Space Opera Page 5

  “That is correct, Mr. Wool.”

  “Will you allow me to have a few private words with her?”

  Captain Gondar’s reply came as something of a surprise to Roger: “Haven’t you done enough damage already?” And Roger saw that the long spare face was taut and angry. Then Gondar shrugged. “If Miss Roswyn is willing to talk with you, it’s certainly agreeable to me.”

  Madoc Roswyn looked toward Captain Gondar with a strange expression on her face, one which puzzled Roger; it was almost as if she were pleading with him. Captain Gondar made a quick harsh movement, turned away. Madoc Roswyn arose, followed Roger into the corridor. Roger attempted to take her in his arms, but she stepped back. “Please, Mr. Wool — say what you want to say, and then —”

  “My darling!” gasped Roger. “What’s wrong?”

  “‘What’s wrong’?” She gave a bitter laugh. “The mess you’ve got me in, the things you’ve said about me — it’s a wonder I’ve a shred of reputation left!”

  “I don’t understand!” bleated Roger. “I’ve merely —”

  “You’ve merely got me in the worst trouble I’ve ever been in! I’m thankful I know you for the selfish blunderer you are before you did worse than you’ve done! Now please go, and never speak to me again! Captain Gondar at least is decent enough to arrange me a place to sleep and see that I don’t go hungry!”

  Roger turned blindly away, and almost stumbled into Captain Gondar who had been standing in the doorway.

  An hour later Captain Gondar presented himself to Dame Isabel. “Yes, Captain? How are things going?”

  “Everything seems first-rate, madame. I’ve made arrangements in regard to the young lady whom I fear your nephew had attempted to victimize.”

  “What? Roger victimize anyone except me? Certainly not that devious little trollop.”

  Captain Gondar’s face darkened. “Eventually you’ll hear the full truth, madame. In the meantime the young lady is not only filled with remorse, but wants to make amends for the trouble she unwittingly has caused.”

  “You speak in riddles,” snapped Dame Isabel. “How could she ‘unwittingly’ have done anything?”

  “Mr. Wool tricked her aboard. She was drugged, and awoke to find herself locked in a storage closet. Mr. Wool made periodic attempts to assault her, but without success.”

  Dame Isabel emitted a hoarse caw of laughter. “If it’s true — though I doubt it — it’s about the level of competence I’d expect of Roger. He has a girl locked in a closet, drugged and helpless and still she fends him off. Well, well, well. Poor Roger.”

  “The young lady learned that you were suffering from space-sickness, and was quite concerned. She tells me that she knows a specific cure and will be happy to help you.”

  Dame Isabel rubbed her pallid forehead. “The way I feel, I’d take help from the devil himself. What is this cure?”

  “I’ll fetch her, and we’ll see what she can do.”

  Madoc Roswyn came into the room. She looked at Dame Isabel a moment or two, nodded thoughtfully and spoke a few quiet words to Captain Gondar. He departed and Madoc Roswyn approached Dame Isabel. “Now, madame, if you’ll relax and close your eyes, I’ll try to stimulate the nerves which strange new conditions have cramped. Captain Gondar has gone for some medicine — an old farm recipe from the Welsh hills …” She touched Dame Isabel here and there, on throat, neck, forehead.

  Captain Gondar returned with a glass, which proved to contain a thick turgid liquid. “What is that?” demanded Dame Isabel suspiciously.

  “Sulfur, honey and a little drop of whisky. Drink it and you’ll feel a new woman.”

  Dame Isabel drank the potion, made a wry face. “It will be either cure or kill.” Madoc Roswyn continued to touch her here and there, hardly more than glancing little flicks of the finger-tips. Dame Isabel sat up in her chair. In a voice of wonder she said, “Why, do you know, I do feel better!”

  “I’m very pleased,” said Madoc Roswyn and quietly departed.

  “Hmph,” said Dame Isabel. “She unquestionably has a way with her … Strange creature … Of course she must be put off at Sirius Planet. But in the meanwhile see that she’s comfortable. I owe her at least that much. Hmmf. That lummox Roger. What in the world will become of him?”

