The Space Opera Novella

by Frank Belknap Long

  But even when this particular Overlap Week came to an end, Izuivo’ seemed to make no headway. The halls of the governing body re-opened, but the male clerks he showed his credentials to smilingly but stubbornly refused to understand lingua galactka.

  He set out to learn their language. By the time he mastered it the next Overlap Week had come and gone. The halls of the governing body re-opened, but the female clerks he showed his credentials to refused to understand him. They were, however, he had to admit, very smiling and regretful.

  Grimly, he set out to learn the females’ language. It wasn’t in him to simply doze away the days until the male administration returned. And though the waiting was taking its toll of his nerves it paid off. His twitching with impatience turned to trembling with excitement.

  Studying the two tongues, he found they had only one word in common. And delving into earlier editions of Tarazedd dictionaries he further found this one word had sprung into use at the same time as the upwelling of superstition.

  The word was crevbnod. To the females it meant “dallying with a handsome male.” To the males it meant “dallying with a beautiful female.”

  Izuivo considered the shortness of the Overlap periods. Crevbnod, connoting the frittering away of productive time in mere teasing play, seemed a curious concept for Tarazed VI. What’s more, the dictionaries were strangely bashful about the etymology of crevbnod.

  He felt he was on the spoor of something.

  Another Overlap Week had passed, and again the halls of the governing body re-opened. At Izuivo’s first uttering in their tongue the male clerks were quick to understand him. And they were quite willing to lend their aid when he told them he was looking into the detaining of the Kitalphan.

  They expedited him from office to office.

  The going seemed almost too frictionless. But Izuivo’ was too glad to be moving to let that give him pause.

  And in nearly no time he was facing Customs Commissioner Ozdvovopsh. Ozdvovopsh deplored the misunderstanding. Tarazed VI and Kitalpha I were a natural trading set-up. Each had what the other wanted.

  But Kitalphans were shunning this planet, now that the Tarazedd had begun enforcing the collecting of tolls. Not that Kitalphans were pikers. The one now languishing had proved most ungrudging—in all save the paying of tolls. Tolls suddenly seemed to cause Kitalphans to shiver with superstitious dread. Ozdvovopsh smiled superciliously.

  Izuivo’ asked why the Tarazedd wouldn’t waive the tolls.

  Ozdvovopsh shuddered. That wasn’t a thing to even dream of. Not that Tarazedd were grasping. As Izuivo’ must have seen for himself, they were most understanding and least demanding—in all save the collecting of tolls.

  They knew allowing visitors to come and go without paying a toll would affront Fortune. Finding Its darlings spurning Its offerings, Fortune, nursing wounded feelings, would from then on hold back further blessings. Ozdvovopsh laughed nervously. Why, not so many cycles ago his forebears had been too forbearing. They had a chance once to get their fill of—something. It so overwhelmed them they imagined it would last forever and they lightly crev—What he meant was— Well, it wasn’t the kind of thing one spoke of to outsiders.

  He was glad to shunt the subject and readily agreed to let Izuivo’ go through the customs records.

  Izuivo’ waded back to the time crevbnod became a word. He found what he was looking for. Only one spaceship had landed around that time and stayed a full cycle. “Landed” bothered him until he found its opposite number in the writing on the female half of the page meant “hovered.”

  Trading had gone on between ship and planet for the full of the cycle. But anyone narrowing his eyes could see it for a long thin trickle that would have made one good spurt. The ship’s complement had lots of time for giving new meaning to the name they went by—Crevbnod.

  But anything that might have hinted at where the ship came from and where it was going was missing.

  That was as far as he could go in that direction.

  He got leave to see the Kitalphan.

  * * * *

  She called herself Benx. He couldn’t take his eyes off her. She turned on him a disarming look that armed him at once. Though he’d made up his mind not to take sides, he saw at once he was soft on her.

  And that made him hard on her. He was almost rude in his questioning. The quiet dignity of her listening and answering shamed him, but he didn’t let up. If anything, his attitude hardened.

