Space Opera (2 page)

Dame Isabel sighed. “I might have expected no more.” And now once more the curtain was rising on the stage.

The Ninth Company presented a
fête champêtre
. In garments of pink and blue, green and blue, yellow and blue diaper, the players were engaging hybrids of fairies and harlequins. As before there seemed no plot, no perceptible pattern of movement. The music was a chirping, twiddling, tinkling confection occasionally underscored by a hoarse booming like a foghorn’s tone, or the blast of a conch. From side to side moved the players, this way and that: a pavane? A bucolic celebration? The apparently aimless motion, the curtsies, the frivolous capering and cantering continued without development or alteration, but suddenly came the startling intuition that here was no farce, no gentle entertainment, but a presentment of something somber and terrible: an evocation of heart-rending sadness. The lights faded to darkness. A flash of dazzling blue-green light revealed the Ninth Company in attitudes of attention and inquiry, as if they themselves were perplexed by the problem they had propounded. When the audience could see once more the curtain had fallen and the music had stopped.

“Clever,” muttered Thorpe. “Though inchoate.”

“I note a certain absence of discipline,” Seaboro reported. “A praiseworthy exuberance, an attempt to break away from traditional forms, but, as you say, inchoate.”

“Good evening, Madame Grayce,” said Thorpe. “Thank you very much for your invitation. Good evening to you, sir.” The latter was addressed to Roger.

Elgin Seaboro echoed his colleague’s remarks; the two departed.

Dame Isabel rose to her feet. “A pair of buffoons. Come, Roger.”

“I believe I will leave you here,” said Roger. “I have an engagement —”

“You have nothing of the sort. You are driving me to Lillian Monteagle’s supper party.”

Roger Wool acquiesced. He was dependent, to a great degree, upon his aunt’s largesse and found it expedient to oblige her in various small ways. They left the box, ascended to the roof, and Roger’s modest little Herlingfoss Skycar was brought up from the parking pit. Dame Isabel, declining the proffer of Roger’s hand, climbed grandly into the front seat.

Lillian Monteagle lived across the river in an ancient palace which she had restored to contemporary standards of comfort. Almost as wealthy as Dame Isabel, she was famous for her elaborate entertainments, although the supper party of this particular evening was a comparatively informal occasion. Whether through innocence or light-hearted malice, Lillian Monteagle had likewise invited Bernard Bickel, the eminent musicologist, space-traveler, lecturer and
bon vivant
to her supper.

Dame Isabel acknowledged the introduction with a barely perceptible compression of the lips, and made no mention of her connection with Adolph Gondar and the Ninth Company of Rlaru.

Inevitably the subject arose; indeed Lillian Monteagle herself, with a mischievous side-glance toward Dame Isabel, inquired if Mr. Bickel had attended the presentations which were evoking such a stir.

Bernard Bickel smilingly shook his head. He was a handsome man of early middle-age, with steel gray hair, a crisp mustache, a confident air of easy charm. “I saw a moment or two of the act on television, but I gave it no great attention. I fear that the good people of Earth are only too anxious for diversion, for novelty, for anything fashionable and faddish. More power to this Adolph Gondar: if idle and foolish folk are willing to pay him, why should he not take the money?”

“My dear Mr. Bickel,” protested Lillian Monteagle, “you sound as if you doubted the authenticity of this troupe!”

Bernard Bickel smiled quietly. “I’ll say this much: I have never heard of the planet ‘Rlaru’, or however it’s pronounced. And, as you know, I have traveled space a great deal.”

A young lady across the table leaned forward. “But Mr. Bickel! I think you’re being dreadfully unfair! You haven’t even gone to one of the performances! I have, and I was absolutely thrilled.”

Bernard Bickel shrugged. “Adolph Gondar, whoever or whatever he may be, undoubtedly is a fantastically good showman.”

