'Phew no bugs.' Ace settled back again.

'Oh I didn't say that. There are three actually.'

'What?' Ace leapt up.

'But they don't work,' smiled the Doctor, brandishing a small square*headed hammer.

Ace sat down on the bed with a growl and drew her knees up under her chin. 'I don't like it. There's still some weird stuff happening.'

'You're right there. I'd like to examine the machine again before they get too engrossed in setting up for tomorrow.'

'You think there's a problem?'

'Why is the circuitry so complicated? How did we manage to get caught up in its performance of Hamlet Hamlet. How did you get scratched by a non*existent knife? And then there's the deaths on Menaxus.'

Ace was puzzled. 'But that was the mud thing, right Doctor?'

'Was it? You know, that's pretty improbable too. Living mud still don't like it.'

'Spooky statues,' mused Ace. 'You know, I saw this opera once on telly G.o.d knows why or where and this guy got talking to a statue of this bloke he'd murdered.'

'Did he invite it home for tea?'

Ace frowned. 'You've seen it too?'

'Yes I've seen it. The statue accepts the invitation and turns up.'

'Yeah, like I said spooky. Must have been Channel Four.'

The Doctor tossed his little hammer from one hand to the other several times. 'But Menaxus was more like Death's Bane Death's Bane than than Don Juan Don Juan.' He froze, and the hammer clattered to the floor. He retrieved it with a frown, flipped it into the air and pulled open his jacket pocket for it to fall into.

'What is it?' asked Ace.

'Oh, just a thought. Probably nothing.' He rubbed his chin for a moment, then leapt to his feet retrieving his umbrella from where it lay across the table. 'But I have to see that machine again.'

They had given Bernice a delta dart. As she strapped herself into the single*person fighter she wondered where they had found it. It was strange finding anything other than antiques here. Obviously Braxiatel had clout with the armaments corporations of the Federation.

Now all she had to do was wait. Benny checked over the instruments again, playing back Braxiatel's rea.s.surances in her mind: a small fighter could get through the Heletian lines undetected; the Heletian defences were nothing like as impressive or well implemented as they had been a year ago; of course the Rippeareans could get their own ships through, but anything bigger than a fighter could be detected and then stranded behind the enemy lines... '

Braxiatel's face flicked into existence on a side screen, breaking in on her thoughts. 'You have the message, don't you?' his voice asked, tinny and distant.

'Don't fret, I've got it here.' Benny waved a plain white envelope at the screen, then returned it to a pocket in flight suit. I'm glad I changed, she thought. It would have been fun trying to wrestle her way into the tiny c.o.c.kpit dressed in the full velvet skirt. Would have amused the launch crew too.

'One other thing,' said Braxiatel.

'Good luck?' she guessed.

'Of course. But as well as that.'

'I've memorized the route and the strategy for dodging the home defences when I get to Heletia if that's what you're after. And even if I hadn't, the navigation computer has it all sorted out.'.

'I a.s.sumed that.'

'I also know the positions of the main battle lines, if you're sure the locations are accurate.'

'Don't worry.' Braxiatel smiled. 'I provide lines for all the best people.'

'Oh. What then?'

'You remember that you said Richard Mique gave the models of the Temple of Love and the Belvedere to Marie Antoinette?'

Benny did remember. 'Yes. What of it?'

'According to Pierre de Nolhac, she didn't keep them. I thought you ought to know.'

Benny laughed. She had a.s.sumed he thought she was bluffing. 'Well, you learn something new every day,' she said. 'Can I go now please?'

Braxiatel looked towards the back of the ship, at something or someone out of sight of the scanner. After a moment his gaze returned to Bernice. 'Yes, everything cleared the pre*flight checks. Whenever you're ready. Good luck.'

The scanner went blank. Benny hit the ignition b.u.t.ton and pulled back on the control column.

The royal theatre, like the rest of the palace, was constructed of reinforced concrete. In many ways it was similar to the Pentillanian theatre on Menaxus. It was an amphitheatre in the old style: the orchestra or playing area slightly raised above the gangway around it and the front row of seats. The auditorium was raked in tiers, circling round the front half of the stage and soaring above it. Unlike the Menaxan theatre, it was roofed in with a heavy grey ceiling from which a lighting gallery hung.