  Benx told him of having heard that once the then Leading Light of her folk welcomed a strange spaceship. The visitors—no, she didn’t know their name, it had become taboo—invited the Leading Light to come aboard.

  There they would give him a custom-built model of the wonderful belts they wore, absolutely free. They asked him his weight and with some pride he called it up to them.

  On time, two visitors touched down to swim him up to the hovering ship. For a minute it seemed the escorting pair would be unable to separate him from the ground. He was plump to begin with and at the moment he was lumpy with coin he meant to press on the visitors anyway, free offer notwithstanding.

  But with much straining they tugged him aloft. The captain ceremoniously belted him. The Leading Light beamed. And right away he wanted to make some trial dives. The captain ushered him back to the airlock. The Leading Light put out.

  “And so it is the way with us that we never carry sums to pay for any mode of transport. For any other purpose, yes.”

  Weeks after Izuivo’ had drawn all he could from Benx he found reasons to go on seeing her. The sky began flaking again. Overlap Week passed. It took longer to break away from one female clerk and move on to the next in line, but he kept running the clinging gauntlet to get passes to prison. Yet when he reached Benx he would find himself hiding his feelings by rawhiding hers and he would feel at one and the same time sinister and gauche.

  But at last he yielded himself to the promptings of his heart.

  By now the Chief must know Izuivo’ was adding nothing new to the reports he’d already sent in. Soon he’d be rushing away on another job. He’d never see Benx again. She’d languish here the rest of her life. She’d never give in to the Tarazedd and they too were uncompromising.

  During the coming Overlap Week it’d be a cinch to help her escape. Not only that, but they could steal into the Customs offices and strip everything dealing with Benx from the files, leaving behind not only no prisoner but no case.

  He slicked up and got a pass. He had to slick up again by the time he reached Benx. Couldn’t those females be more businesslike? Still, it was flattering they thought of him crevbnod-wise. It emboldened him to broach his plan to Benx.

  She listened in silence and then thanked him. But she gently noed. It was too thrilling here. She wanted to stay and see how it would all turn out.

  Mumbling to himself, he left.

  Returning to his hotel through drifts of zebra-striped snow, he cooled down; it was up to him to make it come out right.

  Adroitly he played up to Customs Commissioner Casuovopsh. When he sensed she was ready he drew up an understanding. She signed, agreeing to let Fortune decide the case. Izuivo’ relaxed, but not for long.

  Casuovopsh told him this came under the heading of policy-making. He’d have to get her male counterpart, Ozdvovopsh, to countersign.

  During Overlap Week Izuivo worked on Benx. The guards were off, celebrating, and he had a free hand.

  “But it won’t mean you’re paying a toll. You’re betting. That’s always exciting, waiting to see how your bet turns out.”

  “Yes! Yes!” Her grape-bloomed eyes were shining.

  Ozdvovopsh was hardest to sell of all.

  “I’ll countersign,” he said after long hesitating, after weeks of putting off and putting off making up his mind. Izuivo’ checked his joy as Ozdvovopsh added, “If you guarantee
Fortune favors us.”

  He was edgy, awaiting Overlap, and Izuivo’ didn’t utter what sprang to his lips. Izuivo’ considered, then nodded.

  But when the time came—after Overlap—he was wondering if he was doing right. Then Benx appeared and he left off wondering.

  He asked her to hand him a 42.3-petaap note, the amount of the levy, and she did so expectantly. He fumbled dexterously behind his back, then thrust out both fists.

  At first he thought Casuovopsh was balking at the last minute, even though she knew of the guarantee. But she was only taking her time. After deliberating with her staff, and even consulting the guards who’d led Benx to her office, she chose the left.

  Right!

  He was proud of Benx. Her face never flickered. She’d lost, but she’d won the right to go free at once. And he asked her to go with him.

  She turned him down kindly, the bloom gone from her eyes.

