Space Opera Read online

  Space Opera

  Jack Vance

  Copyright 1964, 2012 by Jack Vance

  Cover art by Ronald Marc

  Published by

  Spatterlight Press

  ISBN 978-1-61947-033-0

  2012-10-01

  Visit jackvance.com for more

  Spatterlight Press releases

  This title was created from the digital archive of the Vance Integral Edition, a series of 44 books produced under the aegis of the author by a worldwide group of his readers. The VIE project gratefully acknowledges the editorial guidance of Norma Vance, as well as the cooperation of the Department of Special Collections at Boston University, whose John Holbrook Vance collection has been an important source of textual evidence. Special thanks to R.C. Lacovara, Patrick Dusoulier, Koen Vyverman, Paul Rhoads, Chuck King, Gregory Hansen, Suan Yong and Josh Geller for their invaluable assistance preparing final versions of the source files.

  Digitize: Richard Chandler, Joel Hedlund, R.C. Lacovara, Peter Strickland, Diff: Joel Hedlund, Charles King, Tech Proof: Patrick Dusoulier, Text Integrity: Alun Hughes, Steve Sherman, Tim Stretton, Implement: Mark Adams, Joel Hedlund, Security: Paul Rhoads, Compose: John A. Schwab, Comp Review: Marcel van Genderen, Brian Gharst, Karl Kellar, Bob Luckin, Update Verify: Bob Luckin, Paul Rhoads, RTF-Diff: Patrick Dusoulier, Charles King, Proofread: Linnea Anglemark, Patrick Dusoulier, Charles King, Roderick MacBeath, Michael Mitchell, Till Noever, David Reitsema, Gabriel Stein, Fred Zoetemeyer

  Ebook Creation: Arjen Broeze, Christopher Wood, Artwork (maps based on original drawings by Jack and Norma Vance): Paul Rhoads, Christopher Wood, Proofing: Arjen Broeze, Evert Jan de Groot, Gregory Hansen, Menno van der Leden, Koen Vyverman, Management: John Vance, Koen Vyverman, Web: Menno van der Leden

  THE COMPLETE WORKS

  of

  Jack Vance

  Space Opera

  THE VANCE DIGITAL EDITION

  Oakland

  2012

  Contents

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  Chapter VIII

  Chapter IX

  Chapter X

  Chapter XI

  Chapter XII

  Chapter XIII

  Chapter XIV

  Chapter I

  Roger Wool, sitting to the rear of his aunt’s box at the Palladian Theater, poured himself a third glass of champagne. Dame Isabel Grayce, occupied with her two guests, failed to notice and Roger sat back with a pleasant sense of accomplishment.

  Five minutes to curtain time! The air was rich with golden light, heavy with a delicious expectancy. After triumphs elsewhere around the world, the Ninth Company of Rlaru at last had come to the Palladian. Everyone knew of their distinctive programs, which were like nothing ever before seen on Earth: some charming and wistful, others projecting an almost terrible sense of doom.

  Augmenting popular interest in the Ninth Company was the controversy which had accompanied them around the world: was the troupe genuinely the product of a far planet, or did they represent a hoax perpetrated by an exceeding clever set of musicians? Everywhere critics and experts were divided. The evidence of the music was ambiguous: in some respects it seemed absolutely alien; in others it appeared hauntingly similar to certain Earth musics.

  Roger Wool had hardly bothered to form an opinion; but Dame Isabel Grayce, Secretary-Treasurer of the Opera League, was more deeply involved: indeed, only her sponsorship had secured Adolph Gondar entrée into the theaters and opera houses of the world. At the moment Dame Isabel was engaged in a stiff conversation with her two guests. These were Joseph Lewis Thorpe, music critic for the Transatlantic Times, and Elgin Seaboro, theatrical editor of the Galactic Review. Both had written cynically in regard to the Ninth Company without troubling to attend a performance, and Dame Isabel had insisted that they repair the deficiency.

  The curtain parted to reveal an empty stage. The impresario, Adolph Gondar, stepped forward: a tall dark man with a saturnine forehead, brooding black eyes, a long melancholy jaw and chin: not a man to inspire confidence, but by the same token, not a man to whom such large-scale chicanery would come easily. He spoke a few perfunctory words and left the stage. After several electric moments the orchestral members of the Ninth Troupe appeared, went to a dais at one side of the stage, almost idly picked up instruments and began to play. The music was thin and sweet, and tonight it seemed almost gay.

