Space Opera (14 page)

Captain Gondar landed the
Phoebus
on an open area near the town; Dame Isabel, Bernard Bickel and Darwin Litchley stepped down the ramp and awaited the arrival of a local deputation. This was not long in arriving.

As Darwin Litchley had predicted, their appearance was by no means engaging. They were a tall crag-featured people, with torsos sheathed in black segmented chitin. They seemed of remarkable physical strength, and wore garments which would have weighed down an Earthman: iron sandals, a kilt of iron tablets bound with bronze wire, bronze and iron epaulette-like shoulder coverings from which depended strings of silver beads. They wore no headgear, and their scalps were corrugated with two-inch ridges of black chitin. Halting, they directed upon the group from the
Phoebus
a scrutiny of intense concentration, assessing and gauging every aspect of the visitors’ being.

One of them spoke in a heavy harsh voice which seemed all broad vowels. Darwin Litchley listened with care, and responded rather haltingly. The Mental Warrior made another statement; Litchley turned to Dame Isabel and Bernard Bickel. “He wants to know the reason for our visit, or so I gather. I told him that you were just arrived from Earth, that you had heard of the Mental Warriors and wanted to see them. A little flattery never comes amiss.”

“By no means,” declared Bernard Bickel. “Tell them that their sterling qualities are known over all the human universe, that we have come to pay our respects, and stage a performance for their benefit.”

Darwin Litchley translated, using the heavy groaning language as best he could. The Mental Warriors listened with brooding attention, then drew apart to confer among themselves, darting the Earth-people glances of wary calculation.

They returned slowly to where the three from the
Phoebus
waited. The spokesman made an inquiry: “You state that our reputation is known across the universe?” — so Litchley translated.

“Yes, indeed,” replied Bernard Bickel, and Litchley conveyed the message.

“You have come here with no other purpose than to provide this ‘performance’?”

“That is the case. Our company includes some of the most talented artists of Earth.”

The Mental Warriors withdrew again, and seemed to fall into dissension. Finally agreement was reached; the Mental Warriors returned; the spokesman uttered a set of heavy fateful phrases.

Litchley translated. “They accept the invitation; they will send a delegation of their bravest and wisest notables —”

“‘Bravest and wisest’?” inquired Dame Isabel in puzzlement. “What a strange way to speak!”

“That seems to be the essence of the remark. He makes a condition, however: all of us aboard the
Phoebus
must in our turn attend a performance staged in their arena by their specially trained troupe.”

After a brief pause and an uncertain look toward the Mental Warriors, Dame Isabel said, “I see no reason why we should not accept the invitation … In fact, it would seem churlish to refuse. Do you not agree, Bernard?”

Bickel rubbed his chin, looked doubtfully toward the grimly attentive autochthones. “I suppose they feel a strong sense of obligation. Their rather dire attitude probably means nothing whatever.”

“Is not this the very essence of cultural interchange?” inquired Dame Isabel. “Why have we come all these millions of miles if not for this very purpose?” She turned to Darwin Litchley. “We will be honored to attend their performance! Please convey as much to them.”

Litchley spoke; there was some slight further conversation and the delegation returned to the city.

Dame Isabel and Bernard Bickel immediately conferred with Andrei Szinc and Sir Henry Rixon in regard to an appropriate program. Bernard Bickel, who had been impressed by the forcefulness of the Mental Warriors’ character, voted for
Siegfried
, on the basis of relevance to the lives of the audience. Andrei Szinc declared for
Aida
, for which the
Phoebus
carried particularly striking sets; Sir Henry raised, then dismissed, the Decadents; Dame Isabel brought forward the idea that this particular folk, with their obviously toilsome lives, might well be diverted by something charming and carefree:
Hansel and Gretel
,
Die Fledermaus
,
Cosi Fan Tutte
, or even
Tales of Hoffman
.

Eventually
The Bartered Bride
was agreed upon; Andrei Szinc departed to put the cast through a quick rehearsal; Sir Henry went off to review the score.