  He was too numb to notice or care that Casuovopsh had slipped him a 6.25-petaap note. But after a bit he saw he had a good thing, one that in time might make him forget Benx. He’d become an entrepreneur in his own right.

  So there’d be no conflict of interests, he broke all links with the DSX and cast his lot among the Tarazedd.

  Though Benx hadn’t yet left, she was making arrangements to go. But when Fortune continued against all the rules of chance to favor the Tarazedd, no matter which hand they chose, and Izuivo’, who acted as Betting Commissioner for the rapidly reviving Tarazed VI-Kitalpha I trade, continued to get his cut, Benx came to regard him as the Tarazedd did, with superstitious awe. And she stayed on and married him.

  He knew she married him mainly to pluck the secret of his telekinetic power. And fearing to lose her once she had it he resolved firmly never to let her winkle it out.

  By the time she did—learning he palmed a note of his own so either hand was right—she was too fond of him to leave.

  * * * *

  The chief taped his thinking-aloud and played it back, over and over, superimposing the new thinking-aloud it evoked. The result was a conversation with himself.

  “Hum, now we’re a shade nearer a make. Crevbnod.”

  “We know they’re beings of—”

  “Or able to take the form of—”

  “At least two sexes.”

  “And their M.O. is shaping up. Boils down to doing something to excite wonder.”

  “Hum. Seems all beings are superstition-prone. It only takes a little seeding to trigger the predisposing dark forces in the shifting cloud-shapes of living matter.”

  “Hum. ‘The dark forces in the shifting cloud-shapes of living matter.’”

  “Hum. Something we have to watch out for. Take this chap Izuivo’. Doing a good job, of a sort, getting trading going again, I mean, but he’s made us tread on a few toes. The Purists are sore at us for generating new superstitions while investigating old. And the Galactic Culture people—”

  “Hum. Galactic Culture. Always makes me think of yogurt or acidophilus.”

  “—want us to leave it to them to set things right, which means to let them set things wrong their own way.”

  “Hum. Another thing. Why doesn’t the scatter diagram show a perfect functional relationship?”

  “Hum. Yes, what about those planets where no Crevbnod has ever been, yet where superstition has sprung up?”

  “Hum. Better spot-check those ornery dots.”

  “Hum,” he chorused.

  CHAPTER III

  In 2814, DSX Agent 817 touched Cernpure III. One whiff of the cloying atmosphere and he determined to get this over with fast. One squint at the dark woods encircling the rundown spaceport hostel and he determined to get this over with faster. One earful of a weird moaning tendriling the dusk and he was ready to turn back right now.

  He checked in and demanded of the manager where he might find the Terran José Jmenuje. The manager took five paces, which brought him around the desk and to the doorway. He paused there a long, long time as if in deep, deep thought or deep, deep sleep.

  Through the sounds of the spacebus refueling and reprovisioning, 817 heard faintly the weird moaning and felt cold. The night showed streaks of white dust, as though a moth had brushed its wings against the sky.

  The manager stood dreaming.

  Even though 817 had expected this, only one thing leashed his impatience—an odd feeling that the manager had died and that snapping at him would collapse him to a handful of dust. But the manager came to life. A giant step took him outside and he pointed west. 817 saw dimly an opening in the horror of darkness.

  “That path will lead you to José.”

  The way looked no more inviting in the dim light of dawn, when the manager pointed it out again. 817 had slept little. He eyed his bags doubtfully.

  “Is it far?”

  “It’s a good walk. I’ll send your bags after you.”

  817 halted at the opening for a longing look back at the looming mass of the spacebus, then plunged into the woods.

  He grew aware of the moaning. It waxed and waned as the windings of the way led him on a sort of paper chase, with pieces of sunlight for scents. Twice the moaning fell away altogether, but each time when he believed it had ended for good it began again. He went on and on. The scents were evanescing and, weary as he was, he spurred shanks’ mare on. Night fell. And all at once the moaning grew somewhat louder, nearer.

