Space Opera

by Jack Vance

  But morning became noon and no one appeared but three or four men wearing coarse gray smocks and cloth sandals. Squatting in the dirt, they gave the Phoebus a brief inspection, then rising moved off in a purposeless amble, to disappear in a grove of trees beside the river.

  Dame Isabel paced back and forth in front of the Phoebus, looking first toward the village, then shading her eyes with her hand and peering toward the workers in the field. Finally she returned into the ship and ascended to Adolph Gondar’s cabin.

  There was no response to her knock.

  She knocked again, peremptorily. “Mr. Gondar, open if you please.”

  Still no answer. After one further rap, Dame Isabel tried the door, but found it locked.

  Nearby, on the bridge, sat the crew-man deputed to guard Adolph Gondar’s cabin; Dame Isabel spoke sharply, “Fetch Mr. Henderson at once, and then ask Mr. Bickel to step up. I fear that Mr. Gondar may be ill.”

  The Chief Technician appeared. After a knock or two, he forced the door. Adolph Gondar was not in his cabin.

  Dame Isabel turned ominously upon the crew-man who had been standing guard. “How and when did Mr. Gondar leave his cabin?”

  “I don’t know. I’m sure I don’t. He took his lunch; I saw it handed in to him, and that’s only been an hour ago. I haven’t had my eyes off that door. A cat couldn’t have slipped out.”

  “Bernard,” said Dame Isabel crisply, “please check the lifeboats.”

  Bernard Bickel shortly returned to report that all lifeboats were securely in their pods. Nor could Adolph Gondar have used the exit-ramp; those standing in front of the ship would have seen him. Dame Isabel ordered a search of the ship.

  Adolph Gondar was not aboard. By some means unknown he had departed his cabin, seemingly vanishing into thin air.

  In the middle afternoon the field workers in their odd broad-brimmed hats halted work and returned to the village. As before they gave the Phoebus a mildly interested inspection, though hardly slackening their pace to do so. Only Dame Isabel’s sense of fitness prevented her from marching forth to demand a responsible delegation from the village. She watched the retreating backs a minute or two, then turned to Bernard Bickel and Andrei Szinc, who stood beside her. “What, in your expert opinions,” she asked, “would seem an appropriate work to perform here, presuming we were able to attract an audience of other than bumpkins and vagabonds?”

  Andrei Szinc flung out his hands, as if to imply that one opera would do as well as another for folk so incurious as these. Bernard Bickel replied to the same effect: “I find it difficult to decide. Frankly, I had expected a far different cultural complex — an ambiance considerably more lively and sophisticated.”

  “My feelings exactly,” said Andrei Szinc. He looked around the landscape. Drenched in the golden haze of late afternoon it seemed wonderfully tranquil and beautiful, though permeated with a sense of remoteness and even melancholy, like a scene remembered from one’s youth.

  Frowning, Andrei Szinc spoke on slowly. “There seems an aimlessness here, a lack of purpose, as if people and landscape aren’t altogether real. Perhaps ‘archaic’ is the word I want. Everything exudes a redolence of something old and half-forgotten.”

  Dame Isabel chuckled drily. “I admit Rlaru is not quite as I expected it — but both of you seem to have evaded my question.”

  Bernard Bickel laughed and pulled at his fine gray mustache. “I evade because I am at a loss. I talk, hoping to stimulate an idea into existence — but I have failed. Still, for an off-the-cuff suggestion, why not Tales of Hoffman? Or perhaps The Magic Flute once more? Or even Hansel and Gretel?”

  Andrei Szinc nodded. “Any of these would be suitable.”

  “Good,” said Dame Isabel. “Tomorrow we will perform Hansel and Gretel in the open, and hope that the sound of the music, which we will amplify and direct toward the village, will attract an audience. Andrei, please see to bringing out the requisite sets, and arranging some sort of a curtain. Bernard, perhaps you would be good enough to inform Sir Henry and his people.”

  The company, which had become somewhat edgy, reacted with great energy to the prospect of a performance. Musicians and singers joined the crew in the labor of carrying out sets and stage properties, and rigging a makeshift curtain. Work continued by floodlight long after dark, and Dame Isabel noted with satisfaction that in the village lights were not extinguished as early as the night before, and occasionally lights which had been turned off came back to life.

  There still was no clue as to what had become of Adolph Gondar. Various theories were current, most to the effect that Gondar, after leaving the ship by some crafty method, had made his way to the village in order to seek out his old acquaintances. It was generally expected that Gondar in his own good time would return to the ship.