The night was dark; from the forges across the plateau came an eery flicker. The air carried odors strange to the nostrils of Earth-folk, and those who had come forth to stretch their legs stayed close to the ship.

On the following day the theater was erected; the orchestra ran through the score. At the time appointed a large company of Mental Warriors marched across the plateau. Dame Isabel met them at the entrance to the theater. The spokesman came forward, indicated his fellows, and spoke. Darwin Litchley translated. “We have come, in faithful accordance with our undertaking. Once we are determined, neither persuasion, trepidation, nor second thoughts can deter us. So now we submit ourselves to your performance.”

Dame Isabel uttered a short speech of welcome, then led them into the theater. With quick looks to left and right, they seated themselves in a compact group, each adopting an identical, somewhat rigid posture: torso bolt upright, arms pressed closely to the sides, feet planted close together.

Sir Henry Rixon raised his baton for the overture: the Mental Warriors as one man fixed their eyes upon him. The curtain rose on the first act; the Mental Warriors sat as if frozen; indeed they did not so much as twitch until the final curtain descended and the lights came on; even then they remained motionless, as if not certain that the performance was over. Then slowly, uncertainly, they rose to their feet, filed from the theater, exchanging puzzled comments. Dame Isabel and Bernard Bickel met them outside. The spokesman conferred with his fellows, and it seemed as if they were somewhat resentful though the dour cast of their features made any such judgment uncertain.

Dame Isabel approached. “Did you enjoy the performance?”

The spokesman said in his most resonant voice, “My people are neither exercised nor taxed; is this the most vigorous performance you are able to provide? Are the folk of Earth so listless?”

Darwin Litchley translated; Dame Isabel was surprised at the question. “We have dozens of operas in our repertory, all different. We conferred at length last night and decided that you might enjoy something light and not too rigorous or tragic.”

The Mental Warrior drew himself stiffly erect. “Do you take us so lightly then? Is this our reputation across the cosmos?”

“No, no, of course not,” Dame Isabel told him. “By no means!”

The Mental Warrior spoke a few brusque words to his fellows, turned back to Dame Isabel. “We will say no more of the performance. Tomorrow we will honor you with an exhibition by our trained company. You will attend?”

“Of course!” said Dame Isabel. “We are looking forward to the occasion. Will you send someone to guide us to your theater?”

“This will be done.” The Mental Warriors stalked off across the plain.

Bernard Bickel shook his head. “I fear that they weren’t too impressed.”

Dame Isabel sighed. “Just possibly they might have preferred
Siegfried
… Well, we’ll see. Tomorrow’s performance should be very interesting, and I must remind Roger to bring along recording equipment.”

On the day following, a few minutes after the noon meal, a pair of Mental Warriors presented themselves at the ship. Not everyone was ready; Ramona Thoxted and Cassandra Prouty at the last moment decided to change from afternoon frocks to somewhat more casual clothes. Finally all who were going assembled outside the ship: singers, musicians, Dame Isabel, Roger, Bernard Bickel, Sir Henry, Andrei Szinc, and a number of the crew. Neither Captain Gondar nor Madoc Roswyn was among the group, and Roger felt an agonized pang at the thought of the two together. Someone else seemed to have similar feelings: Logan de Appling, the personable young astrogator. He strode back and forth nervously toward the debarkation ramp, and when neither Madoc Roswyn nor Captain Gondar appeared, he abruptly marched back aboard ship.

At last all were on hand; in a festive mood they set off across the plateau. Forgotten were little disagreements and jealousies; various small cliques had temporarily dissolved, and it was a good-natured group which walked chattering and chaffering to the local theater. Ramona Thoxted and Cassandra Prouty congratulated themselves on their decision to wear casual clothes; the occasion clearly was not at all formal. Even Dame Isabel seemed caught up in the spirit of good cheer, and made jocular references to the book Roger was supposed to be writing.

