Sebastian wanted to squash him, though he felt terribly guilty about harboring such desires. And, too, while he hated the prince and the way the prince touched Belina (and hated, even more, the way she reacted, cooing, giggling, enjoying it), chiefly because he could not understand what they were doing, he was not of a mind to take any action because of the bigger fear: that Pertos would deposit them in the Furnace and never bring them out again.
They would be dead. Forever. Liquid flesh without feature.
Dead and forever and no more blond hair and bright eyes.
Because all this upset him so much, he had had an “accident” and he felt miserable. He wanted to change clothes, but he knew he shouldn’t leave the stage until the curtain went up and he knew that there were no last-minute hitches.
By now the puppets had seen what had happened, were pointing and laughing at the dark wet streaks down his pantleg. He saw that even Bitty Belina was laughing, and he was even more upset at this until he decided that, after all, it was funny, his standing there like that, all wet and embarrassed. So he laughed too.
He didn’t want to laugh, really. It was just that not laughing would have made things so much worse. Not laughing would have made him different and made him outside their fun. And he wanted to be inside more than anything else in the world. He always had, but he had never often succeeded in acting right.
Now he was. They all laughed together.
Fortunately, the curtain went up as Pertos operated the controls from the lightman’s perch, and the play began. He could stop laughing when he didn’t want to, and there was no longer any need for him to remain in the wings. Pertos said he should stay there as a communications link before a curtain rose, but Pertos had never called him in five years. He went to his room and changed trousers, which made him feel better. He came back to watch the puppets kissing and fighting, drinking and singing and dancing. Then there was the final shriek of the evil stepmother as the prince drove his sword through Wissa’s neck.
The audience gasped.
Belina stepped from her pedestal and took the prince away, to make love to him, and the curtain fell with a whispering hiss that signaled the time for applause.
It was a good performance and Sebastian felt good.
He had forgotten that the puppets had wanted the ending of the play changed, but he remembered when Belina cursed him as he picked up Wissa’s remains and carried the shattered little body to the Furnace where Pertos would redeposit it and re-create her for the next show.
“You could kill him,” she said.
“Who?”
“Godelhausser,” Belina said.
She looked up at him from a great distance.
“No.” He put Wissa down on the receival tray.
“Yes. You’re big and strong. You could kill him for us. For me” The last was added in a different tone of voice. He felt her hand on his trousers, and he pulled quickly away, terrified but not knowing of what.
Then Godelhausser came and the puppets turned on him, and Sebastian relaxed, a spectator again.
Belina shrieked and spat and cursed. She kicked at Godelhausser’s shins, but to no avail. The winged angel fluttered at face level, arguing the humanity of letting Wissa live, but he was brushed aside. Wissa was created, found nothing had changed and shrugged at the prospect of another death. Tonight, at least, Godelhausser would recreate her and she would know some joy with the others until tomorrow’s matinee when she would feel the blade again.
Sebastian watched, grinning.
He was glad that Pertos was not angry with them, for otherwise he might never create them again. Pertos seemed to take it in stride, seemed even to enjoy it. He could not be upset or angry. He smiled. Pertos smiled. That made Sebastian feel good.
Alvon Rudi was splendidly dressed in amber and blue, with a trailing cape, epaulets of silver, with many buttons and four buckles across each black boot. If he was too heavy, it could be forgiven because he had a certain self-possession, a certain sophistication that made the extra pounds seem beneficial, like extra muscles or an abundance of wit. He was like most Earthmen, save that he was richer. He was a merchant of some sort, dealing solely with intercontinental trade on the motherworid, though this limited yard had done him well.