Space Opera (13 page)

Dame Isabel threw up her hands. “I do what I must.” She signaled to Sir Henry Rixon, who glanced in surprise out across the expanse of benches, empty except for the attentive monitor. He looked questioningly once more to Dame Isabel, who gave him another signal. Sir Henry raised his baton. The first notes of the overture sounded and
The Barber of Seville
was under way.

The performance, played against the total non-resilience of the monitor, was not the most vivacious of anyone’s experience, but on the other hand the virtuosity of the cast preserved it from becoming the empty shell, the sheer going-through-the-motions which it might well have been.

During the performance the monitor sat attentive, showing neither pleasure nor disapproval, making no motion other than an occasional taking of notes with brush and ink.

The final ensemble yielded to the ultimate orchestral chord; the curtain dropped. Dame Isabel, Bernard Bickel and Litchley turned to the monitor, who was making a few final notes. Then he rose to his feet, started for the exit. Darwin Litchley did not need Dame Isabel’s bark of instructions to spring forward. There was a lengthy colloquy by the exit, until Dame Isabel broke in to inquire the nature of the monitor’s judgments.

Darwin Litchley spoke laboriously. “He’s unfavorably impressed; this essentially is his reaction.”

“
What?
” demanded Dame Isabel. “And why is this?”

The monitor, seeming to divine the nature of Dame Isabel’s exclamation, spoke to Litchley, who translated. “He has noticed a large number of clumsy mistakes. The costumes are unsuitable for the climate. Now he is making technical objection … The singers — hmm: a word I don’t understand —
bgrassik
. Hmm. Whatever it means it’s something the singers do incorrectly when attempting to — another unfamiliar phrase:
thelu gy shlrama
during orchestral implications, which result in faulty
ghark jissu
, whatever that is. ‘Implications’ might mean overtones … The chord sequences — no, that can’t be what he means; chord sequences wouldn’t move from north to west.” He listened to the monitor, who now was reading from his notes. “The original antiphony was incomplete … The
thakal skth hg
were too close to the
brga skth gz
, and neither were of standard texture … He found the duet about halfway through interesting because of the unusual but legitimate
grsgk y thgssk trg
. He complains that the musicians sit too statically. He thinks that they should move — hop or jump if they will — in order to blend the music. The work is wild, undisciplined, with too much incorrect — substratum? Perhaps he means legato. In any event he cannot recommend the work to his people until these flaws are overcome.”

Dame Isabel shook her head in complete disbelief. “It is clear that he completely misunderstands our purposes. Ask him to sit down — I will send in for tea.”

The monitor acquiesced; Dame Isabel settled herself beside him and for an hour, with occasional interpolations from Bernard Bickel, carefully explained the history, philosophy and structure of classical Earth music in general and grand opera in particular. The monitor listened politely and even took an occasional note. “Now,” said Dame Isabel, “we will stage another performance — let’s think …
Tristan and Isolde
will be taxing but I think it is apropos, in that it affords a notable contrast in style and form. Bernard, please have the Wagner people into their costumes:
Tristan and Isolde
in twenty minutes. Roger, notify Sir Henry and Andrei. Quickly now, we must convince this monitor that we are not the dunces he takes us for!”

The musicians returned to the pit, the violinists massaged their fingers, the trumpeters applied salve to their lips; and it was a tribute to the virtuosity of the group and the dynamic qualities of Sir Henry’s baton that the Prelude came forth in all its ineffable bitter-sweet passion.

During the performance, Dame Isabel, Bernard Bickel and Darwin Litchley sat beside the silver-skinned monitor, explaining to the best of their powers the subtleties of the spiritual conflict which unfolded before them. The monitor made no comments, and perhaps paid no great heed to the commentary; as before he brushed enigmatic marks upon his notepad.

The performance came to an end; Isolde sang the
Liebestod
; her voice faded into echo; up through the weft of orchestral sound came the plangent voice of the oboe, pronouncing the great theme of magic and woe … The curtain fell.