  Presently others of the troupe came forth to present a merry little operetta, so casual as to seem impromptu, yet precisely timed and exquisite in regard to polish and flair. The plot? It could never be stated in words; perhaps there was none. Roger enjoyed the presentation and wondered what all the fuss was about. The performers seemed not quite human, though close enough for empathy. They were flexible and frail, and somehow one received the impression that their internal organs were different in formation and arrangement from those of Earth-folk. The men were straight, sinewy, with startling white skins, blazing black eyes and sleek black hair. The women were softer, delightfully shaped, with piquant little faces half-hidden in puffs of black hair. They pranced gaily from one side of the stage to the other, singing in sweet plaintive voices, changing costumes with bewildering celerity, while the men stood stern and stiff, facing in various directions or whirling about in accordance with a definite but incomprehensible set of canons. Meanwhile other members of the troupe provided music, a fragile polyphony sometimes seeming mere random sound, then just as the suspicion approached certainty, resolving into a set of ravishing chords which explained and ordered all which had gone before.

  Pleasant, if puzzling, thought Roger Wool, pouring himself another glass of champagne. The bottle clinked in the ice and Dame Isabel swung around her formidable glance. Roger replaced the bottle with exaggerated caution.

  Presently the performance halted for intermission. Dame Isabel turned from Joseph Lewis Thorpe to Elgin Seaboro with an austere and challenging air of triumph. “Your doubts and misgivings are erased, or so I trust?”

  Joseph Lewis Thorpe cleared his throat, glanced at Elgin Seaboro. “Virtuosity of a sort. Indeed, indeed, indeed.”

  Elgin Seaboro said, “No question but what we have here a clever and daring group, rather well integrated. Fresh new talent, I would say. Completely fresh.”

  “This is a fair pronouncement,” stated Thorpe.

  Dame Isabel knit her brows. “You agree then that Adolph Gondar and the Ninth Troupe are genuine?”

  Joseph Lewis Thorpe laughed uneasily. “My dear lady, I can only reiterate that I find his conduct the opposite of reassuring. Why will he allow no press interviews? Why has not some ethnologist of reputation examined these people? The circumstances do not conduce to easy acceptance of Mr. Gondar’s claims.”

  “You think then that Mr. Gondar has hoodwinked me? After all, the whole tour has been under my supervision; I control all financial matters, and I doubt if you can seriously accuse me of peccancy.”

  “My dear lady, there is not the slightest hint of such a thing!” declared Thorpe. “You are almost notoriously straight-forward!”

  “Adolph Gondar may well be an excellent fellow,” chimed in Seaboro, “aside from his attempt to pull the wool over our eyes.”

  “Yes,” said Thorpe. “Exactly who is Gondar?”

  Dame Isabel compressed her lips and Roger watched fascinated. “Mr. Gondar,” she said with great distinctness, “is a sensitive and perspicacious man. His trade is that of a spaceship captain. He has visited dozens of far worlds. On one of these, that world called Rlaru, he managed to prevail upon the Ninth Company to undertake a tour of Earth. That is all there is to it. I
cannot understand your skepticism, especially after my reassurances.”

  Seaboro gave a hearty laugh. “It is our business to be skeptical. Who ever heard of a credulous critic?”

  “My objections,” said Thorpe, “are based partly on musical theory, and partly on an informed layman’s knowledge of the galaxy. I find it hard to believe that an alien race can employ a comprehensible musical idiom, and also I have never heard mention of the planet ‘Rlaru’ which presumably exhibits a highly advanced civilization.”

  “Ah,” said Dame Isabel, eyelids hooding her eyes — a signal which caused Roger to wince uneasily. “Then you believe these performers to be ordinary Earth-people masquerading as aliens?”

  Seaboro shrugged. “As to that I can’t say. All of us have seen presentations which appear miraculous, but which we know to be clever stage management. These people show no strikingly non-human characteristics. If you identified them as the graduating class of the Golliwog Cakewalk Academy of Earthville on Procyon Planet, I would not disbelieve you.”

  “You are a fool,” said Dame Isabel, with the air of one pronouncing a considered and final judgment.

  Seaboro sniffed, swung around in his seat. Thorpe laughed nervously. “Unfair! Unfair! We are all mere mortals pushing through our various dark thickets! Bernard Bickel, who probably knows —”

  Dame Isabel made a sound of intense annoyance. “Don’t mention that name to me!” she snapped. “He is an opinionated poseur, completely superficial.”

