New Writing at Webdelsol

Chapbook Selections From Web Del Sol

Flying the Flannel

Paul Di Filippo

I fused the identities of two local bands, Miracle Legion and Small Factory, whose drummers I both know, to form the "Miracle Factory" of this story, where once again rock music (and beer) lend propulsive drive to the plot, much as jazz (and Prohibition) might have once flavored a Thorne Smith tale. I was particularly pleased that the Interzone illustrator for this story, working only from my words, exactly replicated the appearance of real-life Phoebe in his drawing, confirming my sometimes wavering faith that anything I write has any basis in reality.
     Points will be awarded for spotting all the pop song allusions.
     Any resemblance between Master Blaster and Whammer Jammer's van Bullwinkle, and the Econoline herein dubbed Zed Leper is strictly familial.

1. Our Beloved Revolutionary Sweetheart

Phoebe Summersquall flopped down on the spring-shot, beer-, tear-, sweat- and other-miscellaneous-exudates-stained couch backstage in what passed for the "performer's lounge" at Slime Time. The wall above the spavined sofa was covered with layers of grafitti: names of bands never famous and now long dust; injunctions to kill one despised performer or another; proclamations of musicological godhood or ineptitude; scabrous invective about the club's management.
     "Jesus, I'm totally wiped," said the thin woman. Behind her outsized round black-plastic-framed glasses, her dark eyes loomed bigger than life. Dressed in a Goodwill-bin tulle skirt layered over frayed jeans, a skintight lycra polka-dotted top and suede clogs, her long black hair caught up in back with one of the thinner bungee cords normally reserved for lashing down the band's amps during transport, she resembled a tired cleaning lady, addled ballerina or unusually neat street person.
     Raising a hand to wipe sweat from her brow, she found herself still unconsciously clutching her drumsticks. Wearily, she dropped them, and a frosty bottle of Sam Adams manifested itself within reach.
     "Thanks, Scott."
     "You deserve it, Pheeb. You were awesome."
     Scott Bluebottle, round of face and wirerim-bespectacled, occupied tentatively, as was his way, a folding chair. He scraped at the label of his own bottle with a guitar pick. On the two remaining heterogenous lumps of furniture sprawled the other members of Miracle Factory: Mark the Snark and Frank Difficult. The former long-haired and stocky, the latter with the wolf-lean, hot-eyed, gaunt-cheeked look of one of the less well-known German Expressionists.
     "Yeah," agreed Mark in a resonant singer's voice.
     "Especially on the last tune."
     Frank chimed in. "I'm extremely proud to have a song of mine that I cherish as much as I do 'Eat the Shame' performed by such a talented drummer."
     Phoebe felt herself blushing. "Gee, guys, I bet you'd say that to anyone who replaced someone who sucked as bad as your last drummer."
     Mark chuckled ruefully. "Lonnie was mighty awful."
     "Remember the night he fell backwards off the riser?" reminisced Scott.
     Frank lifted the admonitory hand of a reluctant leader. "Let us not slag the departed. The thing to concentrate on is how good we were tonight."
     "Agreed," said Mark, threading his fingers through his mane in an eloquent, practiced Hair Lofting that was second nature to him. "It's too bad there weren't more than ten people here to see us."
