Space Opera (19 page)

“Do I not have reason to do so?” inquired Dame Isabel with acerbity. “You brought that dreadful young woman aboard the
Phoebus
. She has disrupted the entire tour!”

“Yes,” said Roger. “Quite true. I’ve just learned the motive for her acts. It’s a strange tale, and I’d like you to hear it.”

“Roger, I am not all that ingenuous; nothing would be gained.”

“She is not what you think,” said Roger, “and her motive for wanting to visit this particular world is astonishing.”

“I do not wish to be astonished,” growled Dame Isabel. “I have had enough surprises … I suppose, in simple justice, I must speak to this wretched girl. Where is she?”

“In her cabin. I’ll fetch her.”

Madoc Roswyn was extremely reluctant to talk to Dame Isabel. “She hates me. She senses things in me she can’t understand, that she doesn’t want to understand. She’d listen to me only to find exercise for her sarcasm.”

“Come now,” said Roger. “Isn’t it worth a try? What can you lose? Just tell her what you told me. How can she help but be impressed?”

“Very well,” said Madoc Roswyn. “I’ll do it … Let me wash my face.”

Roger took Madoc Roswyn to Dame Isabel’s cabin and prudently retired to the corridor. For an hour he heard the soft lilt of Madoc Roswyn’s voice, with occasionally a crisp question or remark from Dame Isabel. At last he deemed it judicious to enter; and neither Dame Isabel nor Madoc Roswyn seemed to notice his presence.

Madoc Roswyn finally completed her story, and Dame Isabel sat silent, drumming her fingers on the arm of her chair. “What you tell me is extremely interesting,” she said at last. “I cannot deny it. While I will never condone your acts, I admit that you have put forward a compelling motive — provided it can be sustained. Interesting indeed …” She gave Roger a sour smile. “Well — stubborn inflexibility is a fault of which I have never been accused.” She turned back to Madoc Roswyn. “Tell me something more of the planet, of its customs and institutions.”

Madoc Roswyn shook her head uncertainly. “I wouldn’t know where to begin. Earth history is six thousand years old, the history of Yan is five times longer.”

“Let me ask this: do your traditions mention art and music?”

“Oh yes, indeed.” Madoc Roswyn sang an odd little song in a strange language. The melody, the rhythm, the meter of the language derived from human perceptions and human needs — so much was intuitively clear — but also conveyed a quality which had no terrestrial reference: in short, the music of another planet. “That’s a nursery song,” said Madoc Roswyn. “From as early as I can remember, and before, I went to sleep by that song.”

Dame Isabel signaled Roger. “Please ask Captain Gondar to step in here a moment, if he’ll be so good.”

Captain Gondar appeared.

Dame Isabel said in a clear cool voice, “I have decided to convey Miss Roswyn to the planet Yan. She has worked with great diligence to this end, by expedients I will not comment upon. I am not completely convinced that I have heard the precise and entire truth, but Miss Roswyn has intrigued me to the extent that I wish to learn the facts. So, Captain — set a new course, to ‘Yan’, as I believe the planet is known.”

Captain Gondar gave Madoc Roswyn a black look. “She’s scheming and faithless; she knows every evil to be learned in the far Welsh mountains; you’ll regret the day she persuaded you.”

“Quite possibly,” said Dame Isabel. “Nevertheless, to Yan.”

Madoc Roswyn waited silently until Captain Gondar had departed. Then she turned to Dame Isabel. “Thank you,” she said, and left the cabin.

On the cross-hairs once more lay that greenish-white sun described in the Star Directory as Hydra GRA 4442. The tale told by Madoc Roswyn had circulated throughout the
Phoebus
, predictably encountering incredulity. The general consensus was that, whether or not the
Phoebus
would find an age-old civilization on Yan, the upshot was certain to be dramatic, and the atmosphere was taut with expectancy.

The green star flared large and moved to the side; in the cross-hairs hung an Earth-sized planet, well within the zone of habitability. The
Phoebus
slipped out of star-drive, swung into a normal approach orbit.

On the bridge Dame Isabel, Captain Gondar, Madoc Roswyn and Roger stood looking into the view-screen as Yan rolled magnificently below. No question but what it was a beautiful planet, not dissimilar from Earth. There were oceans and continents, mountains and deserts, forests and tundras and ice-fields, and the analyzer indicated a breathable atmosphere.

