Space Opera (9 page)

The night was dark. From over the plain and down from the mountain came strange noises: soft hoots, occasionally a far jarring screech, once or twice a mournful fluting. Neither Bernard Bickel nor Captain Gondar could positively identify the source of the sounds, and agreed in ascribing them to lower life-forms of the planet.

No one wandered far from the ship, though there was an undeniable thrill in moving fifty or a hundred feet away from the off-ramp and standing in the night of Sirius Planet, looking up at the distorted constellations, and listening to the eery sounds.

Shortly after four o’clock the sky lightened and at five Sirius, a blazing white pellet, rose above the Trapezus Mountains. An hour or two later Commandant Boltzen, true to his word, delivered a jeep-load of byzantaur skins.

Hermilda Warn, who took the role of Leonore in
Fidelio
, emitted a gasp of dismay. She turned to Dame Isabel. “You surely do not expect us to wear those things?”

“Yes, of course,” said Dame Isabel calmly. “It is a concession to the social sensibilities of our audience.”

Herman Scantling, who sang Pizarro, threw his hands in the air. “Perhaps you will inform me how I can express myself with four arms? And which of the two heads I should use to cover my own? And how, conceivably how, can I achieve a projection behind these wads and folds?”

“The skins smell quite badly,” said Otto von Scheerup, who sang the part of Florestan. “I think the idea is absolutely ridiculous.”

Dame Isabel’s mouth became a thin white line. “There will be no argument. There are the costumes for this afternoon’s performance, and I will brook no insubordination. Your contracts are quite specific on this point. You are not required to risk your health; but a certain amount of discomfort must be expected and tolerated cheerfully. I will not put up with temperamental outbursts, and that is all there is to be said on the subject.” She turned to Roger, who stood nearby. “Here, Roger, is an opportunity to make yourself useful. Take these pelts to Mr. Szinc in the dressing rooms and help him fit them to those persons taking part in today’s performance.”

Roger, grimacing fastidiously, approached the pelts. Hermilda Warn heaved an outraged sigh. “I have never known such outrageous circumstances!”

Dame Isabel ignored her and walked over to confer with Dyrus Boltzen.

Herman Scantling asked, “Has there ever been anything so fantastic?”

Otto von Scheerup shook his head in a surly fashion. “Wait till we report this to the Guild! All I can say is, just wait! Fur will fly!”

“But — in the meantime?” asked Ramona Thoxted, who sang Marcellina. “Must we wear the odious things?”

Herman Scantling gave a sour grunt. “She’d put us off on this God-forsaken ball of rocks, without salary, without tickets home, without anything.”

“We could sue,” asserted Julia Biancolelli, somewhat feebly.

Neither Herman Scantling, Hermilda Warn, nor Otto von Scheerup made reply, and Ramona Thoxted said, “I suppose that on a tour of this sort we must be ready for almost anything.”

The morning passed, and at six minutes after ten became afternoon. At one-thirty Dyrus Boltzen and his aide flew down in a platform flyer. Dyrus Boltzen wore whipcord breeches, heavy boots, a hooded jacket. At his belt hung a weapon. He went to where Dame Isabel sat making last minute alterations in the libretto: “Sorry, but I’ll have to miss the performance. We’ve got to look to some unpleasant business. A band of very uncertain rogues has been seen heading this way, and we have to turn them aside before they make trouble on the terraces.”

“That’s a shame!” declared Dame Isabel. “After you’ve done so much to help! You did arrange that the local folk should come to the performance?”

“Oh yes. They know all about it, and at three o’clock they’ll be here. With luck I’ll be back to catch the last act!” He returned to the flyer, which slid off to the north.

“A shame he must miss the opera, but I suppose there’s no help for it,” said Dame Isabel. “Now then, everyone. The word ‘dungeon’ is not to be used. We substitute the word ‘desert’!”

“What difference does it make?” inquired Herman Scantling. “We sing in German which the local beasts can’t understand in the first place.”

Dame Isabel spoke with the mildness that warned the more knowing of her associates. “Our aim, Mr. Scantling, is for faithfulness, for a basic intensity. If the scene represents a desert, as it now does, then a falsity is committed in referring to this desert as a dungeon, even in German. Do I make myself clear?”

“The meter is changed,” growled Otto von Scheerup. “‘
Die Wüste’
, ‘
das
Burgverlies’
.”