     "It is a Monday night...," said Scott weakly.
     "Every night seems to be a Monday night lately," Mark grumped.
     The four bandmates sat silently for a time, contemplating the fickleness, bad taste and inexplicable immunity to the charms of Miracle Factory, as exhibited by the club-going public. Then Frank spoke.
     "It's Tuesday morning actually. Almost three. And we've got a gig scheduled five hundred miles from here, with a soundcheck in just a little over twenty-four hours."
     "Are you trying to tell us we should start humping equipment?" asked Scott.
     "'Fraid so."
     "Can we afford a motel?" ventured Phoebe.
     "Everyone who wants to use tonight's money to eat and put gas in our noble transport, raise your hand," replied Frank.
     "Oh, well, guess we sleep in the van again. Anyway, it's kinda getting to where I can't drop off without the smell of exhaust and a row of rivets in my back...."
     Quickly finishing their beers, the four trooped out onto the small stage. Phoebe removed her extraneous skirt, the better to work. With lackluster motions, watched over by the impatient owner, their activity causing ghostly echoes in the empty Slime Time, they struck their equipment and loaded it into their rotting '79 Econoline dubbed Zed Leper.
     On the road, Mark driving, Frank riding shotgun, Phoebe and Scott in the back, several miles passed wordlessly, until Scott spoke.
     "That guy was there again tonight."
     Phoebe stiffened. "No way."
     "Yes way."
     "Where? I didn't see him."
     "You were zoned out on playing. But I spotted him right away. He hung out at the bar all night, never came out on the floor. Had half a dozen empty longnecks lined up in front of him by the time we finished our set. Never smiled that I could see, never spoke to anyone."
     The memory of the stony-faced older stranger who had haunted their last five appearances across as many states welled up in Phoebe. Materializing only since her arrival in the group, he had plainly set his sights on her, focusing a piercing stare on her throughout each performance.
     "This really creeps me out," said Phoebe nervously.
     "Maybe he's a bigshot A & R guy, sizing us up before offering us a huge juicy contract...," said Frank halfheartedly.
     "Yeah, and I'm Sinatra," replied Mark.
     Phoebe turned on Scott, who sat next to her on a mattress placed on the narrow floor space between the ranked equipment. "Why didn't you tell me?"
     Scott shrugged. "Didn't want to spook you. Besides, there's three of us watching out for you."
     "That's right, Pheeb," said Mark. "We'll protect you."
     "My sentiments exactly," added Frank.
     Phoebe restrained an impulse to shout "bullshit!" Guys.... What was it about them? They meant well, but it was up to her to educate them.
     "Well, next time, how about letting me in on what I'm being protected from, okay?"
     "Sure, Pheeb."
     "Right."
     "It shall be as you wish, oh Mistress of Snares and Cymbals."
     Phoebe stretched out on her back and rested her head on Scott's leg.
     "For not telling me, you've got first shift as pillow."
     "Cramp city, man!" said Scott good-naturedly.
     Within minutes, Phoebe was so soundly asleep that even when, an hour later, the vector of their van changed abruptly from horizontal to vertical and they were engulfed by the spacecraft which had silently paced them since their departure, it took a whole ten seconds before the shouts of the others woke her up.

