by Jack Vance
“You probably know why I’ve come to see you,” said Roger.
“My dear fellow, I haven’t the foggiest notion.”
“You haven’t heard of my aunt’s new scheme?”
Bickel shook his head. “I’ve been out of town. Something amusing, I hope?”
“‘Amusing’.” Roger echoed the word bitterly. “She wants to take a grand opera company to this planet Rlaru. She’ll spend millions without batting an eye.”
Bickel listened with an occasional nod of the head, a whimsical pucker of the mouth. “Your aunt exemplifies a type which sadly is almost extinct: the affluent amateur, the wealthy eccentric. An impressive woman — though I can’t share her faith in Captain Gondar.”
“It’s appalling!” declared Roger. “He’s talked her into a project which will cost an enormous amount of money! She wants to visit other worlds along the way — you yourself have influenced her, with your description of the Bidrachate Dendicaps listening to music from your recorder.”
Bernard Bickel laughed incredulously. “But it’s all so ridiculous! Those particular creatures were merely wondering how I had been able to confine so many insects — which locally produce loud shrill noises — into so small a box. Your aunt’s concept — excuse me if I speak frankly — is idiotic. The Dendicaps wouldn’t know a concerto from a punch in the nose.”
Roger laughed shakily. “She’s been strongly influenced by your remarks. I wonder — I don’t know how to put this to you — but could you find some way to set my aunt straight on the facts of the case?”
Bernard Bickel frowned, touched his handsome silver mustache. “I would be happy to advise your aunt, of course, but I can’t simply go barging out and belabor her with my opinions.”
“I tell you what!” exclaimed Roger. “Come out to Ballew today as my guest. She’ll be delighted to see you.”
Bickel gave a slight shrug. “I don’t have anything else on — and I’d be happy to see your aunt’s estate.”
“Good! We can leave at any time you like.”
“Oh … Two o’clock?”
“Excellent. I’ll pick you up in my air-car.”
Shortly before three Roger and Bernard Bickel arrived at Ballew. Roger landed his air-car on the flight deck, and Grumiano, the old porter, came to wheel it away into the garage.
Bernard Bickel went to the balustrade, surveyed the grounds. “A magnificent place, absolutely baronial! It must be hundreds of years old!”
“Yes, it’s a beautiful place. And I don’t want to see it sold at auction … We’ll probably find my aunt in the rose garden, or perhaps on the south terrace.”
Dame Isabel in fact was sitting at a marble table on the south terrace, dictating letters into a recorder, while simultaneously placing calls into a visiphone. She gave the two of them a terse nod, apparently failing to recognize Bernard Bickel. “Sit down, Roger, I’ll be with you in a moment. I’ve got Marzic Ipsigori on the connection and we’re trying to arrive at terms. I believe he will be with us.”
Roger and Bernard Bickel waited while Dame Isabel spoke with the celebrated baritone, who, so it eventuated, could not give Dame Isabel a definite answer until he reviewed his obligations for the coming year.
Dame Isabel switched off the instrument, swung around to face Roger and Bickel. “Well, Roger: who is your friend? But of course, it’s Mr. Bickel.”
“Yes, and delighted for the opportunity to see your home and its glorious grounds.”
Dame Isabel nodded. “Ballew is at its best during the summer. Roger, find Holker and have him lay tea.”
When Roger returned Dame Isabel and Bernard Bickel were strolling through the rose garden, talking with great animation. From time to time Dame Isabel laughed heartily, and Bernard Bickel also seemed to be enjoying himself. At least, thought Roger, his aunt was listening without resentment. Perhaps she herself had begun to have misgivings about the enormous complexity of the project. Roger sighed with gratification: taking his problems to Bernard Bickel had been a wise move.
Holker laid the table for tea; Dame Isabel and Bickel came to join Roger.
“Good news, Roger!” exclaimed Dame Isabel. “Good news indeed! Mr. Bickel has agreed to join our little tour among the planets! He’ll be musical consultant, at a very exorbitant salary, I’m sorry to say —” she chuckled roguishly “— but we will have his specialized knowledge to guide us!”
