APPLAUSE

APPLAUSE

GEORGE A. RICKER

It was utterly silent. The dark beyond the footlights took all that she gave but offered nothing in return. Had it not been for the rare glint of light reflected off an eye and the occasional rustling of a wing case as one of the members of the audience shifted position, she would have thought she was playing to a deserted theater.

Marcia Consuela O'Toole was regarded as one of that handful of stage actresses to whom the word "great" might apply with some accuracy. It was an unusual accomplishment for one of her years. In her late 20s, she had achieved a stature in the profession normally reserved for seasoned veterans who were her seniors by decades.

Her latest reviews were typical of the sort of notices that had come to be expected of her.

"This young actress has no equals, and there are few among her peers who are ever likely to come close." That had been Bennett of the Galactic Standard.

J. Thurlowe Crowe of the Starline Dispatch had written, "O’Toole is a playwright’s dream. She conveys more emotional nuance with a gesture or a glance than most performers can muster with their most flamboyant histrionics."

Those were just a few of the accolades she had received. They were not unusual.

But it didn’t matter now. It made no difference how skilled, how talented, an actress had to have an audience to play to. And for all of the connection she had been able to establish with this audience, it might as well not have been there at all.

She got through the first act, somehow, and stormed off the stage to her dressing room to prepare for the second. Her dresser already had slipped out of its tank and was holding the various pieces of her costume in four of its ten appendages. It blushed a deep rose color, as she entered the room. The color indicated its pleasure at her appearance and its approval of her performance. The dresser’s tank was equipped with an aud-vid hook-up to the stage so it could monitor the performance and be ready when needed.

"Thanks Raoul," Marcia tried to mask her anger; the creatures were so sensitive. "I wish I felt as good about it as you seem to."

Carmody knocked lightly on the door about 30 seconds after she had entered.

"Go away. You don’t want to come in here right now. I might say something we both will regret later."

She gave up on trying to suppress her anger. Better to let it out now than to have it come boiling up on stage. Raoul trembled slightly, as it continued its work. She patted one soft tentacle reassuringly and was rewarded with a sudden rush of warmth beneath her palm.

Carmody came in anyway.

"I tried to warn you, kid. This is totally different than what you are used to. But ..." She cut him off.

"Different. Different! My god, Carmody, they just sit there. I could as well be performing naked before an audience of eunuchs. They sit there. No applause. No laughter. No reaction of any kind. At this point, I would even welcome a boo or a hiss. At least then I would know I was playing to a live crowd. What’s wrong with them? Don’t they like the play? Don’t they like me?" She stammered to a halt, wondering if anyone outside had heard. It wouldn’t do to infect the rest of the cast with her misgivings.

"Marcia, stop it. You just do not understand the Drekkanthi. I know it is difficult, but you cannot start doubting yourself now. You were very good in the first act. There was a little drop in energy there at the end, but, considering your emotional state, that is not surprising. and it’s nothing that can't be recouped with a brilliant second act."

He paused. Out of breath. It was a long speech for Stephen Carmody, normally so terse. A complete sentence was the equivalent of a dramatic monologue for the director.

Her mood somewhat lighter now that she had vented her ire on him, Marcia suppressed a giggle as she suddenly recalled the fantasies she had created about the director before meeting him. Somehow, the Stephen Carmody in her mind had been lean and solid, about 20 years younger and blessed with a dark visage that was attractive and mysterious.

She had been totally unprepared for the real man when she met him. Totally unprepared for the graying, dumpy man who stood behind her now and studied her face in the dressing mirror as she applied her makeup. No, the real Carmody was definitely not the stuff her dreams were made of.

However, one thing she had known about him was true and made up for the disappointment in other, less important areas. He was, unquestionably, the most gifted director in the business. If she was among a select few who stood at the top of her profession, Carmody stood alone and unchallenged at the apex of his own. The man was a genius. Or, at least, so she had thought until this opening. Now she was not so sure.

She concentrated on applying the makeup. That was one task Raoul could not perform for her. The dresser had finished changing her and was now busily arranging the costume she had worn in the first act so it would be ready for tomorrow's performance.