2. Put a Little Birdhouse in Your Soul

A pearly opalescence flooded the grungy interior of the van known as Zed Leper. The air was perfumed with strange scents: acid, electricity, brine and ginger.
     Phoebe leaped to her feet, careful of the low Econoline ceiling.
     Around her was utter confusion.
     Scott was holding his head and moaning, having whacked his noggin on the van's ceiling in the tumult. Behind the wheel, Mark was activating every control on the dashboard in a desperate attempt to regain command of the stalled van. Windshield wipers batted futilely at streams of washer fluid. Frank was rifling furiously in the trash on the floor at his feet, saying, "The nunchuks, where are those goddamn nunchuks!"
     Quickly deciding that her bandmates had plainly lost their scanty marbles, Phoebe asserted herself.
     "Everybody shut up! Right now!"
     Silence dropped, thick as a brick.
     "Okay. That's better. Now--what happened?"
     "We--we were just tooling along," said Mark, "when suddenly I could feel the wheels leave the ground. But I wasn't even sleepy, honest!"
     "I thought we had gone over a cliff," said Scott.
     "I stuck my head out the window," said Frank, "and something made me look up. There was a huge dark shadow blocking the stars. Then a square of white opened in it. It got bigger and bigger, then swallowed us."
     "Where are we now?"
     "Inside the freakin' UFO, I guess," ventured Mark.
     "Heading who the hell knows where," added Scott cheeringly.
     Phoebe considered, noting the van's open windows. "We can breathe and we can walk. Air and gravity.... Let's get out."
     She threw open the rear doors and jumped down. Timorously, the others followed.
     The van sat in the middle of an enormous space. Walls and ceilings, if any, were lost in the pearly radiance that flowed from every direction.
     Phoebe looked at the floor.
     Her feet vanished at the ankles in the tenuous, hazy oyster-colored substance, which seemed to offer spongy support at some unknown depth. Lifting a foot, Phoebe was relieved to find her clog-shod extremity apparently intact. Reaching down, she brushed the rarefied material.
     "It's soft, with a nap, like, like--flannel."
     Mark snorted. "Great. Probably built in Seattle then. Maybe something new from Boeing. Used to kidnap any competitors to the Northwest scene."
     Scott was shielding his eyes against the mild glare and scanning the distance. Suddenly, he yelped.
     "Someone's coming!"
     The four huddled closer together as a figure approached out of the foggy glowing remoteness.
     It was the stranger who had stalked them across five states. Dressed in nondescript Earth clothing, his face so blank and inhospitable as to make Harry Dean Stanton look like Marcel Marceau, he seemed an unlikely starship pilot.
     Perhaps, Phoebe thought, Mark had been right about this being a ship of human design, however unlikely that seemed. Or perhaps the stalker was a fellow prisoner....
     Phoebe stepped bravely forward. "Did--did the aliens get you too, Mister?"
     The man regarded Phoebe with the same unwavering fixity that had unnerved her onstage. Then he spoke.
     "I am the owner of this vessel. You may call me Modine."
     Their captor's insouciance was the final straw for the impetuous Mark the Snark.
     "We'll be calling you dead meat in a minute, sucker! Let's get him, guys!"
     Before Phoebe could do more than shout an objection, the three men had pinioned the UFO captain without much of a struggle.
     "Okay," said Mark, facing the stranger while Scott and Frank held his arms, "are you gonna take us back home, or do I have to get rough with you?"
     "No, please, you do not understand. I am bringing you someplace where your skills will be appreciated...." Mark polished the knuckles of his fist on his worn denim shirt. "Don't say I didn't give you a chance."
     "I must warn you, this shell is fragile--"
     Mark popped the stranger a good one on the jaw.
     The alien's head split open with a sound like the ripping of cooked turkey skin. A jagged crack ran up the middle of his face and down the back of his skull.
     Horrified, Frank and Scott dropped him, and Mark stepped back.
     Up from out of the lifeless cracked shell fluttered a small agile bird. It resembled a canary--as much as a Lexus resembled a Stutz Bearcat--except that it was colored bright blue.
     The supercharged blue canary landed on Phoebe's left shoulder.
     "I did warn you," it said.

