Space Opera (5 page)

“Oh? Really?”

“Yes, indeed,” said Roger. “I play the — well, I’m one of those all-around types … Er, who are you?”

The girl smiled. “That’s a question I can’t answer — because I’m not absolutely sure. But I’ll tell you my name — if you’ll tell me yours.”

“I’m Roger Wool.”

“You’re associated with Dame Isabel Grayce?”

“She’s my aunt.”

“Indeed!” The girl gave him an admiring look. “And you’re going on this expedition out among the planets?”

Until this instant Roger had never considered the possibility. He frowned, darted a cautious glance toward his aunt, and was startled to meet her gaze. Dame Isabel turned an appraising glance upon the girl, and Roger realized instantly that she did not approve. Dame Isabel liked hearty no-nonsense types, without hidden layers or dark shadows. This girl was layered and shadowed and full of a thousand shimmers. “Yes,” said Roger. “I think I’ll probably be going along. It seems like fun.”

She nodded solemnly, as if Roger had enunciated a cosmic truth. “I’d like to travel space too.”

“You haven’t told me your name,” said Roger.

“So I haven’t. It’s a strange name, or so I’m told.”

Roger was beside himself with impatience. “Tell me.”

Her lips twitched. “Madoc Roswyn.”

Roger asked her to spell it, and she did so. “Actually, it’s a Welsh name, from Merioneth, to the west of the Berwyn Mountains, though now there’s none of us left: I’m the last.”

Roger wanted to console her, but Dame Isabel was approaching with short sharp steps. “Roger, who is your friend?”

“Dame Isabel Grayce, Miss Madoc Roswyn.”

Dame Isabel gave a curt nod. Madoc Roswyn said, “I am grateful for the privilege of meeting you, Dame Isabel. I think you are doing a wonderful thing, and I would like to join you.”

“Indeed,” Dame Isabel’s glance raked Madoc Roswyn from head to toe. “You perform?”

“Never professionally. I sing, I play the piano, and the concertina, and also some rather silly instruments like the tin whistle.”

Dame Isabel replied in the driest of voices. “Unfortunately our repertory will be almost entirely classical grand opera, though I expect to include one or two of the Early Decadents.”

“Mightn’t there be intermission numbers, or an occasional light program? I’m very adaptable, and I’m sure I could make myself useful in dozens of ways.”

“This may well be true,” said Dame Isabel. “Unfortunately space is at a premium. If you were a soprano of the highest quality, absolutely secure in the principal Russian, French, Italian and German works, I would be disposed to offer you an audition, together with six other sopranos who fit the requirements. The company must function like a smoothly-working machine, with every element contributing to the whole. Unrelated pieces, such as concertinas and tin whistles, would be quite redundant.”

Madoc Roswyn smiled politely. “I must accept your decision, of course. But if ever you consider a slighter, more informal program, I hope you will think of me.”

“I can promise you this much, certainly. Presumably Roger can get in touch with you.”

“Yes, of course. Thank you for your attention, and I wish you great success.”

Dame Isabel turned away. She called back over her shoulder. “I shall expect you at Ballew this evening, Roger. We must come to certain decisions.”

Roger, suddenly bold, took Madoc Roswyn’s arm, and the contact tingled nerves all the way up his arm. “I know what,” he said. “I’ll take you to lunch, and between courses you can play the tin whistle.”

“I wish I’d brought it.”

Roger led her to the little sky-car; away they flew to a mountain-top inn, and Roger had never had a more enchanting lunch. He made dozens of extravagant statements, which Madoc Roswyn heard with exactly the right mixture of amusement, skepticism, and tolerance. Roger tried to find out all about her: he wanted, in one brief hour, to make up for a lifetime of non-acquaintance, a lifetime for all practical purposes wasted. Madoc Roswyn’s background, as she explained it, was simple and uncomplicated. Her family had been landholders and farmers in a rather remote area of Wales; she had attended school in a little stone village, and secondary school at Llangollen. When her parents died she had sold the old farmstead, and since had traveled the world. She had worked at one job here, another there, uncertain what to do with herself, but disinclined to compromise her freedom. It came to Roger that here, exactly, was his own predicament: he was neither lazy nor incompetent; he merely had occupational claustrophobia. As for Madoc Roswyn and all her candor there was still mystery: areas and areas behind areas: quirks of emotions he could never divine; goals and dedications of which she would never hint.

The realization was painful: no matter how much he had of her, there would always be more forever beyond his reach … His first enthusiasm muted, Roger conveyed Madoc Roswyn to her lodgings. He would have liked to have taken her to Ballew for the evening, but somehow did not dare.

At dinner Dame Isabel pointedly made no mention of Madoc Roswyn. Bernard Bickel was present and conversation centered upon the formation of the company. “I insist upon Guido Altrocchi,” said Dame Isabel. “I could get Nels Lessing, in fact he’s offered to join the company without pay and Guido wants a frightful salary — but I refuse to compromise. Only the best is good enough.”

Bernard Bickel nodded approvingly. “If only there were more like you!”

Roger winced. “If I were handling the matter,” he said, “I’d use three-dimension records. Why not? Think how much easier, and how much less expensive!”