Marcia frowned at Carmody in the mirror and began to age herself. She had to gain a half-century in about ten minutes. It was no mean feat, but she had learned the art from a master. As she listened to her director, wrinkles magically appeared, and the flesh beneath her chin began to sag and pouch. She always loved the transformation. Of course, it didn’t hurt that she knew the changes were only temporary and could be undone even more quickly when the performance was over.

"Look Marcia, let me try to explain them to you. Do you know what is going on out there right now?" He waited for an answer.

"They are telling dirty jokes? Hell, Carmody, how should I know? You are supposed to be the expert." She glanced at him.

"Nothing."

"What do you mean ‘nothing’?"

"Just that. Right now, they are sitting at rest, remembering the last moment before the curtain went down at the end of the first act. When you go back out there, it will be as though you had never left. It’s some kind of meditation thing they do. I don’t know how it works. They just do it."

"I don’’t understand."

"I know you don’t. That's why I'm trying to help. What do you think of them?"" His eyes caught hers in the mirror.

"Well. They are supposed to be intelligent. They look like huge, fur-covered cockroaches. You told us they keep the house-lights turned off because they know humans find their appearance repulsive." She slapped the top of the dressing table in exasperation. "Carmody, I don’t know what you want from me. All I know is I came all this way to do this play with you, and I am bombing out there."

"But you're not. That's what I am trying to explain. The Drekkanthi are probably the best audience you will ever perform for. But they do not respond to drama like most audiences." He paused.

"For them it’’s real."

He held up his hand to silence her. "I know that sounds absurd, but it happens to be true. They are a race of empaths. They feel your performance as if it were actually happening to them. That is why they don't respond. They are totally caught up in the story. The play happens within them as much as it does on stage.

"And they will respond to the play and to your performance. Be ready for that because it is something you never have experienced before. Just don't make the mistake of assuming you are not reaching them because you don't hear them reacting during the play. It is not their way."

She stood and faced him, "But this is ridiculous Stephen. How can I give a good performance with an audience like that? I mean, it's like flying an air car without instruments in a fog?"

"Do you remember your first time?"

She glared at him. It was not the sort of thing she expected from Carmody. He was the consummate professional.

He blushed under the stare.

"No, not that. That's not what I mean at all. I mean the first time you really knew you had the audience. It must have happened at an early age for you, but I am sure you remember it. Every actor does. That first time when you knew you had them and, more importantly, knew if your skill was equal to the task, you could take them anywhere you wanted to go."

"Of course, but what ... ." Her voice trailed off.

"When you go out on stage for the second act, remember that feeling. Ignore the audience. Concentrate on the play and what you want to do with it. Concentrate on living the role, on being the character." He paused.

"Look, I know it's a tall order. You don't know how long I have waited for you. Oh, I don't mean you specifically, but someone with your gift. It's such a rare thing, that gift. This play is more than most. I wanted to do it here because I know what it will mean to the Drekkanthi and what it will tell them about us.

"But I waited until you came along because there was no one who could bring it off. If I hadn't thought you were equal to the challenge of the material and the audience, I would never have brought you here."

She could see the fire in him. Knew he meant every word. "But, oh god, Carmody, what if you are wrong about me, about them?"

"Just go out there and do it. Forget about them. The play, as we say, is the thing. It will work. Trust me. Trust yourself."

With that the director left the room. Marcia busied herself putting the final touches on her makeup and tried to follow his suggestion. By the time the buzzer softly reminded her it was time to return to the stage, she thought —— she hoped —— she was ready.

The play was a new treatment of a classic tale. At the end of the 21st century, when it had become apparent that the idea of space colonization had ceased to be just another fantasy of science fiction writers and was now a necessity for the survival of the species and for the continued health of earth itself, the first wave of human migration had begun.

And it was in that first wave that the story of the lost colony of Terranova had been shaped. Under the leadership, first, of Captain Arthur Wilkerson and, later, of his widow, Garnet, the colony had been established on a planet that —— in spite of the preliminary indications, which all had been positive —— simply could not support human life at anything except a subsistence level.

Act I of "The Gift" had detailed the struggles of the early colonists to establish themselves on Terranova, the death of Captain Wilkerson in a freak accident, and the emergence of Garnet as the new leader of the colony. A woman of remarkable intelligence and beauty, she could lead the ruling council with an iron hand when needed and the time would come when she would need every bit of that skill.