  “He is probably the world’s leading authority on comparative musicology,” stated Seaboro coldly. “We cannot help but be influenced by his views.”

  Dame Isabel sighed. “I might have expected no more.” And now once more the curtain was rising on the stage.

  The Ninth Company presented a fête champêtre. In garments of pink and blue, green and blue, yellow and blue diaper, the players were engaging hybrids of fairies and harlequins. As before there seemed no plot, no perceptible pattern of movement. The music was a chirping, twiddling, tinkling confection occasionally underscored by a hoarse booming like a foghorn’s tone, or the blast of a conch. From side to side moved the players, this way and that: a pavane? A bucolic celebration? The apparently aimless motion, the curtsies, the frivolous capering and cantering continued without development or alteration, but suddenly came the startling intuition that here was no farce, no gentle entertainment, but a presentment of something somber and terrible: an evocation of heart-rending sadness. The lights faded to darkness. A flash of dazzling blue-green light revealed the Ninth Company in attitudes of attention and inquiry, as if they themselves were perplexed by the problem they had propounded. When the audience could see once more the curtain had fallen and the music had stopped.

  “Clever,” muttered Thorpe. “Though inchoate.”

  “I note a certain absence of discipline,” Seaboro reported. “A praiseworthy exuberance, an attempt to break away from traditional forms, but, as you say, inchoate.”

  “Good evening, Madame Grayce,” said Thorpe. “Thank you very much for your invitation. Good evening to you, sir.” The latter was addressed to Roger.

  Elgin Seaboro echoed his colleague’s remarks; the two departed.

  Dame Isabel rose to her feet. “A pair of buffoons. Come, Roger.”

  “I believe I will leave you here,” said Roger. “I have an engagement —”

  “You have nothing of the sort. You are driving me to Lillian Monteagle’s supper party.”

  Roger Wool acquiesced. He was dependent, to a great degree, upon his aunt’s largesse and found it expedient to oblige her in various small ways. They left the box, ascended to the roof, and Roger’s modest little Herlingfoss Skycar was brought up from the parking pit. Dame Isabel, declining the proffer of Roger’s hand, climbed grandly into the front seat.

  Lillian Monteagle lived across the river in an ancient palace which she had restored to contemporary standards of comfort. Almost as wealthy as Dame Isabel, she was famous for her elaborate entertainments, although the supper party of this particular evening was a comparatively informal occasion. Whether through innocence or light-hearted malice, Lillian Monteagle had likewise invited Bernard Bickel, the eminent musicologist, space-traveler, lecturer and bon vivant to her supper.

  Dame Isabel acknowledged the introduction with a barely perceptible compression of the lips, and made no mention of her connection with Adolph Gondar and the Ninth Company of Rlaru.

  Inevitably the subject arose; indeed Lillian Monteagle herself, with a mischievous side-glance toward Dame Isabel, inquired if Mr. Bickel had attended the presentations which were evoking such a stir.

  Bernard Bickel smilingly shook his head. He was a handsome man of early middle-age, with steel gray hair, a crisp mustache, a confident air of easy charm. “I saw a moment or two of the act on television, but I gave it no great attention. I fear that the good people of Earth are only too anxious for diversion, for novelty, for anything fashionable and faddish. More power to this Adolph Gondar: if idle and foolish folk are willing to pay him, why should he not take the money?”

  “My dear Mr. Bickel,” protested Lillian Monteagle, “you sound as if you doubted the authenticity of this troupe!”

  Bernard Bickel smiled quietly. “I’ll say this much: I have never heard of the planet ‘Rlaru’, or however it’s pronounced. And, as you know, I have traveled space a great deal.”

  A young lady across the table leaned forward. “But Mr. Bickel! I think you’re being dreadfully unfair! You haven’t even gone to one of the performances! I have, and I was absolutely thrilled.”

  Bernard Bickel shrugged. “Adolph Gondar, whoever or whatever he may be, undoubtedly is a fantastically good showman.”

  Dame Isabel cleared her throat. Roger relaxed in his chair: why give way to tension or nervousness? What would be, would be; Dame Isabel, by virtue of age, sex, and commanding presence, usually emerged with dignity intact and the opposition cowed. She spoke. “I must take issue with you. Adolph Gondar is totally inept as a showman, though he is probably a competent captain of space-ships, for this is his trade.”

