Only it wasn’t supposed to be a protest. The lieutenant made it sound like a monstrous thing to do—to wring another confession, by torture perhaps, from the prisoner, when there was already sufficient evidence to convict. The words were right, but their meaning was wrenched. It should have been a crisp statement of fact: No need, comrade; his accomplice confessed.
Thorny paused, reddening angrily. His next line was, “See that this one confesses, too.” But he wasn’t going to speak it. It would augment the effect of the lieutenant’s tone of shocked protest. He thought rapidly. The lieutenant was a bit-player, and didn’t come back on until the third act. It wouldn’t hurt to jam him.
He glowered at the doll, demanded icily: “And what have you done with the accomplice?”
The Maestro could not invent lines, nor comprehend an ad lib. The Maestro could only interpret a deviation as a malfunction, and try to compensate. The Maestro backed up a line, had the lieutenant repeat his cue.
“I told you—he confessed.”
“Sol” roared Andreyev. “You killed him, eh? Couldn’t survive the questioning, eh? And you killed him.”
Thorny, what are you doing? came Rick’s frantic whisper in his earplug.
“He confessed,” repeated the lieutenant.
“You’re under arrest, Nichol!” Thorny barked. “Report to Major Malin for discipline. Return the prisoner to his cell.” He paused. The Maestro couldn’t go on until he cued it, but now there was no harm in speaking the line. “Now—see that this one confesses, too.”
“Yes, sir,” the lieutenant replied stonily, and started off-stage with the prisoner.
Thorny took glee in killing his exit by calling after him: “And see that he lives through it!”
The Maestro marched them out without looking back, and Thorny was briefly pleased with himself. He caught a glimpse of Jade with her hands clasped over her head, giving him a “the-winnah” signal from concealment. But he couldn’t keep ad libbing his way out of it every time.
Most of all, he dreaded the entrance of Marka, Mela’s doll. The Maestro was playing her up, ennobling her, subtly justifying her treachery, at the expense of Andreyev’s character. He didn’t want to fight back. Marka’s role was too important for tampering, and besides, it would be like slapping at Mela to confuse the performance of her doll.
The curtain dipped. The furniture revolved. The stage became a living room. And the curtain rose again.
He barked: “No more arrests; after curfew, shoot on sight!” at the telephone, and hung up.
When he turned, she stood in the doorway, listening. She shrugged and entered with a casual walk while he watched her in suspicious silence. It was the consummation of her treachery. She had come back to him, but as a spy for Piotr. He suspected her only of infidelity and not of treason. It was a crucial scene, and the Maestro could play her either as a treacherous wench, or a reluctant traitor with Andreyev seeming a brute. He watched her warily.
“Well—hello,” she said petulantly, after walking around the room.
He grunted coldly. She stayed flippant and aloof. So far, it was as it should be. But the vicious argument was yet to come.
She went to a mirror and began straightening her wind-blown hair. She spoke nervously, compulsively, rattling about trivia, concealing her anxiety in his presence after her betrayal. She looked furtive, haggard, somehow more like the real Mela of today; the Maestro’s control of expression was masterful.
“What are you doing here?” he exploded suddenly, interrupting her disjointed spiel.
“I still live here, don’t I?”
“You got out.”
“Only because you ordered me out.”
“You made it clear you wanted to leave.”
“Liar!”
“Cheat!”
It went on that way for a while; then he began dumping the contents of several drawers into a suitcase. “I live here, and I’m staying,” she raged.
“Suit yourself, comrade.”
“What’re you doing?”
“Moving out, of course.”
The battle continued. Still there was no attempt by the Maestro to revise the scene. Had the trouble been corrected? Had his exchange with the lieutenant somehow affected the machine? Something was different. It was becoming a good scene, his best so far.
She was still raving at him when he started for the door. She stopped in mid-sentence, breathless—then shrieked his name and flung herself down on the sofa, sobbing violently. He stopped. He turned and stood with his fists on his hips staring at her. Gradually, he melted. He put the suitcase down and walked back to stand over her, still gruff and glowering.
Her sobbing subsided. She peered up at him, saw his inability to escape, began to smile. She came up slowly, arms sliding around his neck.
“Sasha… oh, my Sasha—”
The arms were warm, the lips moist, the woman alive in his embrace. For a moment he doubted his senses. She giggled at him and whispered, “You’ll break a rib.”
“Mela—”
“Let go, you fool—the scene!” Then, aloud: “Can I stay, darling?”
“Always,” he said hoarsely.
“And you won’t be jealous again?”
“Never.”
“Or question me every time I’m gone an hour or two?”
“Or sixteen. It was sixteen hours.”
“I’m sorry.” She kissed him. The music rose. The scene ended.
“How did you swing it?” he whispered in the clinch. “And why?”
“They asked me to. Because of the Maestro.” She giggled. “You looked devastated. Hey, you can let go now. The curtain’s down.”
The mobile furniture had begun to rearrange itself. They scurried offstage, side-stepping a couch as it rolled past. Jade was waiting for them.
“Great!” she whispered, taking their hands. “That was just great.”
“Thanks… thanks for sliding me in,” Mela answered.
F“Take it from here out, Mela—the scenes with Thorny, at least.”
“I don’t know,” she muttered. “It’s been so long. Anybody could have ad libbed through that fight scene.”
“You can do it. Rick’ll keen you cued and prompted. The engineer’s here, and they’re fussing around with the Maestro. But it’ll straighten itself out, if you give it a couple more scenes like that to watch.”
The second act had been rescued. The supporting cast was still a hazard, and the Maestro still tried to compensate according to audience reaction during Act I, but with a human Marka, the compensatory attempts had less effect, and the interpretive distortions seemed to diminish slightly. The Maestro was piling up new data as the play continued, and reinterpreting.
“It wasn’t great,” he sighed as they stretched out to relax between acts. “But it was passable.”
“Act Three’ll be better, Thorny,” Mela promised. “We’ll rescue it yet. It’s just too bad about the first act.”
“I wanted it to be tops,” he breathed. “I wanted to give them something to think about, something to remember. But now we’re fighting to rescue it from being a total flop.”
“Wasn’t it always like that? You get steamed up to make history, but then you wind up working like crazy just to keep it passable.”
“Or to keep from ducking flying groceries sometimes.”
She giggled. “Jiggle used to say, ‘I went on like the main dish and came off like the toss salad.’” She paused, then added moodily: “The tough part of it is—you’ve got to aim high just to hit anywhere at all. It can get to be heartbreaking, too-trying for the sublime every time, and just escaping the ridiculous, or the mediocre.”
“No matter how high you aim, you can’t hit escape velocity. Ambition is a trajectory with its impact point in oblivion, no matter how high the throw.”