That was the story in Act II.

An older, wizened Garnet Wilkerson led the Terranova council to its most fateful decision. The youth of the settlement would be sent on to find another home for the colony. The older generation, made up of the adults who had made landfall on Terranova —— most of whom had been born on the ship en route to the planet —— would remain behind.

This play, based on the fictional holographic history of the same name that had been created by one of Wilkerson's descendants in the last century —— 600 years after the event it memorialized, took the position that the elders had known they would not live to see the mission succeed, had known that they would be dead long before the young ones would have the opportunity to find a new home and return for them.

It was a point that had been disputed in the intervening centuries. Many historians had argued that the fate of the colony on Terranova had simply been bad luck, that the old ones who had stayed behind had done so in the expectation that their offspring would come back for them, and that the meteor shower that had hit the planet and destroyed all trace of the colony and the colonists had unexpectedly circumvented that planning.

What could not be disputed was the outcome of the event. The younger generations had set off on a voyage that would take them 20 years and would tax the resources of the ship and its crew. With most of the passengers in the coldsleep chambers and not consuming any provisions, the crew still nearly ran out of food. Had the seniors come along, the voyage would have been a disaster, and it was unlikely any would have survived the journey.

And the central figure in all that happened had been Garnet Wilkerson. She had been the one who argued the urgency of the mission, sending her own family away with the rest. She had convinced the council that it would be unwise for the older generation to go, because of the strain their presence would place on the resources of the ship, and had convinced the young ones, including her own son who would serve as captain of the voyage, that it would be better for all concerned if they set about finding the new home for the colony and then returned for her and the others only when the new colony was under way.

Whether she did all of that knowing of the approach of the meteor shower or not was not clear from the historical record. Certainly, the colonists had technology available to them that might have warned them of the doom streaking toward them. However, cynics argued that, preoccupied as they must have been with the day-to-day struggle for existence, there was precious little time available for studying the heavens.

Marcia was well aware of the controversies surrounding the history of the lost colony of Terranova. As always, she had researched the role before agreeing to take the part and had done even more exhaustive study of the circumstances of the event and of the life and times of Garnet Wilkerson once she had signed the contract. She loved the part because it challenged her as few had. And it wasn't just the task of playing a much older woman in the second act. It was more the challenge of how to play a woman who, by all accounts, had been both domineering and extremely feminine at the same time. Garnet had buried two husbands - Wilkerson being the second - and had enjoyed the affections of several lovers since her second husband’’s demise.

The holographs of Garnet at seventy showed a woman with a figure that had thickened somewhat but was still trim and attractive. But more than her physical beauty, there was in her manner an undercurrent of sensuality that made her seem vibrant and alive, even across the centuries. Marcia tried to imagine and recreate the force the woman would have had in real life, a presence that was only hinted at in the hologram.

As she approached the stage for the second act, the actress submerged herself once again in the character of a woman she had never met, a sister with whom she felt a strong kinship across the centuries. It wasn't just a matter of remembering the lines, that was the easy part. It was a question of becoming another person and having the art and skill to project that person to the audience seated and still in the dark beyond the footlights.

Carmody watched as the young actress stepped on stage and breathed a small sigh of relief as he saw the power with which she resumed her performance.

In the last half of the Third Millennium, humankind had spread through the galaxy and had learned, to the surprise of some and the relief of others, that there were other intelligences, other civilizations already in place. Some of those civilizations were advanced, others were not. But after a period of initial reluctance, the human species joined with the other sentient species and became part of the galactic family.

The Drekkanthi were one such species. Their society existed below the surface of the planets they had colonized and featured a culture that was rich and exotic. Chiefly they relied on their superior skills as miners and metallurgists. A number of rare minerals existed in the Drekkanthi system and had become its primary export.

More important for Carmody’’s purposes, however, the Drekkanthi also were artisans of the first order. Because they lived an existence in darkened caverns, they had developed acute sensory equipment and abilities that bordered on the psychic. They were, as he had told Marcia, a race of empaths, sensitive to emotional nuance to a degree that was unusual among all the species he had met.