  It came from a large house sitting calmly where the path exploded. A man rested on the porch, his feet on the railing, his mouth to a gleaming object that seemed to be pumping air into his cheeks.

  José Jmenuje, he presumed.

  Then the man saw 817 and the moaning took a lilting turn, as if to hasten or at least lighten 817’s coming.

  817 reined in with a sigh. Soberly he looked the man over. The man took the gleaming instrument from his mouth and the moaning ended. They introduced themselves.

  José followed 817’s eyes. “A saxophone.”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Don’t you think it has a much richer tone here than on Terra?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Always wanted to play one when I was young, but somehow never found the time. I’m making up for it now. I’m carrying athematic composition to its logical conclusion. Not only do I never repeat a melodic phrase within the piece, I play the piece once—and never again.”

  “Oh, yes?”

  “But rest. You’ve come a long way.”

  817 sank gratefully. His belly growled.

  “Dolo!” José called.

  817 heard five quick steps and a smiling female was leaning out of the doorway. She stood frozen in a seeming trance for a good while, then at last thawed out of it.

  “Another setting, my dear,” José said. “Mr. Naimu is staying.

  She nodded, looked at 817 warmly, and withdrew. And from time to time after the meal, while he and José were talking, he glimpsed the smiling female and about a dozen youngsters, all lively—but all statuing every five paces, figures on an urn.

  817 caught himself half-surrendering to he didn’t know what—the body-and soul-satisfying meal, the pollinated night with a fantastic minaret-like structure thrusting at the sky showing above the trees, or the strong repose of José. He got down to cases.

  “My chief doesn’t like us to generalize,” he found himself confessing, “but I can’t help thinking of the Konnehuras of Mirac XII. They hold that the accumulating past depletes the future. You can’t convince them time is a never-emptying grail. They’re afraid to use it up. And at certain hours all, as one, stop moving—to hold time still. But that has a philosophical root, of course, while—”

  “Of course.”

  “—while what the natives do here has, I understand, a superstitious root.”

  José smiled, but for a moment 817 t
hought he saw in José’s eyes deep waters as of a never-emptying cup of sorrow. “You understand right.” And José began talking.

  One by one, years ago, the Terrans had abandoned their trading posts here, giving Cernpure III up as a bad job. The natives (not yet superstitious) simply didn’t care about Progress. José was the only Terran remaining. He was the only one who had had a hope of making things hum.

  His hope was this: If he could sell the natives on kantui-lichen he would close a circuit. He would be bartering the geis-berry of Cernpure III for the wiwequi-seed of Cernpure II, the wiwequi-seed of Cernpure II for the kantui-lichen of Cernpure I, and the kantui-lichen of Cernpure I for the geis-berry of Cernpure III.

  On the other hand, there were never enough geis-berries to meet the demand; the natives were quite satisfied to raise only enough to meet their own needs.

  He had put his digits in one to-one reciprocal correspondence and considered his twin problems. And after a little the digits had slid and meshed in a self-congratulating handshake.

  He told the natives each of them had a soul. And he told them the soul was a frail and faltering thing. Live were his words as he told them of the soul passing through shadowy forests of evil. And they felt the foxfirescent eyes following it, a lone truth braving wolf-packs of lies. And their eyes brimmed, pitying the poor soul toddling along, seeing it so real they almost cried out to warn it of pitfalls besetting it and false paths betraying it.

  And seeing them weep he so far forgot himself as to weep too.

  But he didn’t forget to tell them they needed kantui-lichen. It would fortify the soul in its journeying—and give them the incentive to harvest geis-berry crops bumper to bumper.

  He timed the first harvest close, waiting for the last geis-berry to ripen and fall tinkling. A spell of searing weather was upon the land. Unless his yield reached without delay the refrigerating hold of his craft, which was a day’s march away, it would spoil. Days were yestering fast. But the geis-berries tintinnabulated their coda in good time.