High on each side was a private box. One of the boxes was reserved for the Exec and his entourage. The other had been screened off with one*way gla.s.s across the front and sides. It was in this second theatre box that Fortalexa was setting up the dream machine for the next evening's performance of Osterling's greatest masterpiece.

The Doctor watched from the stairway behind the box. Ace was behind him trying to see over his shoulder. Fortalexa continued tinkering with the machine, oblivious to the Doctor and Ace behind him. The Doctor silently shooed Ace from the stairway and they retreated down the steps to the corridor below.

'What we need is a guard, or a functionary of some kind,' he said.

'Why? Don't you trust Fortalexa?'

'Do you?'

'I don't know.' Ace considered for a moment. 'A day or two ago, yes. But since we left Menaxus since you sent him to get me off the asteroid, in fact he's been '

'Not himself? Ah, hang on a second.' The Doctor had spotted a courtier crossing the corridor further down. 'You there,' he shouted. The courtier stopped in his tracks. The Doctor continued, waving his arms officiously and brandishing a pen: 'Where's Fortalexa? You know, the dream machine chap. The Exec wants to see him.'

The courtier was immediately fl.u.s.tered. 'Oh, er, I believe he will be with the machine in the Queen's box. Not that we have a Queen, of course, but you know that. Er, I expect.'

'Well don't stand there all of a dither, go and get him.' The Doctor strode off without waiting for a reply, leaving the courtier stammering and looking from left to right in confusion.

Ace followed the Doctor. As she pa.s.sed the courtier she said, 'I'd do as he says he's the one who got Walter Raleigh executed.'

'Waltararlay oh dear oh dear,' muttered the courtier wringing his hands. Ace glanced back as she rounded corner, and saw him making his diffident way towards the stairs, 'Dost know that waterfly?' asked the Doctor as they watched him leave their sight. 'And I did not get Raleigh executed,' he went on before she could think of a suitable answer. 'He was executed for being left over from the previous reign, not my fault at all.'

It did not take long for the courtier to reappear dithering, and closely following Fortalexa. They disappeared down the corridor the other way, the courtier struggling to keep up with Fortalexa's long and determined stride.

'Right, off we go.' The Doctor dashed for the stairs, stopping running two*thirds of the way there and skidded the rest of the distance on his heels.

Ace kept watch at the top of the stairs while the Doctor spent what seemed like an eternity examining the machine in silence. At last he said, 'Just as I thought there's more to this machine than meets the eye.'

'You needee all this time to work that out?' Ace went over to join him by the machine. She was sure she would hear Fortalexa if and when he returned. Probably the Exec would keep him waiting for hours yet, and then there would be a non*battle of wits as they tried to work out who had really sent for whom.

'I meant it literally, Ace. There's more than just image projection going on. I think another reality is projected, and in some way merges with our own. That would explain how we came to get caught up in it. It's a world in its own right many worlds, one for each programmed play.'

'You mean they really happen.'

'Absolutely. Well, I think so.' The Doctor looked uneasy for a second. 'Ace, there's a whole universe captured in there. People who think they're real but who are actually just fiction are running about saying pre*written lines about self*will and never even realizing it.'

'Well, more fools them.'

'Yes,' but he seemed uncertain. 'I suppose so. Unless,' his face brightened, 'they are the real people, and it's we who are just imaginary.' He laughed and busied himself about the machine once more. After a few minutes with his arms stretched up to the elbow inside its innards he said, 'I wonder if we can deliberately muddle up the two universes.' He did not look up, but continued with his efforts. He seemed to be rewiring the circuitry for a particular switch at the edge of the main control panel.

'Like what happened by accident when we landed on Menaxus, you mean?'

'Yes. Did we lose our free will too, do you think? Were we doing things prepared for us by someone else? And if so, how did they know we'd be there?'

'Doctor, what are you on about?'

