Part 19 (2/2)

'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 s.h.i.+ft 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 pus.h.i.+ng 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 s.h.i.+rt 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 brus.h.i.+ng 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.

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