Dame Isabel cleared her throat. Roger relaxed in his chair: why give way to tension or nervousness? What would be, would be; Dame Isabel, by virtue of age, sex, and commanding presence, usually emerged with dignity intact and the opposition cowed. She spoke. “I must take issue with you. Adolph Gondar is totally inept as a showman, though he is probably a competent captain of space-ships, for this is his trade.”

“Oh?” Bernard Bickel cocked one of his eyebrows into a quizzical arch. “This would of course lend color to his claims. As for myself —” he lifted his wine, inspected the scarlet shine “— modesty aside, I am close to the top of a field which has been variously called comparative musicology, symbological euphonics, or just plain musicology. And I simply refuse to be hornswoggled by the mysterious Adolph Gondar. His music is comprehensible, which is the give-away. Music is like a language: you cannot understand it unless you learn it, or more accurately, are born into it.”

“Hear, hear!” said someone softly. Dame Isabel swung her head about in an effort to identify the offender. She said in a frosty voice, “Do you refuse to believe, then, that sensitive and intelligent creatures of one world are unable to comprehend the artistic efforts — including the music — of equally sensitive and intelligent inhabitants of another world?”

Bernard Bickel realized that he had caught a Tartar, and decided upon retreat. “No, of course not. Not at all. I recall an amusing adventure on Capella’s fourth planet: a miserable little world, incidentally; if anyone is planning a visit, take my advice, don’t! At any rate, I had joined a mineral survey team which was making a swing through the back-country. One night we camped near a tribe of the natives: the Bidrachate Dendicaps as you’re all aware … ?” He looked around the table. “No? Well, they’re rather decent creatures, about five feet tall, with a heavy black fur. They have two little legs, and what’s under the fur is anybody’s guess. Be this as it may, after we set up camp, about thirty ’caps came to visit us. We passed out sulfur, which they relish like salt, and for a lark I started up my portable record-player, one of the little Duodexes, with long-play slugs. A sturdy little instrument, not too long on tone — but one can’t have everything. I tell you, the ’caps sat absolutely entranced. They stared at the little box for three hours, not moving a muscle. They even ignored their sulfur.” And Bickel smiled at the recollection. From up and down the table came murmurs of amusement. Lillian Monteagle said, “It’s rather touching, really! Probably the first good music they had ever heard!”

Someone asked, “Did these — er, ’caps show any — well, call it understanding, or appreciation?”

Bernard Bickel laughed. “Let me put it this way. I’m sure they missed the point of the Brandenburg Concertos. But they listened with the same attention that they gave the Nutcracker Suite, so at least we cannot accuse them of superficiality.”

Dame Isabel frowned. “I’m not sure that I completely understand. You acknowledge the universality of music?”

“Oh — to some extent, if certain conditions are satisfied. Music is a communication — emotional communication, to be sure — and this implies agreement as to the context of the symbology. Do you follow me?”

“Naturally,” snapped Dame Isabel. “I am Secretary-Treasurer of the Opera League; if I knew nothing of music I would hardly be allowed to continue in this capacity.”

“Indeed? I was not aware of your — let us say — near-professional status.”

Dame Isabel nodded crisply.

Bickel continued. “The point I wish to make is this. Musical symbology is at once simple and complex. A slow soft rhythmical sound is almost universally soothing. A series of shrill brassy staccato tones is likewise exciting. Abstraction on the first level. When we consider chords, chord progressions, tone clusters, melodic structure, then we deal with entities whose symbolic meaning is to a much greater degree a matter of convention. Even among the various musics of Earth there is no consensus as to the significance of these conventions. We can, if you like, speculate as to a possible congruence of musical symbology among the worlds of the galaxy. It is conceivable, through processes of acculturation, or parallel development —” he held up a hand as someone started to laugh “— don’t be too skeptical too soon! The diatonic scale is not a freak, or a chance discovery! It is based on fundamental harmonic relationships. To exemplify: start with any note at random. For simplicity’s sake C, which we will use as our base tone: the tonic. Even a child’s ear can hear that another C an octave up or down the scale is the most obvious concord. A vibrational relationship of 2:1. Almost as basic will seem a concord with the vibration ratio 3:2. The note turns out to be G, the so-called dominant. What note occupies the same pragmatic relation to G that G does to C? It turns out to be the note we call D. With D as the tonic A becomes the dominant. With A as the tonic E is the dominant. Twelve different notes reveal themselves in this way before suddenly we find ourselves back at a note which is very close to C. Shift all these notes into the same octave, tinker and temper a little, and we have our familiar diatonic scale. Nothing mysterious, the most basic rule-of-thumb procedure imaginable. What is the point of all this? Simply that it should be no surprise to find a totally strange race on a totally strange planet using instruments similar to our own, employing our own familiar
do re mi fa sol la si do
.”