'Ace, in there,' he pointed at the machine, 'is a universe where there is a special providence in the fall of a sparrow.' He broke off and toyed with his upper lip. 'I must know what it's like!' He turned to her suddenly. 'Want to come?' he asked.

'I think I'll stick with what's really real, thanks Doctor. Once was enough.'

'Suit yourself.' He sounded disappointed. 'Oh well, wish me luck.' He reached for the switch he had been rewiring on the control panel.

'Doctor what are you doing?' She rushed forward, but it was too late.

A red glow emanated like a mist from the machine and enveloped the Doctor. He smiled at Ace through the mist as it thickened into a fog, and with a raise of his hat disappeared within it. After a moment the red glow faded away, leaving Ace and the machine alone in the room.

Source Doc.u.ment 12 Extract from partly completed ma.n.u.script for Beyond Osterling's Legacy Beyond Osterling's Legacy, by Azcline Grigsen. Date a.s.sumed to coincide with Grigsen's death 3515. Ma.n.u.script never published.

Braxiatel Collection Catalogue Number: 883CR In Osterling's Legacy Osterling's Legacy I postulated that Stanoff Osterling's greatest work, I postulated that Stanoff Osterling's greatest work, The Good Soldiers The Good Soldiers, would be a disappointment, if it were ever to be recovered.

It seemed to me from the extracts that survive and the account of the plot that the play had some merit in terms of its storyline and overall theme, but was substandard in its treatment of character and dialogue. Despite disagreement from many experts and cries of 'Heresy' from the others, none has been able to refute this claim with an real evidence to the contrary.

Indeed, the greatest argument against my theory is the enduring reputation that the play has earned. While that reputation may be perpetuated through myth, there can be no doubt that it was initially built upon solid ground. However, while I am willing to accept from this premise that the play does indeed have some deep meaning and enduring quality, I maintain that it is not connected with the mediocre scripting.

In this book, I present my own theory on what this quality was. It was innovation.

I shall attempt to prove through reference not to The Good Soldiers The Good Soldiers but to other plays of the twenty*third century that the play did not gain its reputation through the quality of its script. However, it did introduce a single basic staging concept which provided a new vitality for the theatre and led directly to the form of the play as we know it today. but to other plays of the twenty*third century that the play did not gain its reputation through the quality of its script. However, it did introduce a single basic staging concept which provided a new vitality for the theatre and led directly to the form of the play as we know it today.

To discover what this innovation was, we must look not to the dialogue, but rather to the stage directions.

Chapter 12.

The Master Builder To object to the voice of the author impinging on the fiction is of course untenable. It is not only in the more obvious asides where the author takes the reader into his confidence that the writer begins to a.s.sert his own point of view. The whole of fiction is actually intrusive in this way. Unless scrupulously written from the first person. (and one can argue that nothing ever is) the shift in viewpoints alone is enough to endow the reader with insight which cannot 'really' be gained. It is contrived; manufactured a lie.The stage may appear to bring us one step closer to a representation of the real world. But this too an illusion. For while there is no direct link into the thoughts and motives of any particular character, the characters do take us the audience into their confidence. Richard III leaves us in no doubt as his motives and plans, whereas by contrast, many of Pirandello's characters only serve to disguise their real intentions and feelings by their words. But whichever happens, the audience is still granted a privileged position by the author and by the medium itself.It is the author who decides which characters will expose what information and offer what insights at what time. The medium is more insidious. The whole concept of theatre (and other performance arts) is to present a picture to the audience, and it is a privileged picture, a viewpoint that is unique in that it is not the viewpoint of any person who is in the context of the play 'real'. The author is always a character in his own right, and in the world of the theatre the audience becomes a character too. The difference is that the author is in control, and while the audience may draw what conclusions it can, it is always directed by the author and by the performance.Fictional Voices Booth Kitava, 2267 Booth Kitava, 2267 As the red mist faded from his eyes, the Doctor peered into the gloom of the castle.

Then suddenly, light. The glow was not intense, but it was bright enough to illuminate the characters standing beside him. He knew at once that they were characters, recognized them from his previous excursion into the world of the machine. 'Action,' he said, as the two figures jerked into life.

