by Jack Vance
“With no great attention.”
“He’s always good for a laugh. Before he plays he shoots his cuffs, puffs out his cheeks, and makes a peculiar face.”
“Mr. Martineau,” said Dame Isabel, “is an excellent musician. The oboe, in case you are unaware of the fact, is a difficult instrument.”
“I imagine it must be. Tonight — I’m not sure about last night — the man playing first oboe was not Martineau.”
Dame Isabel shook her head in disparagement. “Please, Roger, I am very tired indeed.”
“But this is important!” cried Roger. “If the first oboeist is not Mr. Martineau — who is he?”
“Do you think Sir Henry would be unaware of this strange circumstance?”
Roger shook his head doggedly. “He looks like Mr. Martineau. But his ears aren’t so big. Mr. Martineau’s ears were quite noticeable —”
“And this is the basis for your alarm?”
“Oh no. I watched him play. He sat still. He didn’t make any peculiar faces. He didn’t shoot his cuffs. He sat rock-still instead of jerking from side to side like Martineau. Then I noticed his ears.”
“Roger, this is absolute nonsense. I now am going to bed and I hope to sleep. In the morning, if Mr. Martineau’s ears still trouble you, you may confide your fears to Sir Henry, and perhaps he will be able to reassure you. Meanwhile I suggest that you get a good night’s rest, as we leave promptly at nine o’clock in the morning.”
The door closed; Roger slowly returned to the saloon. Here he sat and wrestled with his problem. Should he go to Sir Henry? Should he confront the counterfeit oboeist on his own responsibility? What a wretched situation! And Roger shook his head in dissatisfaction. There must be a simple manner in which to resolve the matter! For ten minutes he considered, then pounded the table softly with his fist. The solution leapt into mind!
The following morning final preparations were made for departure. At half-past eight one of the guards diffidently approached Dame Isabel. “Mr. Wool has not yet returned aboard, madame.”
Dame Isabel looked blankly at the man. “Where in the world did he go?”
“He left the ship two hours ago; he stated that he had a message from you to deliver to the Governor.”
“This is a most extraordinary situation! I certainly never sent him off with such a message! What could he be thinking of? I have a good mind to leave without him!”
Bernard Bickel approached, and Dame Isabel told him of Roger’s eccentric conduct. “I fear his mind is going,” said Dame Isabel. “Last night he came babbling of Mr. Martineau’s ears; this morning he runs off with an imaginary message for the Governor!”
Bernard Bickel shook his head in perplexity. “I suppose we had better send the guard to look for him.”
Dame Isabel compressed her lips. “This is an absolutely inexcusable irresponsibility! I am seriously of a mind to leave without him. He was well aware of my wish to leave at nine precisely.”
“The only explanation can be that he has become temporarily deranged,” said Bernard Bickel.
“Yes,” muttered Dame Isabel. “I suppose you are right.” She turned to the guard. “Mr. Wool must be found. Not inconceivably — on the supposition that he is indeed deranged — he went to the Governor’s apartments bearing this imaginary message. I suggest that you seek there for him first.”
But now at the entry-port there was altercation. Dame Isabel and Bernard Bickel, hastening to the port, found Roger and a disheveled Calvin Martineau arguing with the guard.
“You may come aboard, Mr. Wool. This other man may not, as the ship’s roster is complete.”
“I am Calvin Martineau,” said the oboe-player in a weak but insistent voice. “I demand to be permitted aboard!”
“What is going on?” demanded Dame Isabel. “Mr. Martineau, what is the meaning of this peculiar situation?”
“I have been held prisoner!” cried Martineau. “Subjected to indignities. Drugged! Threatened! If it had not been for Mr. Wool I don’t know what would have happened to me!”
“I told you that other oboeist was an impostor,” said Roger.
Dame Isabel drew a deep breath. “And how did you know where to find Mr. Martineau?”
“It seemed simple enough. Faces can be changed, mannerisms can be faked — but only an oboe-player could successfully pass himself off for an oboe-player. So I knew that the false Martineau played the oboe, more than likely in the symphony. I learned where the Skylark Symphony oboeist lived, I went to the address, and walked in. Mr. Martineau was tied hand and foot under the bed.”