  The Phoebus, encapsulated in non-stuff like a worm in an oak-gall, slid across space with the speed of thought. The sun became a star, with Sirius a brighter star dead ahead. The musicians occupied themselves with practice, the vocalists with exercises and rehearsals. There were the inevitable outbursts of temperament, the formation and dissolution of cliques, several romances, as many quarrels, a spate of gossip, innuendo and caustic comment, and by these activities the ravages of space-sickness were for the most part avoided.

  At the halfway point Dame Isabel presided at a champagne party, where she made an address to the company: “I am very pleased by the manner in which everyone has adapted to the circumstances of the voyage. Ahead of us lies Sirius and Sirius Planet, which for most of us will be a first venture upon an alien world. Sirius Planet is not at all like Earth except in gravity and atmosphere. It occupies what I believe is known as the ‘Trojan position’ in relation to Sirius A and Sirius B; and receives only a tenth of the radiation Earth receives from the sun. Nevertheless a comfortable temperature is maintained both by internal heat and a ‘greenhouse’ atmosphere, which very efficiently retains heat. There is flora and fauna unlike anything with which we are familiar, and in fact the words ‘flora’ and ‘fauna’ are probably misnomers, as many of the Sirius life-forms fit neither category, or fit them both. There is an intelligent native population, which of course is the reason for our visit. Mr. Bickel will tell us more about the autochthones in a moment. I will anticipate him only to say that this race is not musically oriented — in fact the style of the native civilization might at first glance seem rather primitive, for they live in caves and potholes. Still we must avoid parochialism; it is possible that the byzantaurs, as the race is called, regard us as equally primitive.

  “I have given a good deal of thought to our first program. A choice is more difficult than you might suppose. It is necessary to maintain an exquisite balance. We want to communicate with our audience, but still hold our artistic integrity at its highest levels. To this end we must select works which offer the largest possible number of contacts with the audience’s own milieu, the largest possible number of situations with which they can identify their own existences. I have decided that Fidelio will be our first offering, since much of the action occurs in a dungeon not unlike the blowholes in which the byzantaurs live.

  “Now, Mr. Bickel will tell us something more of the byzantaurs and the circumstances of their life.”

  Bernard Bickel arose, bowed urbanely. He wore a casual garment of black silk, tight at the ankles and belt, with a smart gold and silver piping; his neat silver mustache was crisp as a wire brush. With a polite smile of self-deprecation, he said, “Dame Isabel has covered the ground quite thoroughly; but I can fill in one or two details regarding the byzantaurs and the nature of their existences, since I have had occasion to visit Sirius three — or has it been four? — times previously. In any event I know Commandant Boltzen at the settlement well, and look forward to renewing our acquaintance.

  “As Dame Isabel has pointed out, Sirius Planet is a rather dim place, about as bright as an Earth twilight. One’s eyes rapidly adapt to the dimness and the landscape takes on a weird charm. Sirius Settlement lies almost beneath the Trapezus Vulcanism, and nearby live the Royal Giant byzantaurs, probably the most civilized tribe of the planet. Like the landscape, I fear they will seem initially ugly to your eyes, and they are certainly not anthropoid. They have four arms and four legs, and what appear to be two heads, but these latter simply contain the sense organs, as the brain is in the body itself. In spite of their nightmarish appearance they are responsive creatures, quite ready to adopt those human manners, methods, and institutions which seem useful to them. This
is especially true of the Royal Giants of the Trapezus, who have a settled existence in their caves. They derive their livelihood by a kind of agriculture, and their lichen terraces are extremely interesting. They are a gentle folk, and arouse themselves only against the rogues and outcasts who are of course much less amiable.

  “I am sure we shall profit by our visit to Sirius Planet; more than this, we may be able to implant some glimmer of our musical heritage into a people curiously deficient in this regard. Who knows? Perhaps our visit will trigger a complete revolution in the life of the byzantaurs!”

  Dame Isabel had a few more words to say: “You may well feel a certain awkwardness in performing before an alien people. All I can say is: do your best! We may of course make a few minor changes to conform with local sensibilities; you may feel a certain emptiness or lack of responsiveness in the audience — again all I say is: do your best!”