  “Oh?” Bernard Bickel cocked one of his eyebrows into a quizzical arch. “This would of course lend color to his claims. As for myself —” he lifted his wine, inspected the scarlet shine “— modesty aside, I am close to the top of a field which has been variously called comparative musicology, symbological euphonics, or just plain musicology. And I simply refuse to be hornswoggled by the mysterious Adolph Gondar. His music is comprehensible, which is the give-away. Music is like a language: you cannot understand it unless you learn it, or more accurately, are born into it.”

  “Hear, hear!” said someone softly. Dame Isabel swung her head about in an effort to identify the offender. She said in a frosty voice, “Do you refuse to believe, then, that sensitive and intelligent creatures of one world are unable to comprehend the artistic efforts — including the music — of equally sensitive and intelligent inhabitants of another world?”

  Bernard Bickel realized that he had caught a Tartar, and decided upon retreat. “No, of course not. Not at all. I recall an amusing adventure on Capella’s fourth planet: a miserable little world, incidentally; if anyone is planning a visit, take my advice, don’t! At any rate, I had joined a mineral survey team which was making a swing through the back-country. One night we camped near a tribe of the natives: the Bidrachate Dendicaps as you’re all aware … ?” He looked around the table. “No? Well, they’re rather decent creatures, about five feet tall, with a heavy black fur. They have two little legs, and what’s under the fur is anybody’s guess. Be this as it may, after we set up camp, about thirty ’caps came to visit us. We passed out sulfur, which they relish like salt, and for a lark I started up my portable record-player, one of the little Duodexes, with long-play slugs. A sturdy little instrument, not too long on tone — but one can’t have everything. I tell you, the ’caps sat absolutely entranced. They stared at the little box for three hours, not moving a
muscle. They even ignored their sulfur.” And Bickel smiled at the recollection. From up and down the table came murmurs of amusement. Lillian Monteagle said, “It’s rather touching, really! Probably the first good music they had ever heard!”

  Someone asked, “Did these — er, ’caps show any — well, call it understanding, or appreciation?”

  Bernard Bickel laughed. “Let me put it this way. I’m sure they missed the point of the Brandenburg Concertos. But they listened with the same attention that they gave the Nutcracker Suite, so at least we cannot accuse them of superficiality.”

  Dame Isabel frowned. “I’m not sure that I completely understand. You acknowledge the universality of music?”

  “Oh — to some extent, if certain conditions are satisfied. Music is a communication — emotional communication, to be sure — and this implies agreement as to the context of the symbology. Do you follow me?”

  “Naturally,” snapped Dame Isabel. “I am Secretary-Treasurer of the Opera League; if I knew nothing of music I would hardly be allowed to continue in this capacity.”

  “Indeed? I was not aware of your — let us say — near-professional status.”

  Dame Isabel nodded crisply.

  Bickel continued. “The point I wish to make is this. Musical symbology is at once simple and complex. A slow soft rhythmical sound is almost universally soothing. A series of shrill brassy staccato tones is likewise exciting. Abstraction on the first level. When we consider chords, chord progressions, tone clusters, melodic structure, then we deal with entities whose symbolic meaning is to a much greater degree a matter of convention. Even among the various musics of Earth there is no consensus as to the significance of these conventions. We can, if you like, speculate as to a possible congruence of musical symbology among the worlds of the galaxy. It is conceivable, through processes of acculturation, or parallel development —” he held up a hand as someone started to laugh “— don’t be too skeptical too soon! The diatonic scale is not a freak, or a chance discovery! It is based on fundamental harmonic relationships. To exemplify: start with any note at random. For simplicity’s sake C, which we will use as our base tone: the tonic. Even a child’s ear can hear that another C an octave up or down the scale is the most obvious concord. A vibrational relationship of 2:1. Almost as basic will seem a concord with the vibration ratio 3:2. The note turns out to be G, the so-called dominant. What note occupies the same pragmatic relation to G that G does to C? It turns out to be the note we call D. With D as the tonic A becomes the dominant. With A as the tonic E is the dominant. Twelve different notes reveal themselves in this way before suddenly we find ourselves back at a note which is very close to C. Shift all these notes into the same octave, tinker and temper a little, and we have our familiar diatonic scale. Nothing mysterious, the most basic rule-of-thumb procedure imaginable. What is the point of all this? Simply that it should be no surprise to find a totally strange race on a totally strange planet using instruments similar to our own, employing our own familiar do re mi fa sol la si do.”