Captain Gondar said in a carefully expressionless voice, “No response to our radio signal — in fact we can’t intercept signals on any wave-length whatever.”

“Odd,” said Dame Isabel. “Let us examine the surface more closely. Can you increase the magnification on the screen?”

Captain Gondar adjusted the view-screen, the surface seemed to leap closer.

Madoc Roswyn pointed. “I recognize those continents. That’s Esterlop and Kerlop, and there in the north is Noauluth. That big island is Drist Amiamu, those little ones are the Suthore Stil. That long peninsula is Drothante, and there are six great temples at the extreme southern cape.” She looked carefully into the magnified image, but the tip of the long peninsula showed no sign of the temples she had mentioned. “I don’t understand,” she muttered in a low voice. “Nothing looks as it should … Where is Dilicet? Thax? Koshiun?”

“I see no obvious signs of habitation,” said Dame Isabel drily.

“There are ruins,” Roger pointed out. “Or rough patches which look like ruins.”

“Down there, beside that bay, where the forest runs up over the mountain — that is where I expected to find Sansue, the city of my ancestors. But where? More ruins?”

“If ruins, they are certainly thorough-going ruins,” said Roger. “Not one stone seems to be left on another.”

“From this height, through so much air and mist, details are deceptive,” said Captain Gondar grudgingly. “I don’t believe you could distinguish a city from ruins.”

“I see no reason why we should not land,” said Dame Isabel, “using all due caution, of course.”

The
Phoebus
swooped down into its landing spiral, and presently details of the surface revealed themselves. Cities there were none, only tumbles of broken stone, vast areas of scorch and char and rubble. Dame Isabel said to Madoc Roswyn, “You are sure this is the correct planet?”

“Yes, of course! Something terrible has happened!”

“Well, we shall soon find out. That area beside the bay is your ancestral home?”

Madoc Roswyn gave an uncertain affirmative; Dame Isabel nodded to Captain Gondar, the
Phoebus
settled a mile to the east of the city Sansue, on a stretch of stony ground, less than a hundred yards from the edge of a dense forest.

The almost insensible vibration of the various engines died to quietness. The analyzers indicated a salubrious atmosphere; the exit-port opened; the ramp touched the soil of Yan.

Captain Gondar, Dame Isabel, Madoc Roswyn came slowly forth, followed by Bernard Bickel, Roger and the rest of the company. For half an hour they stood breathing the strangely scented air of Yan, while the green-white sun sank below the horizon.

The quiet was profound, broken only by the quiet voices of the folk from the
Phoebus
. Madoc Roswyn wandered up a little rise and stood looking west into the twilight. Here and there rose hummocks overgrown with grass and shrubbery; they might have been ruins but details were blurred in the dusk. The faint wind which blew over the plain carried a peculiar musty odor, perhaps deriving from the vegetation or the shore, or perhaps from the hummocks themselves.

Madoc Roswyn started to move forward, as if to go down into the plain, but Roger, who had come quietly behind her, took her arm. “Not in the dark. It might be dangerous.”

“I don’t understand any of this,” she said in an anguished mutter. “What has happened to Yan?”

“Perhaps the traditions of your people were incorrect.”

“It can’t be! All my life I have planned to visit this city — I know it as well as you know any city of Earth. I know the avenues, the plazas, the halls; I could find the quarter where my ancestors lived before they departed, perhaps the very palace … Now there is nothing but ruins.”

Roger gently drew her toward the ship. “It’s getting dark.”

She came reluctantly. “I’m hated by everyone aboard ship … They think terrible things of me — and now they think me a fool as well.”

“Of course not,” said Roger soothingly. “At the worst you made an honest mistake.”

Madoc Roswyn held up her hand. “Listen!” From the forest came a low-pitched ululation, which might have been produced by a human throat. It carried a whole complex of overtones, and produced an indefinable sensation in Roger. He tugged at Madoc Roswyn’s arm more urgently. “Let’s get back to the ship.”

She came with him; they circled the ship to the entrance-ramp, where a group stood looking toward the forest, taut with the half-pleasurable dread of the unknown. Again came the low-pitched wail, perhaps a trifle closer.

The twilight was now almost gone; only a dim olive-green glow remained in the west. The ship’s floodlights came on, illuminating the area around the ship and bathing the little group in brightness. There was a sound from the forest, a whisper of disturbed air, and a stone struck the ground only five feet from Roger.