Roger looked in shock and pain at Bernard Bickel, who nodded smilingly. “I will be utterly honest,” said Bickel. “You could not have hired a better man. There are dozens of pitfalls into which, without expert counsel, you would have been sure to fall.”
Roger rose; Dame Isabel looked up in surprise. “Roger: are you not staying for dinner?”
“No,” said Roger. “I’ve just remembered an engagement.” He bowed grimly to Bernard Bickel and took his leave.
Dame Isabel sighed. “Roger is beyond my comprehension. A dear fellow, but like so many of his generation, without direction. I’ve arranged a position for him with Atlantic Securities. The world of stocks and bonds is said to be fascinating, and I’m sure the challenge of regular hours will prove stimulating.”
“Quite correct,” said Bernard Bickel. “You’ve made a sensible decision.”
Chapter IV
From a journalistic standpoint, the world at this particular juncture was torpid. No political contests were in progress; the Hall-Anderson Vituperation Trials had ended; the final restoration of ancient Athens was accomplished; no one had seen the Loch Ness Monster for several months. The divorce of Barbara Bankwiler from the Grand Duke of Tibet had been predictable; the new air-car models were still several months in the offing. Here and there, of course, was news of a sort: the Blue Man Society had purchased a million acre tract in central Mauretania, centered on the Sebkra de Chinchane, where vacationing members could enjoy the ancient nomadic existence; a hollow pretzel, containing thirteen fluid ounces of beer, had reached the market; the Guadalajara Coyotes, Las Vegas Dodgers, Osaka Earthquakes, Saint Louis Browns, Milan Green Sox, and Bangalore Avatars were allowed about equal chances in the forthcoming World Series. But these were mere stirs in the summer doldrums, and Dame Isabel’s projected tour of remote planets aroused world-wide interest. Experts were solicited for comment; their statements were probed and explored, until eventually a full scale controversy raged across the intellectual community. Spokesmen for one point of view bluntly labeled Dame Isabel a crackpot and the whole project a musical boondoggle; others remarked that the experience must — at the very least — be edifying for all concerned. In a persuasive article for the Cosmologician Bernard Bickel wrote: “It may well be that not every individual of every planet will fully appreciate the whole of the repertory — but there must be an impact of some sort: at worst, simple wonder for the sound and color; at best an enthusiastic, if perhaps intuitive, response (never forget, the basic offering will be classic grand opera, a mannered and sophisticated form of music). We may encounter races with elaborate sound-structures of their own; many exist: I myself have encountered several. Other races are completely deaf, and to these music is unimaginable. Nevertheless, none of these peoples can fail to be impressed by the grandeur of classical grand opera and by the artistic energy of the people which have produced it. We shall achieve at the least good public relations; at the most we shall contribute a meaningful experience to races less fortunate than ourselves.”
In another article Bernard Bickel cautiously touched on the planet Rlaru: “Unluckily I missed all but a brief moment of the performances of the Ninth Company. I must say that this soupçon gave me food for thought. As to the whereabouts of Rlaru, I cannot say: even the most peripatetic of musicologists can visit but a small fraction of the inhabited worlds. One point I would like to make, which seems not to have been touched on before: the Ninth Company, according to all reports, consisted of individuals both more and less than human, but nonetheless members of the cosmologically numerous anthropoid type. If features
, anatomy and configuration can demonstrate parallel evolution, why is not the same possible for musical idiom — especially since harmonics is as objective a science as chemistry?
“Temporarily let us put the whole question into abeyance. Providence and Adolph Gondar concurring we will visit this wonder planet, and we shall see for ourselves. If matters are as purported — or if they are not — we shall return with specific information. Until then I advise all to withhold judgment.”
Roger had accepted employment with Atlantic Securities, for he knew better than to make difficulties: it was always wise to bend with the blast. Sure enough, events worked out as he had expected. After a week of amiable botchery, he was called before Mr. McNab to be told that certain alarming financial trends had made retrenchment necessary. Mr. Wool, the most recent employee, must be the first to go.
