Comedy is an escape, not from truth but from despair; a narrow escape into faith.
—Christopher Fry
What’s wrong with Keppler? wondered Rogers. He’s behaving very oddly. They had found him slumped in a chair in his bathrobe. He hardly looked up when they came in. He just sat there slowly sipping cognac from a balloon glass, showing neither surprise nor anger. He seemed indifferent, almost offhand with them as if the whole thing was already over, sitting amongst his fine antiques in his leather armchair.
“We haven’t got much time,” Dunphy was saying.
“That’s right. C’mon, Emil, help us out here. You know what’s going down, don’t you?”
Keppler glanced towards the bathroom door. It was not completely closed. Rogers followed his look. He could see nothing.
“If you help us now,” said Dunphy, “we can cut you a deal.”
Again Keppler said nothing. He just turned his head towards the bathroom door.
Dunphy and Rogers walked away from him for a minute.
“What’s the matter with him?”
“Beats me. He isn’t even rude anymore.”
Dunphy turned and strode over to him. “Look, Emil,” he said, “we’re out of time. We need to know what’s going on right now.”
Again Keppler said nothing, just raised an eyebrow and turned his head.
“Did you bring arms on board this ship?” asked Rogers.
Keppler did not reply.
“All right, let’s say that you did, but you don’t want to admit it. Where would we find these arms?”
Again Keppler glanced towards the bathroom.
“Emil, there is no reason to be afraid. You can trust us.”
He laughed. “Oh sure, I can trust you gentlemen.”
“Listen, Emil,” said Rogers. “Your wife has been shot. She is in critical condition. She was shot by the White Wolves.”
Keppler stood up. His whole demeanor had changed. “This is true?” he asked.
Dunphy nodded in confirmation.
“They shot Brenda.” They could see fury come into his eyes. Rogers saw Keppler steel himself. His eyes hardened. His knuckles whitened as he gripped the edge of the desk for support. Then he suddenly smiled.
“Listen very carefully to me,” he said as he reached forward and pulled open the desk drawer. And then in a rush he said, “The arms are in the secure area, by the Props Department. A man called Josef has…”
The bathroom door swung open, followed by the slight muffled pop of a bullet. Keppler, still smiling, fell over and collapsed on the floor. A gun was in his hand.
Dunphy blazed away at the bathroom door. Pavel fell forward on to the carpet. Dead.
“Jesus,” said Rogers, “we put Keppler under house arrest with a man already inside.”
§
In the distance the orchestra was warming up. Josef with six men was headed down to the secure area. They had large BRENDA WOOLLEY ACCESS ALL AREA PASSES pinned neatly to their chests.
“Oo varda the omes,” said an admiring dressbot as they passed.
“Tell us more, Mrs. Greenaway, about your theory of comedy.”
The Silesians ignored the weird denizens of this strange underworld and headed for the Props Department. There was a simple caged area, marked OFF-LIMITS TO ALL PERSONNEL, which delayed them not at all, then in one corner of this huge cage they found another door, marked SECURE AREA, and more warnings. Sven reached forward and attached something to this door. They all stepped back. Josef nodded. Sven pressed a button and the door imploded. They pushed on into the storeroom. There were six or seven large crates on the floor, each with the word SNOWBALL stenciled on the side. Quickly they prised them open.
“Well, well, well,” said Josef approvingly, “looks like Keppler kept his word. Call Pavel and tell him he can join us.”
They were staring at a large cache of armaments.
After a moment: “Pavel’s not replying, Josef.”
Josef frowned. He looked down at the open crates in front of him, then shrugged. Why worry? It was too late for Keppler to do anything about it anyway. They had their delivery.
“How much time do we have?”
“Less than ten minutes to show time,” said Sven.
There was a slight warning beep from their local intruder alarm. Nervously they fingered their weapons. A man was coming through the caged area.
“Friendly,” said Sven, scanning the readout.
“Peter McTurk,” said Josef, “what kept you?”
“I’ve been cleaning up for you, Josef.”
“Where’s Comus?”
“Oh, he’s quite safe now,” said McTurk. “I took care of him.”
“Took care of him properly?” asked Josef.
McTurk smiled reassuringly. “You won’t see him again, Josef.”
Ambiguity, ambivalence, double-speak. We hear what we want to hear at least 60 percent of the time. “Thank you, Peter,” said Josef.