I don’t want to hear advice from anybody who hasn’t walked the fifteen yards.
—Buddy Hackett On Comedy Executives
When Rogers and Dunphy arrived in the Theater District, there were crowds still trying to get into the performance. Rumors were flying; people were discussing nervously what they had seen. Brenda Woolley shot in broad daylight. Would she or wouldn’t she pull through? Security had been beefed up, but the scalpers were still busy at their trade. Inside, there was the expectant hum of a full house. It was packed. They wasted a little time pushing through the crowd taking their seats.
“See anyone you recognize?”
“Not a soul,” said Dunphy.
Kyle emerged from the shadows. “So far as we can tell, they’ve got the stage door locked up. There are too many folks around to try and take it. How’s Miss Woolley?”
“Touch and go,” said Rogers.
Kyle shook his head and ushered them through a tiny door into the backstage area. They stood for a second getting their bearings. It was very dark. A cavernous space extended up into blackness above their heads, from whence dangled a bewildering array of ropes and pulleys. As they looked around this strange world, utter darkness contrasted with bright pools of light. Dancers stood and stretched their limbs or dipped their toes into resin boxes. Harassed people with headsets ran around shepherding extras and fetching props. Nobody seemed to be in charge, though the air crackled with electrostatic conversations.
“The Props are down this way,” said Kyle.
They ran down some dusty stairs and cautiously slowed as they entered the Props Department. Ahead of them was a large caged area. Dunphy pointed. In one corner of the cage a security door was shattered.
Kyle drew his weapon and moved forward in a crouch.
“Okay, let’s do it,” said Rogers.
They went in fast and low. A figure was leaning over an open crate.
“Freeze,” yelled Rogers.
“Who do we have here?” said Dunphy.
“Guy fucking Fawkes by the look of it,” said Kyle, whistling at the arms packed in the crates.
The figure turned around.
“Sorry, chaps,” said Keith.
“Those who ignore history are condemned to repeat it,” said Josef from behind them.
“Nice toys,” said Rogers, staring into the barrels of the arms pointed at him.
“Santa has been very kind,” said Josef.
“Welcome one and all, laddies,” said McTurk.
“Peter McTurk,” said Dunphy, “what the hell are you doing in this dubious company?”
“Shut up,” said McTurk, slapping him hard across the face.
“Now, now, Peter, there’s no need for that,” said Josef. “I know how you feel.”
McTurk nodded. “I gotta go check on the control room. They should have made contact by now.”
“Good for you. Sven, why don’t you go with him?”
McTurk hesitated. “Best he stays with you, Josef. I can take care of them.”
Josef looked at him evenly. He seemed to be making a decision. “All right, Peter,” he said eventually, “off you go.” Sven sat down. They watched McTurk exit.
“Marvelous what we can do with technology, isn’t it?”
“Why don’t we just talk about this before anybody does anything silly,” said Rogers.
“Cut the crap,” said Josef, “and sit down.”
They did as they were told. Dunphy was calculating the weaponry. Something puzzled him. They had enough for a good firefight, but that was all. How were they going to take Mars? They were a ludicrous threat. It was a joke. Now McTurk was gone, there were only six of them here. Suppose there were seven of them upstairs, and perhaps a further five or six in various parts of the ship—what possible chance did they have?
“Listen, pal, we can help you get out of here.”
“For what?”
“You haven’t enough men to take this ship, let alone Mars.”
“Mars?”
“Aren’t you going to Mars?”
“Heavens no. We just need the show.”
“The Brenda Woolley show?”
“Yes. Such a pity poor dear Brenda is indisposed.”
“Is that why you shot Redhead?”
The others glanced at Josef but said nothing.
“Nice try,” said Josef. “I shall be making a little announcement on the show.”
Rogers and Dunphy looked at each other, puzzled.
“Let’s see how they like it. Hoist with their own petard, as it were.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Snowball,” said Josef with a smile. “Since they are happy enough to destroy our homelands, let’s see how they like it themselves.”
“Jesus,” said Dunphy, “he’s going to divert one of the icebergs.”
“Where are you sending it?”
“Clarketown.”
There was a silence.
“There are five million people in Clarketown,” said Dunphy after a moment.
“That is why they will cooperate. You see, we don’t have to leave the ship. We don’t even have to leave the theater.”
“That’s wicked,” said Kyle.
“Oh, and is it wicked to want to save our homes? Is it wicked to want to stop a hell of ice crashing from the sky, drowning our fields, destroying our lands?”
“It’s desert.”
“It’s desert to you. We live there. Why is this wicked and not that?”
“Josef, this is madness.”
“No it’s not. People always say it’s madness when they mean they don’t like it.”
“Five minutes to show time,” said a voice, echoing round the cage. “This is it, boys and girls. Opening number. Places, please. We are live in five minutes.”
“And now if you will excuse me,” said Josef. “That is my cue.”