Dame Isabel turned to Darwin Litchley. “Now then! I hope he is satisfied!”

The monitor spoke in his husky consonanted language; Litchley listened with a slack jaw. Dame Isabel stuttered and would have leapt to her feet but for Bernard Bickel’s restraining hand.

“He is still — somewhat critical,” said Litchley in a hollow voice. “He says he understands something of our point of view, but this is no excuse for poor music. He specifically objects to what he terms the stifling monotony of our chord progressions: he says it would drive an audience less broadminded than himself mad with boredom. He finds our music as reiterative as a children’s chant, with every modulation, every new theme, every recurrence of an old theme, expressed with a pedantic and unimaginative predictability.”

Dame Isabel closed her eyes. The monitor had once more gained his feet. “Sit down,” she said in a harsh strained voice. “Bernard: we will now perform
Wozzeck
.”

Bernard Bickel’s handsome gray eyebrows rose into astonished arcs. “
Wozzeck
? Now?”

“At once. Please inform Andrei and Sir Henry.”

Bernard Bickel, looking back over his shoulder, went off to do her bidding. He presently returned. “The company is fatigued,” he said uncertainly. “They haven’t eaten since noon; Hermilda Warn complains of sore feet, as do Christina Reite and Ephraim Zerner. The first violinist states that he will be forced to play in gloves because of a blister.”

Dame Isabel said in a cold quiet voice: “The performance of
Wozzeck
will get underway in twenty minutes. The singers will change costume, but need not concern themselves with fresh make-up. Distribute lozenges to any who complain of hoarseness; those with sore feet would be well-advised to change into casual foot-gear.”

Bernard Bickel departed backstage; the musicians presently filed back into the orchestra pit. There were surly mutters, much slamming around of scores. The first violinist ostentatiously drew white cotton gloves over his hands; the second trombonist blew a vulgar
glissando
.

Sir Henry Rixon sternly rapped the podium with his baton.

Wozzeck
! And Dame Isabel watched the monitor with a small secret smile, as if to say, “You think our chords are obvious, do you? Analyze a few of these.”

It was a weary but paradoxically triumphant company which brought
Wozzeck
to its dire finale. The monitor consulted his notes with studious attention; but Dame Isabel insisted that all repair to the saloon for a cup of tea and a biscuit. When they were seated she fixed the monitor with a questioning look which was almost a challenge. “Now then?”

The monitor spoke; Darwin Litchley translated in a dull voice. “I cannot recommend tendentious, provocative, or persuasive matter for the attention of the Water-folk. This last improvisation is clever but desperate, and as a final remark, I would recommend that those musicians entrusted with the
bsg rgassik
listen for the introductory
slfks
from the air-swish.”

“‘Air-swish’?”

“He refers to Sir Henry’s baton. He can hear the sounds it makes passing through the air and believes it to be a musical instrument.”

Dame Isabel said in an icy voice, “He is clearly a cretin. You may inform him that our patience is exhausted, that we resolutely refuse to perform before a group so tone-deaf, so arbitrary and opinionated as the Water-folk.”

Darwin Litchley cautiously rendered a version of the remarks; the monitor listened without interest. He bent over his pad and seemed to be performing calculations. He spoke to Darwin Litchley, who blinked, then hesitantly translated. “He has set his fee at —”

“His ‘fee’?” demanded Dame Isabel in a voice which cracked with emotion. “What an astonishing impudence! Order him off the ship instantly!”

Darwin Litchley spoke in a conciliatory voice. “Local usage is such that the monitor must make a charge for his expertise. Six hundred flashlight batteries may seem —”

“What in the world are you talking about?” demanded Dame Isabel. “What is this talk of ‘flashlight batteries’?”

Litchley smiled weakly. “Flashlight batteries are the local medium of exchange — at least for transactions between Earth people and the aborigines.”