Roger, putting on a lugubrious air, went out to Ballew to explain the matter to his aunt, only to learn that she had gone to the spaceport in the company of Bernard Bickel. Roger followed, and found Dame Isabel at the fitting-out dock to the north of the field. Here the Phoebus (so Dame Isabel had named the ship) was being converted to the special uses for which she intended it.
The Phoebus, Roger found as he circled it seeking Dame Isabel, was a large ship, consisting of five globes sixty feet in diameter joined by ovoidal tubes twenty feet across the largest dimensions. One globe had been opened and altered to form a stage, and here Roger found Dame Isabel, consulting with the project engineer. She greeted Roger briefly, and, so it seemed, with neither surprise nor disapproval.
Roger drew a few cautious breaths, threw back his shoulders, and felt as if the worst was over, for on similar occasions in the past Dame Isabel had exhibited a brassy volubility. Now she listened attentively as the engineer described the manner in which he had fitted the stage into the ship. The pentagonal shape of the Phoebus enclosed an appreciable area; at its center a stanchion could be erected, cables strung to each of the globes, and all covered with a light fabric to form a tent-like auditorium.
Bernard Bickel joined the group. He had been off inspecting the living accommodations and now reported all in order. Dame Isabel’s cabin seemed a trifle cramped, he remarked, as perhaps did his own cabin and office. Could not both be expanded at least in some small degree? The engineer agreed to look into the matter.
Dame Isabel’s attention wandered. Her eye fell on Roger; her face changed. “Roger! What on earth are you doing here? Why aren’t you at your position?”
Roger was caught unaware. “A temporary lay-off,” he stammered, “or so I hope. The market is extremely slow; Mr. McNab tells me there’s going to be a big shakedown in the business, and he’s had to put about a third of his staff on call.”
“Indeed?” said Dame Isabel frostily. “He said nothing of this when I spoke to him.”
Roger stated that in the financial world disaster often struck with the speed of a lightning bolt. “Mr. McNab naturally wanted to keep me on, but he said that everyone else would consider it favoritism. I told him not to consider my feelings, but do what he thought best.”
“Roger,” said Dame Isabel, “I simply don’t know what to do with you. You have an excellent education, good manners, a certain vapid charm which you employ when it suits you, and an undeniable talent for high living. What would you do without your allowance from me? Would you starve? Or do you think the demands of your stomach might bring you to grips with reality?”
Roger accepted the dressing-down with what he felt to be remarkable dignity. Eventually Dame Isabel threw up her hands. “I suppose that so long as I have a crust I must share with you.” She gave her attention once more to the engineer, and Roger turned away with relief.
Now he noticed an extremely attractive girl inspecting the Phoebus. She wore a brown suit with black piping, a brown and black toque: she was a trifle taller than average, with the easy carriage of unself-conscious health. Her hair was brown, her eyes were hazel-brown, her features were perfectly ordered. Roger’s first impression was favorable, together with his second and third. The girl radiated female magnetism; to look at her was to want to approach her, touch her, establish proprietary rights. But there was more to the girl than physical charm. Even at first glance — and Roger had never before considered himself intuitive — he sensed in her something miraculous and extraordinary, a legendary élan which could not be defined.
The girl noticed Roger’s attention. She did not seem disturbed. Roger smiled, though without any great fervor: the recent dressing-down had not tended to exalt his self-esteem. But the girl examined him with an expression which was almost admiration; and Roger wondered if by some magic this gloriously beautiful girl had seen deep inside him, had grasped the magnificent essence of his true self.
Now — wonder of wonders! — she approached him; she spoke: her voice was soft, with a half-heard lilt Roger could not identify, which gave her every utterance the pulse of poetry. “That lady over there — is she Dame Isabel Grayce?”
“Yes indeed; you are absolutely correct,” said Roger. “You couldn’t be more so.”
“And who is that man talking to her?”
Roger looked over his shoulder. “That’s Mr. Bickel. A musical expert, or so he fancies himself.”
“And you are a musician?”
Roger suddenly wished that such were the case; it was clear that this girl wanted him to be a musician, that she would have approved … Well, he could always learn. “Yes — in a way.”
“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.