3. Is That You, Modine?

Oh-so-slowly, Phoebe swivelled her head to the left.
     The little streamlined bird was still there, its claws gripping the fabric of her shirt. It did not weigh much. A hardly perceptible mass, actually. But Phoebe felt her shoulder muscles quivering from the alien's presence.
     Regarding her with a questioning expression, the azure avian dipped its head to peck at the feathers of its breast, then resumed eye contact. Plainly, it was waiting for Phoebe to speak.
     "Are you--I mean, can it be--"
     The bird was not helping her, and she suddenly grew angry.
     "Damn it, is that you, Modine?"
     "I am glad to see that you can accept the reality of my appearance. Races as primitive as yours generally deny the possibility of sentience in unfamiliar or unlikely forms." The canary's tones became prideful. "Yes, it is I, Modine, interstellar voyager and captain of the Dustbath. The artificial human shape you heedlessly destroyed--which was on the point of disintegrating soon anyway--was merely a camouflaged transport, a means of mingling with the natives. You see--"
     At that moment, Mark lunged angrily for Modine. But the bird easily evaded his grasp, fluttering up to alight atop the van. Phoebe was relieved, both to straighten her neck and no longer to be functioning as perch to an alien budgie.
     "Please," advised Modine. "Restrain yourselves. It is almost impossible for you to harm me. And even if you could, where would that leave you? You could not possibly learn how to operate the Dustbath, nor how to navigate in twelve-space. You would be stranded at our programmed destination or--even worse, if you managed to interfere with the controls--in some nameless fractal dimension between Earth and the Planet of Sound."
     "Planet of Sound?" echoed Scott. "What's that? And why are you taking us there?"
     "I shall explain all," promised Modine. "Let us adjourn to the bridge, however. Unlike the cargo hold, it offers seats and refreshments, as well as a view."
     Modine rocketed off, leaving the humans with no choice except to follow.
     Phoebe took the lead, trotting to catch up with the speedy bird. It was weird to watch her feet disappear into the floor and re-emerge with each step, and she wondered again what the flannel-simulating substance of the ship was. Just before the foursome caught up with their host, Frank used the opportunity to whisper to Phoebe.
     "This uncanny bird is fixated on you, Pheeb. When it was stalking us on Earth, it always watched you. It landed on your shoulder. And it chose you for the test of appreciating its intelligence. If anyone is going to be able to get us out of this jam, it'll have to be you."
     "Any other reassuring words?"
     "We'll be there to back your every move," chimed in Mark.
     "I thought not," said Phoebe.
     Now they were in what seemed to be a straight and level corridor of luminescent walls. Modine flew on ahead. Then disappeared.
     Phoebe and the guys stopped.
     "Modine?" Phoebe ventured tentatively.
     The bird stuck its head out of the seemingly solid ceiling. "We'll be landing in a few hours," it said peevishly. "There's not much time to waste."
     "But how do we get up there?"
     "Just continue to walk."
     Modine vanished.
     Shrugging, Phoebe took a step forward, then another, and a third--
     There had been no sense of climbing, nor was she now experiencing any disorientation. But Phoebe appeared now to be standing on the corridor ceiling, her head pointing downward at the guys.
     "You goofs are hanging upside down," said Phoebe, smiling at their shocked expressions.
     "No, you are," said Mark.
     "Well, my way is Modine's way."
     "This is true," said Frank.
     "Let's follow her!" said Scott.
     Phoebe took another step, and disappeared.
     She found herself in a medium-sized glowing room. Elevated mushroom-like cushions of the flannel-stuff sprouted from the floor. One wall appeared to be transparent, and gave a startling view: the Dustbath was apparently rushing through a medium that resembled an infinite sea of knotted multihued threads, ropes and cables twisting and contorting throughout colorless depths.
