by Jack Vance
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.”
“Yes, I’m looking forward to the trip.”
Holker wheeled in the tea service; Dame Isabel poured two cups of tea with two decisive motions. “As I said before, Roger, I have no intention of taking you along. You would only be so much dead weight.”
“I don’t see why I shouldn’t get some enjoyment out of the trip,” growled Roger. “All the parasites you’ve hired are complacent enough.”
“Please do not call these people parasites, Roger; they are musicians.”
“Parasites, musicians — it amounts to the same thing. The back-planet people won’t know the difference.”
“No?” asked Dame Isabel with dangerous softness.
“Of course not. The whole project is batty. These creatures are completely alien to us; how in the name of the Seven Muses can they appreciate music of any sort, let alone grand opera? My advice is: call the affair off and save no end of money!”
Once more Dame Isabel gave her wintry chuckle. “At times, Roger, you become absolutely florid in your rhetoric. I am particularly impressed by your evocation of the Muses. But in your solicitude for my pocket-book you neglect certain facts. For instance, how do you explain the enormous success of the Ninth Company here on Earth?”
Roger sipped his tea. “Well — they were almost human.”
Dame Isabel said placidly, “There are hundreds of man-like races amo
ng the peoples of the galaxy.”
Roger remembered his primary purpose. After a frowning study of his tea-cup he nodded slowly. “Well — you may be right. No doubt the trip will be interesting, and certainly someone should keep an accurate day-by-day journal.” Roger looked up as if struck by a sudden inspiration. “This is a job I’d like to take on myself. Eventually we could publish the journal as a documentary record of the trip. With photographs, soundstrips … You could write a foreword …”
Dame Isabel started to speak, then stopped. Finally she said, “You believe you have the capacity to undertake a work of this sort?”
“Of course! Writing is the profession for which I’m best suited.”
Dame Isabel sighed. “Very well, Roger. I see that you’re determined to accompany the tour, and I suppose I must allow it.”
“Thank you, Aunt Isabel.”
“I suggest that you learn something of the history and development of grand operas, and try to cultivate at least a modicum of taste. You would feel foolish indeed if a native of a distant world showed a deeper feeling for our music than you did yourself.”
“No fear of that,” said Roger, and Dame Isabel looked at him sharply, suspecting a possible ambiguity.
“Perhaps I’d better look over the projected itinerary,” said Roger, “so that I can make a start on research.”
Dame Isabel silently handed him a sheet of paper, which Roger studied a moment or two. He looked up with an expression of rueful wonder. “Some of these worlds are barely explored!”
“Our itinerary,” said Dame Isabel, “is necessarily determined by the location of planets where we can expect a hospitable and appreciative audience. You see, Roger, that contrary to your beliefs, we are neither irresponsible nor impractical; we do not plan to perform Die Walküre before a colony of floating polyps or the like. Give us at least this much credit.”
“Oh indeed.” Roger studied the list. “And which of these worlds is the highly-advertised Rlaru?”
“Please restrain your sarcasm, Roger; your connection with the tour is still at best tentative. As for Rlaru, Captain Gondar will guide us there at the appropriate time. He has sound reasons for keeping his own counsel until after the Phoebus leaves Earth.”
“Maybe, maybe not,” grumbled Roger. “If I were you, I’d get some sort of guarantee that this Gondar fellow won’t maroon us all out back of beyond — and that’s not sarcasm, but plain common-sense.”
Dame Isabel’s patience was wearing thin. “I have every faith in Captain Gondar. In addition, I control a very large sum of money which ultimately he will receive. And in the third place if you fear so absurd a contingency, you need not accompany the tour.”
“My concern is only for yourself and the tour,” protested Roger. “Naturally I’m looking out for every possible source of trouble.”
“I have already done so. Now, if you will excuse me, I have some correspondence to take care of, and I must shuffle accommodations to make room for you.”
“Oh I won’t require much room,” said Roger bluffly. “My secretary can work in Bickel’s office, which he won’t need anyway, and as for sleeping arrangements — well, just bunk us in anywhere.”
Dame Isabel stared at Roger in astonishment. “What on earth are you talking about? If by ‘secretary’ you refer to that extremely subtle young woman I met at the space-port, you had better change your ideas decisively.”
“She is an accomplished secretary,” said Roger sulkily, “and in addition she is my fiancée.”
Dame Isabel made a set of fretful motions, as if troubled by her inability to express the inexpressible. Finally she said, “You fail to grasp a fundamental fact. This is a serious expedition, undertaken by persons dedicated to an artistic ideal, and by no means an amorous idyll.”
Later that evening Roger called Madoc Roswyn by visiphone. At his news her delightful mouth dropped sadly. “Oh Roger, what a shame. Do you think she’ll change her mind?”
“Not a chance. For some reason she’s taken a — well, not exactly aversion —”
Madoc Roswyn nodded. “Women never seem to like me. Why, I don’t know. I never flirt or attract attention —”
“It’s because you’re so utterly beautiful,” said Roger. “How you could ever agree to marry such an ordinary man as myself I’ll never understand.”