Martineau broke into new complaints. Dame Isabel held up her hand. “Bernard, please take a guard into the ship and give the criminal into his custody.”
Five minutes later the sullen impostor was marched off the ship. The resemblance to the authentic Calvin Martineau was remarkable. “How in the world —” began Bernard Bickel.
The Senior Inspector, who had been summoned, shook his head sadly. “Apparently there has been sly work at the Reconstruction Laboratories; I am amazed … And yet not too amazed. Many convicts would risk all their privileges for the chance to escape Skylark.”
“I don’t understand this at all,” said Bernard Bickel. “How can one man’s face be transferred to another?”
“I know little of the exact process,” said the inspector, “but in the Reconstruction Laboratories these operations are not unknown. I believe a mold is made of the face to be duplicated. Then the second face is made pliable by various injections and forced into the mask. Providing the bone structure is not too obtrusively different, the flesh takes a temporary set into the features of the mold. Naturally the impostor and the victim must be of approximately similar physical structure for the simulation to be convincing.”
“Remarkable!” said Bernard Bickel. “Well, well, Mr. Martineau, you are very lucky indeed.” He turned back to the inspector. “You used the word ‘temporary’. How long would the molded flesh retain its shape?”
“I don’t know with any certainty. Perhaps a week or so.”
Bernard Bickel nodded. “And then — who knows? The impostor might feign some sort of skin trouble and wrap up his face, or grow a beard. If we reached another port he could leave the ship.”
“Diabolical!” muttered Dame Isabel. “Well, then. It is almost nine; we had better seal the ship. Roger, please stop fidgeting and come aboard, unless you wish to be left behind!”
“Just a minute!” cried Roger. “You can’t leave now!”
“And why not?”
“Don’t you think we’d better check the rest of the ship’s company? There’s no telling how many of these impostors are aboard.”
Dame Isabel looked at him blankly, then said, “Ridiculous!” in a subdued voice.
Bernard Bickel said, “Do you know, I think he’s absolutely right? We’ll have to check the entire personnel of the ship.”
Dame Isabel summoned Sir Henry Rixon, Andrei Szinc, Captain Gondar, and explained the circumstances. Captain Gondar said in a surly voice, “You can cross the crew off your list of suspects. None of us have left the ship, and you can check it by quartermaster records.”
The records corroborated Captain Gondar’s statement. Madoc Roswyn likewise had not set foot on the soil of Skylark.
Ada Francini, the excitable soprano, declared, “You think I am somebody else? You are crazy. Listen!” She sang an exercise, trilling up and down octaves as if they were thirds. “Can anyone sing like that but Francini?”
There was no contradiction. “Also,” said Ada Francini, “I know the voice of every singer aboard the ship, and I know all the little secrets. Give me three minutes, I will show you the convicts.”
While Ada Francini investigated the singers, listening to a scale or an exercise, asking whispered questions and hearing whispered answers, the Governor arrived, and was informed as to the state of affairs. He was shocked and distressed, and offered his most profound apologies to Dame Isabel.
> Meanwhile Roger had taken Bernard Bickel to the side. “I’m obviously genuine, because I broke the whole thing wide open. Where did my aunt hire you?”
“In the rose garden at Ballew.”
“Very good; you’re genuine. I talked to Martineau. He’d been kidnapped two days. That means for two days the other man was playing the oboe in the orchestra.”
Bernard Bickel chewed his mustache. “The strings wouldn’t pay any great attention, nor the brass. But the woodwinds —”
Roger nodded. “Exactly my thought. The woodwinds must all be bogus.”
“I’ll just have a word with Sir Henry —”
“No!” hissed Roger. “If the entire woodwind section is false, how could Sir Henry not be aware of it?”
“You mean — Sir Henry?”
“Obviously.”
Bernard Bickel looked toward the group by the entrance-ramp. “You’re right! Sir Henry is taller; furthermore he would never wear black shoes with a brown suit!”
The false Sir Henry heard his name. Furtively he looked around, and seeing that he was under suspicion tried to run off, but was caught and subdued.