Dame Isabel shook her head. “Canned performances are always deficient; they never convey the vitality, the living, breathing, presence of music.”

“Good enough for the back-planets,” growled Roger.

“We are sufficiently at the mercy of machines, Roger; if our music must necessarily be mechanical, then it is time for us to throw in the sponge, and abandon all hope for the future of humanity.”

“Assuming that opera is music in the first place,” muttered Roger.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I merely emphasized the enormous savings to be achieved.”

“Someday, my young friend,” said Bernard Bickel, “you will appreciate your aunt’s wisdom and courage. What are a few paltry dollars? Nothing less than the physical presence of the artists, working in perfect discipline, can generate the excitement of a legitimate musical experience — and it is this excitement, this sense of wonder, which we want to convey!”

Roger could summon no further arguments, and listened while Dame Isabel and Bernard Bickel debated the merits of Cassandra Prouty against those of Nellie Mlanova; weighed Ruger Mandelbaum’s undeniable stage sense against his corpulence which unfitted him for certain roles. Blitza Soerner was weak in Italian, but no one alive better understood the Decadents. Bernard Bickel nominated Andrei Szinc for the position of stage director. Dame Isabel concurred. And so on for two hours, while Roger traced circles on the tablecloth with his spoon.

“Regarding one choice there can be no argument,” declared Dame Isabel. “Our conductor must be Sir Henry Rixon! It would be impossible to proceed without him.”

Roger looked up from the tablecloth, wondering if by some means he could spirit Sir Henry Rixon away for six months, until his aunt lost interest in this fantastically expensive junket.

Bernard Bickel frowned thoughtfully. “Sir Henry Rixon — or Siebert Holgeness.”

“Of course! I neglected him,” admitted Dame Isabel, “and there’s that marvelous young Jarvis Akers.” Roger returned his attention to the tablecloth. Sir Henry Rixon he might contrive to imprison on a remote island, but hardly half a dozen others.

Dame Isabel finally looked around at Roger. “And now, Roger, what in the world will we do with you?”

“Well,” said Roger, “I’m almost inclined to make the trip with the
Phoebus
.”

Dame Isabel gave her head a curt shake. “Impossible, Roger. Space is at a premium, as I told your friend Miss Roswyn today.”

Roger had expected no more. “I think you should at least give Miss Roswyn an audition. She’s highly talented.”

“Doubtless. Just who is this young woman, Roger? What is your connection with her?”

“No connection whatever. I just happened to know she is musically competent and —”

“Please, Roger, do not talk of what you do not understand.”

The following day Roger once again lunched with Madoc Roswyn. She seemed to enjoy his company and as they left the restaurant she slipped her hand into his.

In his air-car they flew out over the ocean. Roger said abruptly, “I’ve only known you two days, but I feel as if it’s been — well, to be honest, two days.”

Madoc Roswyn laughed. “I like you, Roger. You’re so relaxing. So undemanding … I’ll miss you when you’re gone.”

Roger swallowed hard, and made a gallant sacrifice. “The hell with the space-tour. I’d rather stay with you. In fact — let’s get married!”

Madoc Roswyn sadly shook her head. “If you missed this marvelous expedition on my account, you’d start resenting me. Not right away perhaps — but you’d get restless, and presently you’d grow to hate me. I’ve seen it happen to other people … I’ll never stand in your way. You go with the tour, and I’ll keep on as before.”

“If only Aunt Isabel wasn’t such an obdurate old creature!” exclaimed Roger. “We could both go!”

“Oh Roger! Wouldn’t that be wonderful! But it won’t happen.”

“It can! And it will! Just leave it to me!”

“Oh Roger — I’m so excited!” She threw her arms around Roger’s neck and kissed him. Roger put the air-car on automatic, but Madoc Roswyn moved across the seat. “Roger, behave yourself. You’re the most hot-blooded thing …”

“You will marry me?”

Madoc Roswyn considered with wryly pursed mouth. “Not if we’re going to be separated right away.”

Roger flung his arms in the air. “What’s a little space-trip? I’ll stay home!”

“Now, Roger, we’ve been all over this before.”

“True. I forgot. Then we’ll both make the trip on the
Phoebus
.”

Madoc Roswyn smiled wistfully. “Your aunt was fairly definite in this regard.”

“Leave it to me,” said Roger. “I know just how to handle the old crock.”

Dame Isabel was in a good mood. Sir Henry Rixon, Andrei Szinc, and Ephraim Zerner the great Wagnerian basso had all agreed to join the
Phoebus
company, and there should now be no trouble enlisting other musicians of equal prestige.

Roger listened from the side of the room as Sir Henry outlined his thoughts on the orchestra. “We’ll be forced to compromise here and there, but it’s naturally absurd to contemplate a hundred and twenty piece orchestra. And, as you know, I consider the smaller orchestra more versatile, and capable of more bite. So with your approval, I will select instrumentalists on this basis.”

Sir Henry Rixon shortly departed; Dame Isabel sat musing a moment then rang the bell for tea. She turned to Roger. “Well? What did you think of Sir Henry?”

“Very impressive,” said Roger. “The best possible man for the position.”

Dame Isabel gave a dry chuckle. “I am happy to hear your approval.”