  During the remarks of Dame Isabel and Bernard Bickel, Roger had sat to the back of the saloon, gloomily drinking champagne. Earlier, he had attempted to see Madoc Roswyn, but, as on all his previous attempts, she had refused to speak with him. Tiring of the babble and laughter, he left the saloon, paced the circumference of the ship, through each of the five globes and connecting tubes. Passing the bridge his spirits were not raised by the sight of Madoc Roswyn and Captain Gondar standing together by the forward port, looking ahead toward Sirius — or rather toward that image of Sirius converted by a dephasing mechanism from the compressed columns of light impinging upon the ship from ahead, and projected upon a screen. Captain Gondar had given over his office to Neil Henderson the Chief Technician, and moved Madoc Roswyn into the cabin thus vacated; she was wearing a pale blue coverall from the ship’s stores.

  Roger watched them for a few seconds. They were engaged in earnest conversation: a matter apparently concerning the route of the ship, for as Roger watched, Captain Gondar pointed off to the right of Sirius and Madoc Roswyn followed the line of his finger with her eyes.

  Logan de Appling, the astrogator, appeared in the corridor: a slender young man with a craggy face, a poet’s mop of curly brown hair, bright blue eyes. He looked at the bridge, shook his head in deprecation. “Do you know what I think?” he told Roger. “Captain Gondar is besotted. That’s what I think.” He turned swiftly and walked away.

  Chapter VI

  Sirius Planet hung ahead, a dim gray world with heavy caps of overcast at the poles, a series of shallow equatorial seas, a pair of major land-masses, consisting of flat gray plains, mountain chains and smouldering volcanoes. The Phoebus swung in orbit twenty thousand miles above the planet; Captain Gondar located Sirius Settlement and radioed down a notification of arrival.

  Acknowledgement and landing clearance presently returned; Gondar fed an appropriate landing program into the automatic pilot; the Phoebus veered off and down at a slant.

  The dim gray ball grew larger, atmosphere soughed and hissed around the ship. Sirius Settlement was situated at the edge of Padway Plain, in the shadow of the towering Trapezus mountains, and here landed the Phoebus.

  During the previous three days the atmosphere in the ship had been adjusted to the pressure and composition of the local air, and carefully metered drugs had been administered to passengers and crew to minimize the biological side-effects of the change, so now there was no delay. Directly upon landing the ports were opened, the off-ramp extended. Captain Gondar stepped forth with Dame Isabel, Bernard Bickel and other members of the company coming after. Overhead the sky was dark gray; Sirius shone with a cool white glare. A quarter-mile distant a line of white concrete buildings suggested a barracks rather than a trade and administrative outpost.

  Commandant Dyrus Boltzen had come with one of his aides to meet the ship: a thin sandy-haired man with austere features and an air of dry skepticism. He now stepped briskly forward, with a curious stare for the chattering and ebullient company. “I’m Dyrus Boltzen, Commandant. Welcome to Sirius Settlement. It doesn’t look like much at first sight — and believe me — it gets worse.”

  Captain Gondar laughed politely. “I’m Gondar, master of the ship. This is Dame Isabel Grayce, and Mr. Bernard Bickel, whom I believe you know.”

  “Yes, of course. Hello, Bickel. Nice to see you again.”

  “These other folk I won’t introduce, but they’re all famous musicians and opera singers.”

  Commandant Boltzen’s straw-colored eyebrows shot up. “An opera company? What brings you here? There aren’t any theaters on Sirius Planet.”

  Dame Isabel said, “We are equipped with our own theater, and with your permission propose to present a performance of Fidelio.”

  Dyrus Boltzen scratched his head, looked over his shoulder at his aide. He glanced at Bernard Bickel, who had turned away and was inspecting the landscape. He looked at Adolph Gondar who stared back impassively. He returned to Dame Isabel. “This is very nice — lovely, in fact — but there are only five Earth folk on the entire planet, and two of them are off on a prospect trip.”

  Dame Isabel said, “Naturally you will be welcome to the performance, but perhaps I had better explain. We like to think of ourselves as missionaries of music; we plan to perform before the intelligent alien races of the universe, who otherwise would have no experience of Earth music. The byzantaurs fall into this category.”

  Dyrus Boltzen rubbed his chin. “As I understand it, you propose to stage an opera for the byzantaurs?”