     Modine was perched on a ledge in front of the view-wall. "Ah," sighed the bird, "the glorious vistas of twelve-space never fail to stimulate and enlighten!" Behind Phoebe, the guys popped into existence out of the floor.
     "Please, be seated," Modine said. "And I will serve drinks."
     The humans complied, and Phoebe decided to use the moment to ask a question.
     "Modine, what is this ship made of?"
     "This craft is more of a mathematical construct than a solid vessel. It is composed of Cantor dust. Hence its rather punning name."
     "But what's Cantor dust?"
     "One takes an appropriate exotic material, and from it removes every tenth atom. Then from that mass, one removes every tenth atom again. This process is repeated approximately ten to the twentieth times."
     Frank spoke up. "But that would leave almost nothing behind...."
     "Almost, but not quite," said Modine. "The resulting substance has some intriguing and useful properties." A floating platter appeared. On it were five bottles of Sam Adams. Opened. One with a straw.
     "One of Earth's finest products. Although I've taken a few liberties with its composition...."
     Phoebe took a bottle and sipped cautiously.
     The first swallow washed away a bone-tiredness and a sleepiness, awareness of which her mind had been suppressing.
     The second swallow left her feeling as if she had won a Grammy, a platinum record and an MTV award simultaneously.
     Modine, claws gripping the lip of his bottle, sipping from time to time at his own drink, began to lecture.
     "I come from a mighty race. Our name for ourselves is unpronounceable in your language, but you may call us the Bowerbirds. From the primitive tool-using and contruction instincts of my ancestors, who reared their bowers on rocky shores, arose intelligence and a highly sophisticated civilization. When we discovered faster-than-light space travel, however, we were unprepared to compete in galactic society on one very important level.
     "You see, we could not sing or otherwise perform music. Always a minimal skill with us, it had finally been bred out of us, in favor of intelligence."
     Ignoring the paradox of a songless bird species, Phoebe asked, "But why was that so important?"
     Modine slurped up the last of its beer. "Interstellar cooperation and competition is based on music. It's the one arena in which all the multiform and multiskilled sophonts can find common ground. For thousands of millennia, musical competitions have determined status and trade alliances, friendships and enmities, and hundreds of other relationships for which you have no terms.
     "Luckily, we Bowerbirds were able to take advantage of a clause that allowed a client race to substitute for us. After much perusal of many Earth musical assemblages, I picked you to participate in the latest round. Your nearest competitor was a tribe of Pygmies, but I judged that their culture shock would be insuperable. You must all feel very honored. Frankly, you were almost out of contention at one point. It was only when you added this one"--Modine pointed a wing at Phoebe--"that your sound and gestalt became compelling."
     Mark glared at the bird. "Let me get this straight. We're going to play in some kind of Star Wars battle of the bands, but you freakin' Bowerbirds are going to get all the credit?"
     "Well, that is basically a correct summation of our respective duties and rewards. But I do hereby promise to take you straight back home if you win."
     "And if we lose?" asked Phoebe.
     "Most unfortunate. It happened to our last surrogate entry. They still have a century of indenture in the clubs of the Planet of Sound to while away. However, they are members of a long-lived species. And I understand that the free drinks served in most clubs to the performers are almost as good as Earth's beer."