“Ha, ha!” cried Dame Isabel. “This of course is what I have been telling stupid folk who cavil at Adolph Gondar and the Ninth Company!”

Bernard Bickel smilingly shook his head. “A different matter entirely! Agreed that the diatonic scale is a universal tool, like hinges, or the bowline, or the Pythagorean Theorem, the case of the evasive Adolph Gondar is something else again. No —” he held up a remonstrative hand “— do not accuse me of inconsistency. I merely find it hard to believe that the musical symbols and conventions of an alien race — as this ‘Ninth Company of Rlaru’ purports to be — could mesh so neatly and completely with our own as to affect us emotionally. Is this not reasonable?”

“Very reasonable,” said Dame Isabel. “So reasonable as to indicate a flagrant fallacy in your chain of logic. The facts are these. I personally have sponsored Mr. Gondar. I am in full financial control of the tour, and I am not a woman to be fooled.”

Bernard Bickel laughed. “In that case, I must review my thinking and seek out my ‘flagrant fallacy’.”

“I suggest that you attend a performance,” said Dame Isabel. “You may, if you like, join me in my box at tomorrow’s performance.”

Bernard Bickel said gravely, “I shall look into my appointments, and if at all possible, I shall do so.”

But Bernard Bickel was never to enjoy a performance of the Ninth Company of Rlaru from Dame Isabel’s luxurious box. During the night the entire Ninth Company vanished — completely, without trace or clue, as if they had dissolved into thin air.

Roger Wool, after flying Dame Isabel to her beautiful old home Ballew, overlooking Ballew Valley, had elected to spend the night, rather than return to his apartment in the city. Hence he was present when Holker the butler placed the visiphone on the breakfast table with a murmured: “Mr. Gondar, madame. An urgent message.”

“Thank you, Holker.” Dame Isabel pushed down the key, and Gondar’s face appeared on the screen. His eyes were more brooding than ever; his expression was remote, with no trace of the exuberance to be expected of an impresario.

“Well, Adolph?” inquired Dame Isabel. “What is the trouble?”

“It’s simple enough,” said Gondar. “The Ninth Company has disappeared.”

“Disappeared, you say.” Dame Isabel gave Gondar a long thoughtful glance; and Roger reflected that Bernard Bickel’s remarks had possibly carried more weight than Dame Isabel had allowed. “Exactly what are the circumstances?”

“After last night’s performance I escorted the troupe up to the theater penthouse. They fed themselves and seemed comfortably settled for the night — although I must say they all seemed rather excited — almost mischievous. I’d promised them an excursion — a sail on Mr. Saverino’s yacht — and I assumed that this was behind their excitement … This morning — they just weren’t there. The porter had allowed no one to leave by the street exit, the deck attendant swears no air vehicles arrived or departed.”

“This is a serious business,” said Dame Isabel. “One in which my personal reputation is involved. I must say that I am not completely satisfied.”

“You’re not?” growled Gondar. “Why shouldn’t you be? You’ve got every cent we’ve made over the last three months. You’ve no cause for complaint.”

“It appears that my precautions were absolutely in order. As you know, there has been a certain amount of cynical speculation regarding the authenticity of the troupe. I have always ignored it, but now I am forced to wonder exactly why, and exactly how, the troupe disappeared.”

Gondar’s dour expression never changed. “I will be happy to end our association,” he said. “You need merely turn over to me my money.”