Cultural exchange was common among the eight intelligent species known to exist in the galaxy. To promote understanding among species that were so different, it was a necessity. And for the human species, at least, live dramatic productions had been found to be among the most effective vehicles for that exchange.

This was Carmody's third trip to the Drekkanthi system, and this play was by far the most ambitious he had undertaken there. Without Marcia to play the role of Garnet Wilkerson, he knew the play would not have worked as well, might not have worked at all. But with her in the lead, he felt confident of its reception. He also knew that once the actors had experienced Drekkanthi applause —— or what took its place, they would be hooked. The creatures gave no feedback during a performance, but they more than made up for it at the end.

The director never ceased to marvel at the endurance of theatrical drama. It would be the subject of a book he planned to write one day. Throughout human history, from the earliest civilizations to the modern era, drama had endured. Plays with live actors, performed before live audiences had continued to be a staple of entertainment in spite of all the technological changes that had come and gone. Plays by ancient Greeks were performed in festivals along with works by Shakespeare, O'Neil, Inge and Ibsen. And the art itself had been relatively unaffected by the changing technology.

Oh, it was true that holographic imagery helped immensely when designing sets, and new sound systems could create marvelous acoustics even in the worst settings. Costumes and makeup had changed less, and the basics had changed not at all. You still needed a great script, talented performers, a capable director and qualified people in the support positions offstage. With all that in place, and a bit of luck along the way, you might be successful. Without all the elements, even if you had the luck, your chances were very slim indeed, regardless of the technological wizardry that could be brought in to aid a shoddy production.

And despite the endless possibilities inherent in old technologies and new from virtual reality and holographic projection to compgene implanting and all the rest, audiences —— even some non-human audiences like the Drekkanthi —— still seemed to prefer the real thing.

Of course, Carmody also was extremely grateful for that, since it was the field he had chosen first as an actor and then as a director. While he would never earn the fortunes that were made in more commercial fields of endeavor, his annual income was sufficient to keep him in the style to which he was accustomed. And there were the fringes to consider. The satisfaction he got from doing it. The respect of his peers. All the rest.

His attention turned back to the stage. It was the final scene of the play.

Garnet and her son embraced. There were no tearful good-byes. Those had been said the night before. She and the elders watched as the commander boarded his shuttle for the last trip to the star cruiser.

The light from the shuttle's rockets illuminated the small group left there on the surface of a dying planet.

"We‘ll be back for you," the young ones had promised.

But those left behind knew it was a promise that would not, could not, be kept.

And as the last light from the rocket faded from Garnet‘‘s face, it seemed to collect in a single tear sliding down a careworn cheek. The curtain dropped.

After a brief pause Marcia stepped through to face her audience and was welcomed, at first, by the rhythmic clattering of wing-cases. It was enthusiastic enough, and she supposed it was the closest the Drekkanthi could come to applause. But it was somewhat disappointing. After the build-up Carmody had given her, she had expected more.

Then she felt it. Her knees nearly buckled as wave after wave of intense emotion swept over her, as the audience gave back to her what she had given to it during her performance. But the emotional energy she had sent out into the dark beyond the footlights had been enhanced and changed by the audience‘‘s reaction to it. So what came back was stronger, a feedback amplified by hundreds of consciousnesses that had experienced the play and played back for her, in a sudden surge of emotion, what the play had meant to them.

Just as she thought she would collapse under the intensity of it, Carmody was there beside her, his arm around her waist for support, whispering, "Take a deep breath, Marcia, and bow. You were great!" It went on for about twenty minutes as the rest of the cast and crew joined her. All of them felt it, all were affected by it. But none so deeply as Marcia.

Carmody explained later, "Each of us felt some of it, but you probably got the most intense reaction because you had given so much in your performance. And the reactions, while similar, will vary from audience to audience. The Drekkanthi are no more monolithic than any other species. However, I think you'll find they will like the play." He was right. "The Gift" would run for a long time, even by his standards.

And for Marcia Consuela O'Toole, the dark beyond the footlights, which had seemed so cold and unresponsive on opening night, now throbbed and pulsed with the charged emotion waiting to be released at the end of her performance.

For Carmody also had been right about that. She never had performed before a better audience.

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BL Corcoran