4. Three Strange Days

Phoebe gazed out the window of their private guest quarters on the Planet of Sound. Alone, she was waiting for the guys to return.
     She leaned on the window sill; it squeaked and accomodated itself to her elbows. Scanning the crowded plaza below, its decorative subsurface chaotic animations obscured by numberless creeping, crawling, hopping, strolling, rolling aliens, Phoebe thought she saw her bandmates at some distance-- But no, not unless they had all grown tails. Which was not entirely impossible here. Was that them riding the millipede transport? No, the riders were too furry, even for Mark. Perhaps this huge approaching manta-flyer carried them? Whoops! The manta-ray shape had broken up into a flock of butterfly-sized self-similar components, each of which flew off in a different direction.
     Phoebe turned away from the window, which bleated in relief. The diversity of the Planet of Sound oppressed her. She felt overwhelmed by the cacophony of voices and the shifting montage of skins and limbs and faces. It was seductive, yet repulsive at the same time. All she wanted was the familiar comforts of Earth. Even the ratty lounges of Slime Time and its cousins would be a welcome sight. Feeling this way, when the others had wanted to go out exploring on their first free day since their arrival, she had begged off.
     Damn that Terwilliger anyway! He should have known better. What kind of manager was he, running his charges ragged the day before the big performance?
     Especially a performance with such high stakes. They had to rehearse. They were getting overconfident and that would surely lead to sloppiness. She did not think the judges would much credit sloppiness, despite its respectable terrestial lineage. No, chops and riffs and invention, wringing the most from one's equipment, were the musical currency here.
     Two early easy victories had elated them. Modine's praise--not to mention a steady flow of doctored Sam Adams--had slackened their vigilance. The final crucial round, Phoebe was sure, would present them with some unique challenge.
     She hoped that Terwilliger would not become tearful before the show, as he had prior to the others. Phoebe had enough to worry about, without consoling an overemotional fish.
     Weren't cold-blooded creatures supposed to be stolid anyhow?
     Moving to her drum kit, Phoebe resolved that she would polish a few licks, even if the others weren't here. And of course, just as she lifted her sticks, they all piled in.
     Leading the group was Terwilliger. Basically, the alien was indistinguishable from an eight-foot-long walking catfish, from the tip of its broad tail to its stubby locomotive fins to the end of its barbels. However, no earthly catfish of whatever size had ever been constantly attended by a cloud of telefactored waldoes, ranging in size from microscopic to human-scale. The horde of manipulators formed and reformed to the fish's will.
     Behind their guide, Mark, Scott and Frank were whooping and chattering. Plainly flushed with the excitement of their expedition, the guys were oblivious of Phoebe's stony-eyed glare.
     "Man, what a trip!" exulted Scott.
     "Sailing the Seas of Time-Cheese!" Mark explained for Phoebe's sake. "With Captain Toad Sprocket!"
     "A most intriguing voyage," Frank thoughtfully added. "I was particularly impressed by the Captain's explanation of the formation and function of wormholes."
     Terwilliger (whose real name was closer to T'-[blop]-woll-[splork]-grrr) spoke now in perfect English. "Luckily, we did not engender any shadow duplicates in our chrono-travels. Metacausality is a field well beyond my slender mentality."
     As Phoebe remained silent, the guys eventually wore down. Finally she bit out a question, her voice stern.
     "What are those things on your heads?"
     Frank reached up to touch what appeared to be a wig made of purple polyester spaghetti. Even Terwilliger wore one.
     "Oh, these are souvenirs of a famous winning group from many millennia past. Their trademark, apparently. Don't they look kinda like Beatle wigs?"
     "An example of convergent evolution, from what the fellows have told me," said Terwilliger.
     Phoebe threw down her sticks in disgust. "I've had it! Our entire future is on the line, and you guys are out sticking your heads or--or your things, for all I know!--in wormholes or something! Don't you have any sense of what's at risk here!"
     The argument started the big catfish crying; huge tears plopped down onto the living carpet, which quickly absorbed them. Phoebe felt awful. But she had to slam some sense into them all....
     Mark approached Phoebe and tried to soothe her.
     "Listen, Pheeb. Didn't we blow those first two acts off the stage? What have we got to worry about?"
     "We can't assume anything!" Phoebe argued. "Those guys were jokers! The next race could still have an ace up their sleeves!"
     The early competitors had been surprisingly amateurish. THey wouldn't have lasted a week on the demanding club circuit that had honed Miracle Factory. First had come the Balloon Men, spherical bipeds with pipecleaner limbs. Informed of their defeat, they had explosively self-destructed, splattering Miracle Factory and much of the audience with what appeared to be hummus, tomato paste and strips of skin. Next up had been a double-headed ambidextrous race, each of whose members had been able to play two instruments at once. They had been a little stiffer competition. But Miracle Factory, playing as they never had before, had triumphed, thanks to their unique blend of Earth's hidden treasure of rock 'n' roll.
     Now Scott came forward. "What difference is one day's practice going to make, Pheeb? If we don't have our sound down by now, we never will. We were just trying to relax, you know? And if we don't see these sights now, when are we ever gonna get a chance to? I mean, we'll be back on Earth soon enough...."
     "You hope," said Phoebe. "Oh, hell."
     She came out from behind her drums and kneeled down beside Terwilliger.
     "I'm sorry I yelled. It wasn't you. Stop crying, okay?"
     As she was dabbing at the fish's eyes with the hem of her shirt, the door opened and Modine flew in.
     "Tomorrow's matches have been posted," said the Bowerbird. "Your opponent is a one-man band, so to speak. The Bombardyx."
     Phoebe stood, and fixed the bird with a determined look. "Now that the competition is almost over, will you tell us exactly what your race stands to gain if we win? I think we deserve to know."
     The blue canary was quiet for a few seconds. When it spoke, its voice was respectful.
     "You are a strange and forceful individual, Phoebe Summersquall. I have noted something puzzling about you ever since Earth, but I can't lay a feather on it.... Very well, since you ask what the ultimate prize is in this contest, I will tell you.
     "Depending on who wins, either the Bombardyx or the Bowerbirds will be allowed to colonize Earth."

