time, making to stand up and walk towards the soundproof room. When they saw me trying to get in, they immediately stopped talking. I softly he said, "It's okay gentlemen, I've changed my mind."
Hearing my words, Dobois showed a look of relief. "You don't like doing this job?"
"I meant to say that I accept your mission. And you will not need to explain yourselves. Friend Borodbent has given me his word that this work will not trouble my conscience. I believe him. Since he has told me that he needs me to just work as an actor, the details and specifics relating to stage supervision are of no concern to me. In that case, I'll accept."
Dobois was a little angry, but held his tongue. I guessed that Borodbent would show satisfaction and relief; in fact he did not. He seemed depressed and a little sullen. "All right," he said, as he expressed his agreement, "let's get down to business! Lorenzo, how long we need you to work is still a mystery. A few days at the most, I think. In that time, you'll only have to show up once or twice. About an hour or so each time."
"As long as I'm given plenty of time to work out how to play the role you want me to play, nothing else is too much of a problem. But you'll have to say how many days roughly? I'll have to notify our agent."
"Ho! That won't do! You can't do that."
"Fine, I'll skip the notification. So, how long is it going to take, anyway? Is it going to be as long as a week?"
"No more than a week. If it's that long, we're screwed."
"Oh?!"
"That's okay. What do you think about a hundred gold coins a day? Satisfied?"
I hesitated. Remembering that he had just agreed to meet my minimum requirements in one breath in his eagerness to see me, I now thought that I should be a bit polite as well. The money issue was put aside for now. "Don't talk about it first now. Undoubtedly, the honorarium you offer me will be commensurate with my acting talents. I trust you on that."
"Well, it's better not to talk about it for now." Borodbent turned around a little impatiently. "Jacques, hang up the phone to the launch site first. Then talk to Langston. Tell him the Madigras program is on. Be in close contact with him. Lorenzo ......" He gestured for me to follow him into the bathroom. He opened a small box and asked, "Can you get your hands on one of these fakes?"
What he took out was really "fake", but it turned out to be a kind of make-up that only non-professional actors would use, but the price was particularly expensive. This kind of make-up is specially placed on the counter to sell to those who love vanity and want to be an actor. I sized up the box and looked a little disgusted
.