The Holes and John Smith

The Space Room, a neon‑lit oasis on Marsport’s Grand Canal, hums with the chatter of tourists, uniformed spacemen, and native Martians alike. Jimmie Stanley and his three‑piece combo are on the bandstand, trying to keep the night alive after their bassist lost two fingers in a mishap with Saturnian ice‑fish. Their boss, the towering, needle‑eyed Ke‑teeli—known as Goon‑Face—presses them for a performance, threatening to shut them down if a replacement doesn’t appear within minutes. The pressure mounts as the band jokes about fleeing to the distant pits of Neptune, their future hanging on a thin thread of hope.

Just as Ke‑teeli’s glare reaches its peak, a massive, midnight‑black bass crashes onto the stage, carried by a wiry figure who looks like a living matchstick. He introduces himself briskly as John Smith of the Marsport union, apologizing for his tardiness and hinting at a plan that could save the night. The uncanny instrument and its mysterious player stir both curiosity and unease among the eclectic audience, promising that the evening may take an unexpected turn.