“This is a disgraceful act!” exclaimed the Governor. “Do you realize it’s transportation if the real Sir Henry is harmed?”
The impostor gave a sickly grin. “No fear of that. I may be a failure, but I’m no fool.” He gave directions as to where Sir Henry could be found; before long the enraged conductor was returned to the ship.
The state of affairs was explained to him, and he nodded balefully. “False musicians in the orchestra won’t fool me, not for an instant. Everyone! Your instruments!”
The harpist, pianist and percussionist were allowed to prove their authenticity verbally, which they did after a set of quiet questions from Sir Henry.
The other musicians had tuned and were prepared. One after another Sir Henry examined them; one after another played brief passages and scales.
As Roger had anticipated, the woodwinds were all impostors. Threatened with transportation, they gave information as to where the missing musicians could be found and were marched away in the custody of guards.
Dame Isabel had watched the proceedings in growing consternation. “I still can’t feel secure,” she quavered. “Suppose we have missed someone? Isn’t there some definite way to set my mind at peace?”
“We’ve checked everybody aboard,” said Bernard Bickel. “All are safe and sound and accounted for. I suppose there’s no reason why we can’t take departure. Eh, Governor? Any objections?”
The Governor, who had been talking quietly to Roger, turned around. “What’s this, sir?”
Bernard Bickel repeated his request.
“You want to leave, do you?” said the Governor. “Well, we’ll have to discuss that. Ma’am, are you quite well?” He walked over to Dame Isabel, peered into her face. Then clamping a heavy hand on her neck, he shook her like a terrier shaking a rat. Off flew a wig, revealing a scalp covered with roached red hair. “You villain! Where is Dame Isabel? Do you realize that it’s transportation if the slightest harm has been done?”
“No fear, the old crock’s in good shape,” said the simulated Dame Isabel, allowing his voice to resume its natural pitch.
Half an hour later the real Dame Isabel was brought back to the ship.
“This is a complete and absolute outrage!” she told the Governor. “Do you realize that for two days I’ve been penned up in a filthy den? At the mercy of rogues?”
“I confess my shame!” declared the Governor. “I am mortified beyond all account! You realize of course that you’ve got your nephew to thank for your safety. I can’t imagine how he saw through the deception. How could you be so sure?” he asked Roger. “The impersonation seemed absolutely faultless!”
Roger glanced sidewise at Dame Isabel. “Well — there were small mistakes. The impostor seemed rather too placid, too mild. She only said ‘Tut Tut’, or words to that effect to find that Sir Henry and the woodwinds were false. Aunt Isabel would have called out for boiling oil, or transportation at the very least. It seems a small thing, but it aroused my suspicions.”
Dame Isabel marched furiously aboard the ship. “We depart at once,” she rasped over her shoulder.
Bernard Bickel smiled wanly. “One thing I don’t understand. If in a week the disguise would wear off —”
“They planned to take over the ship,” said the Chief Inspector. “I’ve had a quiet chat with a clarinetist. Thanks to Mr. Wool, the plot failed.”
Chapter X
For several days a state of distrust persisted aboard the Phoebus, but finally all aboard were reassured. Dame Isabel remained in her cabin for some little time, emerging only at the news that Captain Gondar had gone mad.
The message, conveyed to Dame Isabel by the near-hysterical Hermilda Warn, was not completely accurate. Captain Gondar had not gone mad; he had merely tried to kill Logan de Appling with his bare hands. The Chief Technician and Bernard Bickel had intervened; struggling and kicking, Captain Gondar had been thrust into his cabin and there confined.
Dame Isabel hurried to the bridge, and finding it deserted, descended to the saloon, which was full of excited discussion. Gradually she pieced out the circumstances: apparently Captain Gondar had come upon Logan de Appling in the act of embracing Madoc Roswyn, and this triggered the explosion.
Dame Isabel heard the various versions of the affair silently, with no sign other than an ominous tightening of the lips. “And where is the young woman now?”
Madoc Roswyn had sought the seclusion of her cubicle. Ramona Thoxted and Cassandra Prouty, chancing to pass the door, reported hearing no sound from within. “If I had caused as much trouble and distress,” declared Ramona Thoxted, “I would be utterly heartbroken. But I heard not a sound!”