  “Exactly. And not just an opera: Fidelio!”

  Boltzen mused a moment or two. “One of my responsibilities is to prevent abuse or exploitation of the ’zants; I don’t see how showing them an opera can hurt them.”

  “Assuredly not!”

  “You don’t plan to charge admission? Because if you do, you’re in for disappointment. The ’zants have no commercial sense whatever.”

  “If necessary, our performances will be staged free of charge, with absolutely no obligation.”

  Boltzen shrugged. “Go right ahead. I’ll be interested to see what happens. You say you carry your own theater?”

  “This is the case. Captain Gondar, will you be good enough to see to opening up the stage, and making ready the auditorium? And Andrei, perhaps you had better look to the sets.”

  “Certainly, madame.” “Of course.” Captain Gondar and Andrei Szinc walked back onto the ship.

  Dame Isabel looked around the landscape. “I had expected something rather more impressive. A city perhaps — some indication of aboriginal culture.”

  Boltzen laughed. “The byzantaurs are intelligent, no question about this. But they use their intelligence in line with their own pursuits, if you follow me.”

  “I’m afraid that I don’t.”

  “Well, what I mean is this. They use their intelligence just as we use ours — to make life easier, more secure, more comfortable. They’re clever with their rock-work and their lichen terraces — you can see them just up the hill — but down in their potholes they think thoughts which would puzzle us if we knew them.”

  “The byzantaurs are not articulate?” asked Dame Isabel. “Is there no exchange of ideas?”

  “I wouldn’t go quite that far. They’re clever enough when they want to be — and a number of them speak our language with astounding proficiency. But all the time you wonder — you can’t help but wonder — if it’s nothing but clever mimicry.”

  “They have no written language? No pictorial skill?”

  “The Royals who inhabit the Trapezus can read and write — at least some of them, and they have a mathematics of their own. Incidentally, it’s a mathematics which none of our mathematicians can understand. But I’m only glancing around the subject of the ’zants. To know a folk like this, even superficially, you have to live with them for years.”

  “But what of music?” persisted Dame Isabel. “Do they have any ear for music, do they compose, is there a native musical idiom?”

  “I suspect not,” said Dyrus Boltzen with careful courtesy. “But of cou
rse I can’t be entirely sure. I have held this station down for six years, but I still keep running into things which surprise me.”

  Dame Isabel nodded brusquely. She did not find Dyrus Boltzen’s manner ingratiating, though he had given her no specific cause for resentment. She now ceremoniously introduced the members of the company, watching Dyrus Boltzen sidelong as she spoke the famous names, but they seemed to mean nothing. “As I suspected,” she told herself. “The man is a musical illiterate.”

  Dyrus Boltzen took the group on a tour of the settlement, which consisted of little more than four concrete buildings surrounding a bleak compound. Two of the buildings were warehouses for trade-goods: one for imports, the other for articles to be exported — bowls, salvers, vases, goblets and dinner services polished from native stone: translucent obsidian, turquoise, jade, carnelian, a dense blue dumortierite, black basalt. There were jewels and crystals, chandeliers with pendants of diamonds, emeralds and sapphires, tourmaline wind-chimes. In the compound the group saw its first byzantaurs, a team of four equipped with brooms and water-sprays, sweeping the concrete expanse with great care and concentration. They were even more grotesque than their photographs had indicated: an impression furthered by the motion of their four arms and four legs, the working of the oddly placed features in the two heads, the texture of the skin, as rough and grey as rock.

  Dame Isabel spoke to Dyrus Boltzen: “The creatures seem cooperative, even mild.”

  Boltzen laughed. “Those four are what, for lack of a better word, we call elders. Every day, for some reason quite beyond my comprehension, they sweep the compound. Notice the shawl around the neck? That’s a fabric woven of rock fiber. The colors are significant by the way, almost like the old Scottish tartans. The brown and blue and black are characteristic of the Royal Giants, and the length of the fringe is a measure of prestige or rank.” He summoned one of the byzantaurs; it approached on thick stiff legs which clicked against the concrete. “Friend ’zant,” said Boltzen, “here are people from the sky. They come in big ship. They like to show all friend ’zants many pretty things. They like friend ’zants to come to ship. Okay?”