A crewman hovered just outside the logistics entry hatch. As each canister was pushed out of the module, the crewman entered data into a hand-held computer. O’Donnell flattened himself against the wall as a procession of four Martians and two canisters surged past.
“I’m looking for Stu Roberts.”
“The great songwriter?” The crewman laughed. “Check his compartment. Hab One.”
O’Donnell navigated through the currents of moving bodies and pulled himself into the relative silence of Habitation Module 1. Moving slowly down the aisle, he read the names on the black-and-white plastic tags fixed to the bulkhead next to each compartment’s door.
A sudden, ear-piercing screech sent a tingle up O’Donnell’s spine. It settled into a throbbing whine that he followed to the last compartment. The passageway seemed to pulsate with rock music. The accordion door was vibrating from the sound volume.
O’Donnell braced himself against the opposite partition and pounded on Roberts’s bulkhead. But knocking was no match for the noise inside. O’Donnell finally wrenched open the accordion door. Roberts was suspended in the center of his compartment, both feet kicked up behind his ass and his bandannaed head thrown back to expose a bony Adam’s apple twitching beneath pale skin.
Roberts windmilled his right arm across the strings of an invisible guitar in rhythm with the pounding chords and wailed out the lyrics to “Acid Queen”. On each revolution, his knuckles grazed silk-screen posters of ancient rock stars bellying from the compartment’s wall.
“Excuse me, Mr. Townshend,” shouted O’Donnell. “Can I interrupt your performance for about two hours?”
Roberts brought his arm down for a final, ear-splitting chord. He writhed as if squeezing every decibel out of his imaginary guitar until the last note died away. Then he fell out of character.
“You knew who I was imitating,” he said in awed disbelief. He turned off his portable CD player before the next song could begin.
“Sure. Peter Townshend. The Who. Tommy was a classic.” O’Donnell mimed hiking the guitar out of Roberts’s hands and smashing it against the wall.
“Wow, they even trashed their instruments after every performance! Hey, who are you?”
O’Donnell introduced himself and offered his hand. He was not surprised when Roberts grasped it thumb to thumb in a handshake popular during the sixties.
“Hey, guess this one.” Roberts untied his bandanna. His hair exploded into a wavy mass of red curls. He placed the invisible guitar on the back of his neck and started to twang a psychedelic rendition of “The Star-spangled Banner.”
“Hendrix,” said O’Donnell quickly, hoping that the correct answer would not encourage another round of Name That Rock Star.
“That’s outtasight,” said Roberts. “And you’re a scientist working for Trikon? Where the hell they dig you up?”
“I’ve been around,” said O’Donnell.
“Been around long enough to have gone to Woodstock?” There was awe in his voice.
“I was exactly five years old when the Woodstock Nation had its three days in the sun.”
“Oh.” Roberts’s disappointment was palpable. “You look older.” Then he brightened. “How come you know so much about old-time rock and roll? I thought I was the only one keeping the faith alive.”
“I’m not keeping anything alive other than me.”
“Dig that,” said Roberts. “We have a real bunch of survivors up here. Anyway, it’ll be more fun working with you than with Dave Nutt. What an uptight cat. Now he was old enough to have gone to Woodstock, and he didn’t. Probably spent the weekend in the library, if I know him. Damn, I wish I could have gone. Joplin, Hendrix. All the great ones died before I was born.”
“Time marches on,” said O’Donnell, making a point of looking at his watch.
“Ain’t that a bitch. I’m a composer, y’know. Been writing like mad. This job up here is just to put the bread on the table. Once I get back to the States I’ll be the first rock composer to’ve been in orbit. I can’t miss!”
“Good for you,” said O’Donnell, without enthusiasm. Rather than prolong the discussion, he backed away from the compartment. To his amazement, Roberts took the hint.
“One thing you gotta remember about me,” Roberts said as he tamed his wild mop with a hairnet. “I’m a real traditionalist when it comes to music.”