'So much for this, sir,' Hamlet said to Horatio, drawing his friend to one side, as if afraid the Doctor would overhear. 'Now you shall see the other. You do remember all circ.u.mstances?'

Remember them?' muttered the Doctor. 'I was probably there.'

But Hamlet ignored him. The Doctor slipped away through a side doorway. Hamlet's voice fading into the distance: 'There's a divinity that shapes our ends, rough*hew them how we will.'

The next room was the next world. 'Exits and entrances,' the Doctor thought and looked around him.

In front of him along the corridor, an arm was pushing its way through the rough stone wall. It was groping blindly for a hold on the whimpering young woman who tried to push past it. But the pa.s.sageway was too narrow, and even if she escaped the clutches of this hand, another was already sprouting further along. But she struggled onwards, somehow forcing her way through the flailing arms as they clawed and tore at her clothes and face.

The Doctor watched her progress with interest. Things were becoming clearer. He was about to return to Hamlet, when the woman screamed loud and long. At the far end of the corridor a figure had appeared and was making its way towards her The arms raised out of the way of the figure, as if in salute. The woman had given up her struggle along the pa.s.sage, was watching the progress of her double as she approached.

The Doctor could see the cold stone features of the statue as it got nearer. 'Death's Bane,' he muttered disparagingly. 'All spectacle and no plot.' He turned before the statue crushed its human image.

'But wilt thou hear now how I did proceed?' asked Hamlet, as the Doctor pa.s.sed behind him, doffed his hat and made his way across the room.

'I beseech you ' Horatio called across, seemingly annoyed by the repeated interruption.

'Sorry,' said the Doctor, and swung open the heavy wooden door.

'Being thus benetted round with villainies '

Hamlet's voice was cut off as the Doctor swung the door shut.

'This is more like it.' The Doctor swung his umbrella appreciatively and joined the party from Masterson's The Croquet Match The Croquet Match on the lawn for tea. 'Thank you.' He smiled at the manservant who handed him a china cup and offered him a scone. Here at least was a civilized play with no animated statues or angst*ridden princes. On the trees in the distance, cl.u.s.ters of small autumn leaves splayed out in the breeze. The Doctor sipped at his tea and beamed round at the guests who accommodated him within their dialogue. When they dropped their croquet mallets and teacups at the blood*curdling screams from the main house, the Doctor helping himself to another scone. Yes, except for the murder this really was a on the lawn for tea. 'Thank you.' He smiled at the manservant who handed him a china cup and offered him a scone. Here at least was a civilized play with no animated statues or angst*ridden princes. On the trees in the distance, cl.u.s.ters of small autumn leaves splayed out in the breeze. The Doctor sipped at his tea and beamed round at the guests who accommodated him within their dialogue. When they dropped their croquet mallets and teacups at the blood*curdling screams from the main house, the Doctor helping himself to another scone. Yes, except for the murder this really was a very very civilized piece of theatre. civilized piece of theatre.

The characters froze in tableau in horror as the act ended and, within the house, other images of the same characters began the next. The Doctor finished his scone and brushed imaginary crumbs from his shirt front.

It was just as he was putting own his teacup that he saw the man. He was the other side of the croquet lawn, standing by one of the flower beds on the main terrace. In many ways he looked extremely ordinary: an old man with a white beard lengthening his already long face. But his attire, a one*piece white suit, was completely out of keeping with the Edwardian splendour of the guests on the croquet lawn. And he was still moving, shuffling his feet as he watched the Doctor brushing at his chest with his fingertips. The Doctor continued the motion, his brain already working its way through the possibilities, discarding all except his initial premise. Then the man shook his head as if in annoyance, turned and went into the house.

Immediately the Doctor was in motion. 'Wait,' he shouted as he dashed across the terrace. 'Wait I'm real. Like you!' He launched himself through the open French windows and skidded to a halt in the drawing room.

'I love Albert,' wailed a tall thin woman, and the other house guests watched in sympathy.

The Doctor slumped into an empty armchair. The old man was gone. 'Stoppard!' he exclaimed in annoyance.