5. Close Your Eyes, Here We Go, Playing At The Talent Show

There was something extra in the sky, but none of the humans were quite sure it was a second sun. It had the apparent diameter of a sun, and gave out enough visible light to make staring at it painful. But the orb--whatever it was--also had a tendency to dart about disconcertingly.
     Terwilliger noticed them looking. "One of the larger intelligences in this galaxy," the fish explained. "Constrained by its size to remain well outside the thicker atmosphere, it nonetheless wishes to watch the show. Their kind are notorious bettors."
     "Oh, Lord," said Phoebe. "People are betting on us?"
     "Yes," agreed Terwilliger. "But the stakes are low, commensurate with the prize you are contesting for. No more than a single planet will be won or lost by any individual."
     "What are the odds on us?" asked Scott.
     "Even," replied the catfish. "But subject to fluctuation."
     The members of Miracle Factory, along with many of the other variegated contestants, milled about next to the stage: a simple hexagonal affair, roughly half an acre in extent, empty at the moment. The stage stood in the middle of an enormous plaza, much bigger than the one visible from their quarters. There were no bleachers or other seating, no roof or walls to define the limits of the arena.
     "Let's have an equipment check," said Frank. Their leader was visibly nervous. For that matter, so were they all. Scott was polishing and repolishing his eyeglasses, and Phoebe had to fight to restrain herself from doing the same with hers. Mark was subjecting his hair to such vigorous manipulation that she feared for its roots.
     "A sound idea," said Terwilliger proudly. "This, I believe, qualifies as a tension-relieving pun...?"
     "Just get busy," said Frank brusquely. Terwilliger directed his manipulators around and, in the case of the micros, actually into the guitars, drums and keyboards belonging to Miracle Factory, as well as their various speakers and microphones and boards.
     "All is fine. I did detect a slight weakness in one of Phoebe's membranes, but it is now repaired."
     "I didn't know you still had that membrane, Pheeb," said Mark the Snark with mock innnocence.
     Phoebe punched him in the shoulder. "Jerk!"
     But she didn't really mind. For the joke had served to diffuse their anxiety a bit. And just in time.
     The virtual arena was assembling itself.
     From every quadrant came floating platforms of all sizes. Those carrying species which could tolerate the Planet of Sound environment were open to the air; others were closed and transparent; some were opaque. (For the benefit of shy riders--or easily frightened onlookers? wondered Phoebe.)
     Within a short time, the stage was nearly englobed by a mosaic of hovering spectators: snouted, scaled, tendrilled; puckered and peppered with pseudopods. Automated cameras took up positions closer in. Although Phoebe had witnessed this assembly twice before, she was still impressed.
     "Who'd ever think we'd get to play a stadium tour before we even got signed?" asked Scott with forced whimsy.
     "Quiet!" said Phoebe. "We should be scoping out the level of talent."
     "It's only the Bombardyx we have to worry about," said Mark. "Whoever he might be out of all these freaks."
     "May I remind everyone," said Frank, "that we still haven't decided what we're going to do once we get onstage...."
     Their choices were pitifully few. To throw the contest, dooming themselves to an indefinite term of servitude and handing Earth over to the unknown Bombardyx. Or to go all out for a victory, gaining a return trip to a planet soon to become a Bowerbird fiefdom--whatever that entailed. And any refusal to play would count as a surrender, Terwilliger had told them.
     "Yes," the fish had continued, "your options are not many. But this comes from being a lowly client race. If only you could claim consanguinity with one of the full-status species, things would be different."
     Frank's reminder went unheeded now, for the first band had taken the stage.
     A dozen impish creatures clad in rubbery unitards unfolded a large mat. Each took up a marked position. Then they began to perform incredible acrobatics. Their movements evoked a wild spacey wailing that soared and keened.
     "It's like a theremin," said Frank. "They're modulating some kind of energy field by their leaps and tumbles."
     The imps finished, and their rival took the stage: a flock of pterodactyl lookalikes whose long boney beaks were pierced with holes and played flutelike: musician and instrument as one.
     Voting now took place. Results were flashed as hieroglyphic holograms in the air. Although the humans could not interpret the signs, the attitude of the imps told all: they had lost. Led away by robotic guards, they trudged gloomily along, showing none of the easy movements they had exhibited onstage.
     "Tough crowd," said Mark weakly.
     The battle of the bands continued, fast and furious. Unimaginable sounds, amplified or natural, filled the air. Melodious or screechy, atonal or pentatonic, brief snatches or long intricate sequences, the music swelled, roared, murmured and cascaded over the listeners. Winners exulted and losers slumped as the audience displayed their approbation or disapproval with various noises of their own.
     Phoebe began to grow disoriented. The alien musics were almost succeeding in making her forget all she knew about playing Earth music! She wished for earplugs, but the band had never used them....
     There was moment of silence. Phoebe spotted robo-roadies carrying Miracle Factory's equipment into place. She prepared to ascend the ramp leading onstage. Modine flew up then. Behind him tagged along a tray of Sam Adams.