They passed behind the city, descended a wide stone-paved path and found themselves in a natural amphitheater. The walls were steep and the seats were all on the floor of the enclosure: stone cylinders arranged in concentric circles.

Dame Isabel examined the amphitheater with lively interest. “They pay not even lip-service to luxury,” she observed to Bernard Bickel. “The seats, or pedestals, whatever you call them, appear absolutely uncomfortable. But I suppose we must take things as we find them.”

Bernard Bickel indicated the iron trusswork overhead. “Evidently for special effects, or perhaps lighting arrangements.”

Dame Isabel looked about. “A strange sort of theater: where is the stage? Where do the musicians sit?”

Bernard Bickel chuckled. “In my peregrinations across the galaxy, I’ve learned to be surprised at nothing, not even theaters without stages.”

“Yes, we must not be too parochial … Well, I believe I will sit here. Roger, you take that seat or pedestal, whatever, and Mr. Litchley, you sit there, beside Roger, so that if necessary you can make interpretive comments into the recording apparatus.”

The company disposed itself about the amphitheater with jocular remarks back and forth.

The individual who had acted as spokesman for the Mental Warriors appeared. He clanked across the stone floor of the arena to Dame Isabel. He spoke and Darwin Litchley translated: “You have kept your word; you have not departed the planet.”

“No, naturally not,” declared Dame Isabel. “Such an act would have been highly ungenerous.”

At the translation, the Mental Warrior gave a brief jerk of his head. “You are a strange folk; but certainly one to be respected.”

“Thank you very much,” said Dame Isabel, extremely pleased, and Bernard Bickel added a smiling nod of acknowledgment.

The Mental Warrior departed the arena. Silence persisted for two minutes, and was broken by the chime of a great gong. This was the signal for a set of astonishing and harrowing circumstances. Jets of flame thrust up from the floor; iron rails fell from above to crash into the aisles between pedestals. Six razor-edged pendulums were released from above, to swing back and forth. A siren screamed, and was answered by another; a great boulder toppled down, to be caught by a chain inches above the heads of the audience. The fire jets thrust out horizontally, then vertically, and down from the trusses dropped chunks of red-hot iron … After two minutes and fourteen seconds the company was screaming, fainting, giving way to various styles of hysteria.

Abruptly the performance was terminated. The Mental Warriors appeared on the truss-work and to the side of the arena. They emitted hoots, cat-calls, harsh cries of scorn. Darwin Litchley later remembered something of their comments: “What sort of pusillanimity is this?” And “We sat through three hours of your worst and never flinched!” And “The folk of Earth are weaklings indeed!”

In a disorganized straggle the group returned to the
Phoebus
. Dame Isabel gave instant orders to strike the theater and depart with the most expedition possible.

The
Phoebus
flew back to Earth-town, discharged Darwin Litchley, and at once put off into space.

The following day, with Phi Orionis a near-anonymous glitter astern, Dame Isabel had regained enough composure to be able to discuss the events on the plateau with Bernard Bickel. “I dislike to impute malevolence to anyone, and somehow I cannot read animus into that terrible set of circumstances.”

“Probably not,” said Bernard Bickel wanly. “A misunderstanding, more than likely … Faulty communication. What a farcical chap, that Litchley! Utterly incompetent!”

“I am inclined to agree with you,” said Dame Isabel. “Only a completely inept person could have mistranslated ‘performance’ for ‘ordeal’; or ‘invitation’ for ‘challenge’.”

“To do the fellow justice,” mused Bernard Bickel, “he frankly admitted his shakiness in the language. And it sounded like nothing else than a herd of dying sheep.”

Captain Gondar had entered the saloon; now he joined them. He was not looking well; there were dark shadows under his eyes, and his normally sallow skin showed a yellowish undertone. Perhaps not too tactfully, Dame Isabel commented upon his appearance. “You should take more exercise, Captain Gondar. Even in this age of biological miracles, we must cooperate by keeping the blood flowing in our veins.”