“You must do your best.”

Three o’clock approached. The musicians assembled in the orchestra pit, Sir Henry Rixon appeared, glanced briefly through the score. Back-stage, amid objurgations, muttered obscenities, exclamations of distress, the byzantaur pelts were donned and costumes fitted as well as possible.

At five minutes to three Dame Isabel went to look across the plain. “Our audience certainly should be on its way,” she told Bernard Bickel. “I do hope there hasn’t been some misunderstanding as to time.”

“Damned nuisance that Boltzen was called away,” said Bickel. “Maybe the ’zants are waiting for someone to bring them over, or something of the sort. They’re a bit dubious of the open ground, if you recall what Boltzen told us.”

“Quite true. Perhaps, Bernard, you had best stroll over to the caves and see what may be the matter.”

Bickel frowned, sucked at his mustache, but was able to evolve no counter-proposal. He set off toward the station, and Dame Isabel went back-stage to make sure that all was proceeding properly. She shook her head in dismay. Where was the dignity, the easy elegance she had envisioned? Certainly not here among these angry tenors, sopranos and basses. Some wore caps on one of the heads, others had thrust two of the four arms through the sleeves of their capes, with the others hanging over their shoulders. Dame Isabel turned on her heel and departed.

At quarter after three Roger came to tell her that Bernard Bickel had returned with the byzantaurs.

“Excellent!” said Dame Isabel. “You will kindly assist with the seating, Roger. Remember, the longer the fringe of that little shawl, the more exalted the personage.”

Roger nodded, hurried out to make himself useful. Bernard Bickel came in to report to Dame Isabel. “They were on their way, just coming in from some kind of walkabout, probably why they were late. I dragooned them along and here they are.”

Dame Isabel looked through the peep-hole and saw that the auditorium indeed was full of byzantaurs. In large numbers they seemed even more strange and inhuman than before — even somewhat alarming. Dame Isabel hesitated, then stepped out before the curtain to make a welcoming address.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I welcome you to our little performance. You are about to see the opera
Fidelio
, by Ludwig van Beethoven, one of our most accomplished composers. We bring you this program in the hope that some of you may wish to learn more about the great music of Earth. And now, since I am not sure just how much of what I say is comprehensible to you, I now will retire and let the music speak for itself. We bring you:
Fidelio
!”

Sir Henry Rixon snapped down his baton: music filled the auditorium.

Dame Isabel went down the off-ramp, stood by the entrance to the auditorium listening to the overture. How wonderful it sounded here on Sirius Planet! How moving to have this glorious essence, this seventh distillation of Earthly civilization permeating the Sirius air, entering into the soul of these pathetically ugly and unprivileged people! Would the experience ennoble them, lift them beyond their rock-grubbing existences, convey even so much as a tenth of the beauty and exaltation inherent in the music? A pity, thought Dame Isabel; she would never be sure.

The curtain rose on the first act; Marcellina and Jacquino, in byzantaur pelts, sang of love and longing; and playing before the audience of byzantaurs, the costumes were not quite so insanely ludicrous as they had seemed before. But here came Dyrus Boltzen and his aide. Dame Isabel waved her hand; Dyrus Boltzen waved a weary hand in return. Dame Isabel stepped forth to meet him.

“Dreadfully sorry about everything,” he said heavily. “I didn’t have time to tell you, but I knew they wouldn’t come today. They’d be too cautious.”

Dame Isabel raised her eyebrows questioningly. “Who wouldn’t come? The byzantaurs? They’re here. We have a full house!”

Dyrus Boltzen stared at her in surprise. “They’re here? I can’t believe it. They’d never leave their caves with the rogues coming over the mountains.”

Dame Isabel smilingly disagreed. “But they did. They’re here and enjoying the music immensely.”

Dyrus Boltzen went to the entrance, peered within. He backed slowly out. He turned to face Dame Isabel, his face twitching through a series of ashen expressions. “Your audience,” he said in a queer voice, “consists of the rogues — the psychotic outcasts of whom the Royal Giants are terrified.”

“What? Are you sure?”

“Yes. They’re wearing their yellow; can’t you see? And they’re carrying flints, which means they’re in an ugly mood!”

Dame Isabel wrung her hands. “What shall I do? Stop the show?”

“I don’t know,” said Boltzen. “The slightest stimulus will set them off.”

“But what
can
we do?” whispered Dame Isabel.