Everyone shrank back against the hull, then hastened up the ramp into the ship.

In the morning Dame Isabel discussed the situation with Madoc Roswyn, Bernard Bickel and Roger. She had not slept well, and spoke very tartly. “Circumstances are not as I had expected, and I confess that I’m at a loss as how to proceed.” And she glanced around the group.

“I suppose we could send out the lifeboat to reconnoiter the planet,” Bernard Bickel put forward thoughtfully.

“To what purpose?” inquired Dame Isabel. “We saw no cities, nor even centers of primitive civilization from the reconnaissance orbit.”

“True.”

Dame Isabel turned to Madoc Roswyn. “You are certain that this is the correct planet?”

“Yes.”

“Strange.”

“There seem to be a great number of ruins,” suggested Roger. “It might be —” his voice trailed off.

“Might be what, Roger?” inquired his aunt in her most acid tones.

“I’m not sure.”

“Your remark then is superfluous. Please don’t dither; we have more than enough distraction as it is. While I do not necessarily doubt Miss Roswyn’s word, the possibility remains that she is mistaken. In any case, the net result is the same: we have been brought far out of the way on a wild goose chase.”

Madoc Roswyn rose to her feet, departed the room. Roger scowled at Dame Isabel. “There obviously has been a civilization here, of some sort, at some time.”

“We can only hypothesize as much. One thing you must learn, Roger, is that idle philosophizing will never put bread and butter in your mouth.”

Bernard Bickel tactfully intervened. “As Roger points out, there seem to be ruins about — and beyond dispute there is sentient life in the forest. Personally, I’m quite willing to believe that Miss Roswyn brought us here in good faith.”

“Miss Roswyn’s good faith or lack of it are not the immediate question,” snapped Dame Isabel. “What concerns me —”

The mess steward appeared in the doorway. “Miss Roswyn has left the ship,” he blurted. “She’s gone into the forest!”

Roger sprang from the saloon, ran pell-mell along the corridor down the off-ramp. Here he found a group of musicians who had been sunning themselves but who now stood gazing uneasily toward the forest.

“What happened?” asked Roger.

“The girl went crazy!” a cellist told him. “She came out of the ship, stood looking at the forest, then before we could stop her, she just ran off — through there.” He pointed. Roger went a few tentative steps toward the forest, peered into the dim shadows. The trees were similar to those of Earth, somewhat thicker of trunk, with a black-brown bark and foliage of various tones of green, green-blue, dark blue. Below, in the mulch of dead leaves, were marks of Madoc Roswyn’s passage.

Roger edged toward the forest, trying to see through the shadows. And now there came a sudden sharp scream, muffled by distance. Roger hesitated the time between heart-beats, then plunged into the forest.

Abruptly he was in a new world. Foliage cut off the sunlight, dead leaves were soft underfoot, and gave off a resinous rank odor as he disturbed them. There were no sounds in the forest: it was as quiet as a closed room, and there were no signs of small life: birds, insects, rodents and the like.

Roger went on a space in a mingling of urgency and awe, until the traces left by Madoc Roswyn became confused. He halted, suddenly feeling helpless and futile. He went forward a few paces, called. There was no reply: his voice lost itself among the tree trunks.

He cleared his throat, called again, more loudly … He felt a prickling at the back of his neck, and turned about, but saw nothing. He stole forward, twenty feet, fifty feet, dodging from tree trunk to tree trunk, then paused to listen. From somewhere came a rustle of leaves, and a stone thudded against the tree trunk six inches from his head. He stared down at it as if mesmerized: it was round and black, about three inches in diameter. He swung about, crouching; another smaller stone struck him in the side. Two more stones hissed by his head, another bruised his leg. Roger roared out curses and insults, ingloriously retreated … The edge of the forest was farther than he remembered; he felt a wave of panic: was he lost? Ahead came the gleam of light and a moment later he came blinking out into the open a hundred yards from where he had entered. There was the
Phoebus
. Ungainly construction of globes and tubes though it might be, it seemed the most secure, desirable shelter imaginable. He hurried across the open space, limping on his bruised leg and holding his aching ribs.

Almost all the company stood in front of the ship, Captain Gondar, Neil Henderson and Bernard Bickel with hand-weapons. Dame Isabel cried out sharply, “Roger, what in the world possessed you to act like that?”