“I don’t know what I’ll do while you’re gone,” sighed Madoc Roswyn. “Perhaps I’ll go to live in Paris; I have some friends there; I’d never be lonely.”
“I’ll stay home from this idiotic expedition,” raved Roger. “I don’t care if I —”
“No, Roger. It just wouldn’t work.”
“Then, by golly, you’ll come along, if I have to stow you away!”
“Oh Roger! Would you dare?”
“Of course I’d dare! I’m the most daring hell-raising aunt-defier known to the humanoid universe, and if you don’t believe me I’m coming over to your apartment and make you believe me.”
“I believe you, Roger — but can we get away with it?”
“With what?”
“Stowing me away.”
Roger hesitated. “You’re serious?”
“Yes.”
Roger took a deep breath. “Very well. So be it.”
Chapter V
The Phoebus was two hours in space. The opera company and the musicians stood staring rather wistfully back toward Earth. Dame Isabel kept to her cabin, suffering, so the rumor went, from acute space-sickness: a report lent credence by the frequent comings and goings of Dr. Shand, the ship physician.
Adolph Gondar — now Captain Gondar — remained on the bridge with Logan de Appling, the personable young astrogator. Roger Wool was seen in several quarters of the ship. His pallor and extreme nervousness were ascribed to space-sickness. Bernard Bickel went here and there answering questions, calming nervous qualms and generally maintaining the morale of the company, while Sir Henry Rixon inspected the stowage of musical instruments, to make sure that the vibration of take-off had not damaged the two grand pianos.
The first meal of the voyage was presently announced: a necessarily informal repast served cafeteria style. The mess-steward, noticing Roger passing a second time before the trays, cried out jocularly, “Here’s a man with a good appetite! Eat like this, you’ll soon be fat!”
Roger flushed. “I happen to be hungry,” he said rather shortly, and went off with the tray.
“Touchy chap,” the mess-steward told George Jameson, the percussionist. “Hope there’s not too many like him aboard.”
“That’s Dame Isabel’s nephew,” said Jameson. “She keeps him on a pretty short leash; no surprise if he’s a bit peevish.”
“I can’t see where he stows all that grub,” said the steward. “He doesn’t have the look of a big eater.”
At the next meal Roger’s voracity was once again noted. “Look,” said the bus-boy. “That chap is taking a tray out of the saloon! Do you think he’s some kind of a food hoarder?”
The next meal or two Roger was circumspect, but it was not long before the mess-steward noticed Roger dropping morsels of food into a sack.
Two hours later an obsequious bus-boy informed Roger that Dame Isabel wished to speak to him at once.
With leaden steps Roger went to Dame Isabel’s cabin. Her face, the color of oatmeal from the effects of space-sickness, was stern. “Sit down, Roger,” she said. “I have several things to say to you. I preface them by a remark to the effect that of all human failings I find ingratitude among the most despicable. Do I make myself clear?”
“If you are speaking in a general sense, yes.”
“To particularize, I allude to the presence of your ‘fiancée’ aboard the ship.” She held up her hand. “Do not interrupt. I have in the past held you in affection, and when I ended my days I had planned to bequeath to you a not inconsiderable proportion of my estate. The disclosures of this last hour force me completely to alter my intentions. I will say no more, except that o
ur first port of call is Sirius Planet, and there you and that woman will be put ashore.”
“Aunt Isabel,” cried Roger in anguish, “things are not the way you think they are! Let me explain!”
“The facts speak for themselves. Your paramour is in Captain Gondar’s custody, and I believe he has improvised a brig in a storage locker. You are lucky that you are not treated likewise. And now leave me. It is a shame that together with this dreadful space-sickness I must be burdened with the impudicities of my nephew.”
“One last remark,” said Roger sternly. “She is not my paramour, she is my fiancée! And not for lack of trying either. But she has absolutely refused to let me more than kiss her cheek until we are married — which I hope will be soon. Put us off at Sirius Planet if you so choose, but spare me your hypocrisy; I have heard tales about you when you were fifty years younger, and if they’re true, Miss Roswyn’s stowing away is absolutely trivial.”
“Get out of here, you impudent whelp,” exclaimed Dame Isabel, in the deep nasal hoarseness which signaled her most vehement feelings.
Roger departed the cabin. Head hanging, he wandered down the passageway. Disowned! Disinherited! In disgrace! He sighed. What matter? Madoc Roswyn’s affection was ample recompense. He went to the bridge to confer with Captain Gondar and to his surprise found Madoc Roswyn sitting quietly on a bench. She looked up as he entered, then looked down at her hands. She seemed so helpless, so despairing, so forlorn, that Roger could barely restrain himself from running across the room to console her. But he turned to Captain Gondar, who in his dark uniform seemed more brooding and saturnine than ever. “I understand that my aunt has placed Miss Roswyn in your custody.”