“Don’t irritate them in any way. Make no sudden noises. Also you’d better change your scoring back to the original; any reference to their condition sends them blind with rage.”

Dame Isabel ran back-stage. “Change everything!” she cried. “Back to the original version; we’ve got a different audience!”

Otto von Scheerup looked at her unbelievingly. “A different audience? What do you mean?”

“These are savages, and worse! At the slightest pretext they’ll cause a serious disturbance!”

Otto von Scheerup glanced uncertainly out toward the stage. Hermilda Warn sang Fidelio’s pity for Marcellina’s misguided love. She reached for the kerchief with which it was her habit to underscore her gestures; Dame Isabel ran out on the stage, snatched it from her hands. “It’s yellow,” she hissed at the startled diva, and ran back off the stage.

Through the peep-hole she watched the audience. They were shifting restlessly in their seats, heads moving and twisting in a rather frightening fashion. She asked, “Where is Mr. Bickel?”

Andrei Szinc pointed. “Down in the audience, explaining the opera to that large creature with the stone club.”

“What a terrible situation!” cried Dame Isabel. She ran through the ship to Globe A and the bridge, where she found Captain Gondar kissing Madoc Roswyn.

“Captain Gondar!” called Dame Isabel in a voice like a horn. “If you will put aside your private affairs, there is a serious emergency with which we must deal.” As succinctly as possible she described the circumstances.

Captain Gondar gave a terse nod, spoke a few words into the intercom, alerting the crew. Then, followed by Dame Isabel, he strode through the connecting tubes to the stage.

Dame Isabel went back to the peep-hole. The audience was decidedly restive. Certain of the rogues, on their four feet, stood swaying, waving their arms, tapping their heads together. On the stage, the singers had become mesmerized by the motion, and were faltering. Sir Henry Rixon gave an energetic beat to the orchestra, but from the audience came a new distraction.

Bernard Bickel, in the audience, had been sitting beside that rogue whom he had identified as the chief elder, making such comments as the limited comprehension of the byzantaur seemed to warrant. Apparently he had noticed neither the yellow shawl nor the flint-studded club, or perhaps mistook the latter for an article of strictly ceremonial function. He never was able to recall the precise remark which irritated the byzantaur; in any event the creature raised his club with the clear intent of halting Bernard Bickel’s commentary. But he underestimated the resource of the musicologist, who had faced such emergencies before. Bickel struck the elder on the right head with his fist, fended aside the blow of the club and leapt into the orchestra pit, where he fell among the percussion instruments. The sudden discordant clash of cymbals seemed to excite the byzantaurs: they rumbled, groaned, and waving their flints converged upon Bernard Bickel and the orchestra at large.

All who were able scrambled for the stage, those nearest the auditorium fending off the rogues with their instruments. Captain Gondar leapt forth, shouting orders, while members of the crew rigged fire-hoses.

On the stage one of the singers from sheer hysteria jumped from his pelt and threw it at the audience, which caused instant alarm among the unstable rogues. Others did likewise, hooting and jeering, and the byzantaurs drew back. Now water gushed from the high pressure hoses and the byzantaurs were spewed from the theater, out upon the plain, where they picked themselves up and set off to the north at an awkward lope.

A half-hour later some semblance of order had been restored. Dame Isabel, Bernard Bickel, Captain Gondar, Sir Henry Rixon, Andrei Szinc, and a number of musicians and singers had gathered in the main saloon. Commandant Boltzen tried to provide a dispassionate analysis of the incident, but his voice was submerged in the babble.

Finally, Dyrus Boltzen was able to make himself heard. “Tomorrow will be different! I’ll have the Royal Giants here for absolute certain — no flints either!”

There was a sudden silence in the room. Andrei Szinc went to speak to Sir Henry Rixon, who nodded and took Dame Isabel aside. Her mouth compressed; she drew a deep breath as if to make a forceful statement; then she hesitated, and finally gave a short nod. To Dyrus Boltzen she said, “I fear there will be no other performance at Sirius Settlement. Certain of the musicians are indisposed, and others are — well, also indisposed. We will be departing as soon as the
Phoebus
can be made ready for space.”

In the excitement attendant upon the company’s first performance, Dame Isabel failed to remember her intent to put Madoc Roswyn ashore at Sirius Settlement, and Madoc Roswyn stayed discreetly out of sight.