Dame Isabel said clearly and distinctly: “Inform this creature that he will be paid nothing, in flashlight batteries or otherwise. Explain that I consider his attitude highly insolent, that he has imposed not only upon me, but also Mr. Bickel and indeed the whole company: if there is any paying of flashlight batteries to be done, it is he who should pay us. Inform him that we are tired and that he may now go. Roger! Inform Captain Gondar that the theater may be disassembled at once!”

The monitor had not moved from his seat. Dame Isabel gave him an incredulous stare. “What now?”

Darwin Litchley said in a flustered voice, “He tells me that he miscalculated; in addition to the six hundred batteries, there is a surcharge for compositions performed in more than three tonalities, which puts an added strain on the critical faculties. The surcharge in the case of the first two works is fifty flashlight batteries apiece, in the case of
Wozzeck
he estimates a hundred and fifty. To a total of eight hundred and fifty.”

“Tell him to leave. We will pay him nothing.”

Litchley and the monitor engaged in a short conversation; then Litchley told Dame Isabel, “He says that if he is not paid he will discharge the contents of his spore-sac into the air, which will infect the
Phoebus
with approximately ten million infant Water-people, more or less similar to himself.”

Dame Isabel opened her mouth to speak, closed it again. She turned to Bernard Bickel. “I suppose we must pay?”

“Yes,” said Bernard Bickel sadly. “We must pay.”

“We do not have that many flashlight batteries aboard ship,” Dame Isabel told Darwin Litchley. “What shall we do then?”

“Let me call Commissioner Cam; he will send out a flyer with the requisite sum.”

An hour later the flyer arrived. The monitor was paid his batteries and without further ado departed the
Phoebus
.

“This is the most exasperating situation I can remember,” said Dame Isabel. “How is it possible for any set of intelligent individuals to be so arrogantly narrow-minded?”

Bernard Bickel laughed. “If you had traveled space as much as I, you would be surprised by nothing. And as we realized long ago, for every one of our triumphs we will encounter disappointment or incomprehension.”

“Perhaps I expect too much. Still —” Dame Isabel shook her head, poured herself a cup of tea. “I suppose I am far too optimistic and trusting. I wonder if I will ever learn?” She sighed. “But we can only do our best; once we compromise with our ideals, all is lost. Mr. Litchley, these Mental Warriors you are taking us to — I hope they are not the same finicky sort as the Water-people?”

Litchley said tentatively, “I do not know them as well as I know the Water-people, but by all reports they are outgoing and hearty, if perhaps not so subtle as one or two other tribes of Zade.”

“I am glad to hear that,” said Dame Isabel with a grateful sigh. “I am bored with calculating folk who can think of nothing but criticism and flashlight batteries. My word, but I am tired. I think I will retire. Bernard, please see to it that the theater is stowed in good order. We will depart first thing in the morning.”

The
Phoebus
slid west and north across the splendid scenery of Zade. Mountains and plains passed below, with an occasional town or village and one city of tall stone spires. This according to Darwin Litchley was inhabited by a people who had the faculty of seeing demons which were invisible to other folk. They were a gentle responsive race, but — so he stated in answer to Dame Isabel’s query — not to be considered in the light of a prospective audience: if they perceived, or thought to perceive, spectres among the company, their cries of horror would be certain to disrupt the performance.

They crossed over a jungle of the many-colored trees characteristic to the planet, approached a great massif of schists, gneisses and other metamorphic rock, and presently came to the land of the Mental Warriors: a region of dark fractured stone, chasms and abysses, peaks, scarps and crags. The principal city — hardly more than a large town — occupied the center of a fairly level plateau. Nearby was a complex of foundries, smelting sheds and forges, surrounded by heaps of slag and ort. Darwin Litchley described the Mental Warriors as proficient miners and smelters, suppliers of iron and copper to the whole continent. “Don’t be perturbed by their appearance or manner,” he said. “They are a stern harsh folk, but by no means savage or unreliable. I am not too familiar with their culture, but they are famous among the other races of Zade for their pageants and spectacular demonstrations, and they are said to be open-minded people. If we conduct ourselves with a normal regard for their sensibilities, I am sure that we will be treated with punctilious courtesy.”