Roger offered an explanation. “You probably did not have your ear pressed tightly enough against the door.”
“That will do, Roger,” said Dame Isabel sharply.
Bernard Bickel returned from the infirmary and Dame Isabel took him aside for consultation. Bickel’s report of the episode generally tallied with that which Dame Isabel had already heard. “I simply don’t know what to do!” she said in vexation. “I expected difficulties and misunderstandings, but it certainly seems that we are having more than our share. A good proportion of them can be traced to the Roswyn girl. I should have put her off at Sirius Planet!”
“Some people do seem to catalyze trouble,” Bernard Bickel agreed. “But whatever the cause, the result is that we find ourselves temporarily without a captain.”
Dame Isabel made an impatient gesture. “No great matter; Mr. de Appling can lay out our course and Mr. Henderson is entirely capable of performing Captain Gondar’s other duties. I am mainly concerned about Rlaru. If Captain Gondar is too distrait or deranged or defiant to guide us there, we’ll be seriously inconvenienced.”
Bernard Bickel reflected. “In my opinion, we should allow the dust to settle. When Captain Gondar cools down, he’ll come to his wits — after all it’s to his advantage to guide us to Rlaru. Meanwhile young de Appling can take us to the next halt on our itinerary, which as I recall is the planet known as Swannick’s Star.”
“Yes. A wretched dirty little world reverted to feudalism.”
Bernard Bickel raised his eyebrows. “I’ve always understood it to be a charming world, old-fashioned and quaint.”
Dame Isabel gave a shaky laugh. “It well may be, Bernard. I’m in such a terrible mood that the Garden of Eden would seem a pest-hole … For all our undeniable successes, I am just a trifle discouraged.”
Bernard Bickel gave a hearty laugh. “Come, that’s no way to talk! Think of the reception we received at Skylark!”
Dame Isabel closed her eyes. “Never mention that planet! When I recall the utterly rude treatment I was accorded: the curses, the jeers, the coarse jokes … But I will not dwell on the episode. Success yes — of a sort. Remember, however, that these were Earthmen, sta
rved for music, and it does not represent the kind of success I had hoped for. And Swannick’s Star is basically more of the same.”
“Eventually we will reach Rlaru,” Bernard Bickel told her.
“I realize this — but are there no other cultured races in the universe?”
Bernard Bickel shrugged. “Frankly, I don’t know of any.”
“I suppose we must maintain our itinerary,” said Dame Isabel resignedly. “There’s Mr. de Appling; will you please call him over?”
Bernard Bickel summoned Logan de Appling. Dame Isabel surveyed him coldly. “I see you are not seriously hurt.”
“I seem to have escaped with my life.” And de Appling gave a shaky laugh. He was a tall blond young man, with an easy confident manner; there was no mystery as to why Madoc Roswyn might have preferred him to Captain Gondar.
“The next stop on our itinerary is Swannick’s Star,” said Dame Isabel. “I forget the formal description of the planet, but no doubt you have access to the appropriate references.”
“Oh yes; quite so.”
For Dame Isabel’s taste Logan de Appling was somewhat too breezy. “Captain Gondar has decided to keep to his cabin for a few days,” she said in her most formal voice. “You will therefore be responsible for astrogation.”
Logan de Appling made one of his easy confident gestures. “No problem there; I’ll take you to the Great Nebula if you like. Did you say Swannick’s Star?”
“I did.”
“Would you allow me to make a suggestion?”
“Certainly.”
“Not far distant is a world which has been visited by men no more than once or twice. As I understand it, this planet is superbly beautiful, inhabited by near-human creatures of advanced culture.”
Bernard Bickel asked, “This world is in Hydra?”
Logan de Appling looked startled. “As a matter of fact, it is.”
“And where did you hear of this world?” demanded Dame Isabel.
“From several sources.” Logan de Appling fidgeted. “They all agree that —”
Dame Isabel pursued the subject relentlessly. “Would you be good enough to enlarge upon the nature of these sources?”