     "I brought along some refreshment to toast your success," said the blue canary.
     Numbly, Phoebe took her beer, but did not drink it. She addressed the Bowerbird.
     "We hate you, Modine."
     The canary seemed somehow to shrug. "This is an understandable reaction. But I in return do not hate you personally, or your species. Our close contact during the past few days has led me to believe that we Bowerbirds might have made a mistake in seeking to acquire Earth, which appears to have more potential for self-development than we first estimated."
     "Then call off the show!" shouted Phoebe.
     "It is rather too late for that. However, I urge you to play your best, and retain the hope that all will be well."
     Modine flew away.
     The four humans took the stage.
     Strapping on his guitar, Scott said, "I still can't get used to no cords."
     Terwilliger had modified their equipment to use onboard powerpaks and digital transmission.
     "Thank God he didn't mess with my drums," said Phoebe.
     She set her beer down within reach, and hung her extra sticks in their stick bag within easy reach. Hate to break one and not have a replacement during such a crucial performance....
     His bass in place, Frank stepped up to mike.
     "Hello, uh, fellow sophonts. We're Miracle Factory, from Earth. And we're here to play you some, ah, 'modern' rock 'n' roll."
     Mark ripped off the opening to "Dirty Dawg" on his keyboard and began to sing. The band took off.
     By the fourth song, Phoebe could tell they were playing as well as they ever had. She only hoped it was good enough.
     By the end of the set, she was drenched in sweat. As the last notes of "Lost in Hilbert Space" rang out, she felt that no one could possibly beat them.
     Then the Bombardyx appeared.
     It was as big as a four-story building, an irregular block of oddly protuberant devices mounted on treads. It moved slowly up the stage-ramp. When it attained the stage itself, Phoebe could feel the structure creak.
     Terwilliger had stumped up to be with them. Phoebe turned to the fish.
     "What--what is it?"
     "The Bombardyx is a type of hermit-crab creature, a small organic slug. This one appears to have taken up residence in a leftover Symphonium device from the Disintegral Era of the Lesser Splenetics."
     "Is this within the rules?"
     "Apparently so."
     Now the Bombardyx began to perform.
     It started by duplicating Miracle Factory's entire set, note for note. Then, like a master jazz improviser, it elaborated on all the tunes, reconfiguring them into a whole ingenious suite.
     When the hidden creature was finished, Phoebe knew that they had lost.
     Glyphs burned in the air. Terwilliger gasped.
     "It is a tie! The Bombardyx lost points by stealing your compositions. You both must perform again!"
     Phoebe had not an ounce of energy left in her. Looking at her sagging friends, she knew that they did not either.
     Her eye fell on the bottle of Sam Adams.
     She lifted it, and the others brightened. The guys grabbed theirs, and everyone chugged them down.
     The familiar invigorating spell cast by Modine's adaptation of the Earth brew swept through Phoebe's limbs.
     Miracle Factory began their encore.
     As Phoebe drummed, she felt strange changes overtaking her: swellings and tentative writhings along her midriff. Things were growing beneath her shirt!
     There came a ripping sound, as her shirt seams popped.
     She looked down at herself.
     She had sprouted four extra arms, two on each side. Fully formed limbs, apparently--yes!--under her complete control.
     Without hesitation, she grabbed up her extra sticks.
     The guys missed a beat, then recovered.
     "You go, girl!"
     Phoebe began to drum. Really drum. For the first time in her life, she could do everything she had ever envisioned--with sticks, anyhow.
     The others had stopped now.
     It was just Phoebe, drumming up a storm.
     It was the longest drum solo in history. Not to mention the most complex.
     An hour later, she was done.
     Phoebe collapsed. The guys clustered around her, lifting her up. She clung to them with all her hands. Unimpressed, the Bombardyx began to vent its reply.
     A platform swooped down on the stage, interrupting the building-sized creature. Out of the vehicle stepped a biped.
     One with six arms.
     The alien turned and faced the audience, and began to speak.
     Terwilliger translated. "He says you are plainly a lost larval form of his race, the Sextuples. As such, you cannot be clients. This contest must be deemed null and void."
     Phoebe couldn't believe it. Getting to her feet, she let the guys help her from the stage.
     Modine was waiting for them.
     "I told you, did I not, to hope for the best?"
     Phoebe drew herself up. "You did this, didn't you? We're not any relation to that race."
     "The Sextuples happened to owe the Bowerbirds a favor. A simple cell-potentiator with morphic overlays and some neuronal enhancers in your drink did the rest."
     "Now we can go home!" said Scott.
     "And Earth is saved!" said Mark.
     "Thanks to Pheeb!" said Frank.
     Lifting Phoebe to their shoulders, the guys paraded her around, Terwilliger frolicking at their feet and Modine flapping around Phoebe's head.
     "I assume these extra arms can be gotten rid of fairly easily?" said Phoebe sternly to the canary.
     "Yes. A simple resorptive--"
     "I'll have it now, if you don't mind, Mister Bird."
     "As you wish."
     "But I'll use it when I'm good and ready!"

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