  On the next morning almost a dozen folk came out from the village, and now the Phoebus company for the first time saw the so-called “aristocrats” of Rlaru. These were people closely resembling in style and attitude the Ninth Company which Adolph Gondar had brought to Earth: slender well-shaped people of great grace, verve, and gaiety. They wore garments of various rich colors, no two of which were alike, and several carried musical instruments of the sort used by the Ninth Company.

  Dame Isabel advanced to meet them, holding up her hands in the universal gesture of friendship — a gesture, however, which the folk of Rlaru did not seem to comprehend, for all appeared somewhat puzzled.

  Dame Isabel, having established her peaceful intentions, spoke slowly and distinctly. “Hello, my friends of Rlaru. Are any of you members of the Ninth Company which visited Earth? Ninth Company? Earth?”

  None of the natives gave any sign of understanding, though all listened with courtesy.

  Dame Isabel tried once more. “We are musicians from Earth. We come to perform here on Rlaru as your wonderful Ninth Company performed on Earth. This afternoon we will bring you one of our great operas, Hansel and Gretel, by Engelbert Humperdinck.” She ended on a note of rather desperate cheerfulness. “We hope you will all come and bring your friends.”

  The villagers spoke a few grave words among themselves, turned to inspect the sets, and presently moved off about their affairs.

  Dame Isabel looked after them with a dubious expression. “I hoped to convey an inkling, at least, of our purpose,” she told Bernard Bickel. “I fear I did not succeed.”

  “Don’t be too pessimistic,” said Bernard Bickel. “Some of these alien races are wonderfully adept when it comes to sensing one’s basic intents.”

  “Do you think then that we’ll have an audience?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised one way or the other.”

  Three hours after the sun reached the meridian Sir Henry took the orchestra into the first notes of the overture, and the stately horn chorale, amplified to a certain extent, sounded throughout the countryside.

  The first of the Rlaru natives to appear were a group of smock-clad indigents, who came blinking out of the grove by the river as if the music had awakened them from sleep. About twenty of these wandered close and settled themselves into the last row of the benches. Then a dozen or so workmen from nearby fields came to investigate. Five or six stayed to watch and listen, while the others returned to their tasks. Dame Isabel sniffed in contempt. “Louts are louts, no matter where they are found.”

  During Scene Five a straggle of villagers appeared, including several aristocrats, to Dame Isabel’s great satisfaction. During the whole of the second act there were perhaps forty persons in the audience, including the semi-torpid indigents, whom the workmen and aristocrats quite noticeably avoided.

  “All considered,” Dame Isabel told Sir Henry, Andrei Szinc and Bernard Bickel after the performance, “I am well-pleased. The audience seemed to like what they saw.”

  “Not having Gondar puts us to great inconvenience,” said Bernard Bickel fretfully. “I assume that he knows the language, and he would have been of great help in explaining our program.”r />
  “We will do without him,” said Dame Isabel. “If any of the Ninth Company are here — as well they may be — surely they know at least a smattering of our language. We will demonstrate that Adolph Gondar is not as indispensable as he thinks he is.”

  “Certainly a mystery where the fellow got to,” declared Sir Henry. “He never left by the off-ramp — that I’ll swear to. I was standing at the bottom every minute, and I saw no sign of him.”

  “He’ll no doubt return when he’s good and ready,” said Dame Isabel. “I refuse to worry about him. Tomorrow: Les Contes d’Hoffmann, and let us hope that today’s performance will bring us a larger audience!”

  Dame Isabel’s hopes were abundantly fulfilled. As soon as the first notes of music drifted across the countryside, folk approached from all directions and settled on the benches without diffidence. The three castes Adolph Gondar had described could easily be distinguished by their costumes. The indigents in their shapeless gray smocks sat to the side like pariahs. The workers wore blue or white pantaloons, blue, white or brown jackets and, more often than not, broad-brimmed headgear. The “aristocrats”, of course, were as extravagant as peacocks among crows; only natural elegance and a certain playful hauteur lent credibility to their costumes. Several carried musical instruments, which they stroked or played softly, with apparently unconscious movements.

  Dame Isabel watched in complete satisfaction. “This,” she told Bernard Bickel, “is almost precisely what I had hoped for. Rlaru is by no means as technically advanced as I had presumed, but the folk here are sensitive and aware, in every stratum of society, which is more than can be said of Earth!”

  Bernard Bickel had no dispute with her comments.

  “After the performance,” said Dame Isabel, “I will approach some of them, and inquire as to Mr. Gondar. It’s quite possible that he has taken refuge with friends, and I would like to learn his intentions.”

  But when Dame Isabel tried to communicate with certain of the “aristocrats”, she encountered only blank stares of incomprehension. “Mr. Gondar,” spoke Dame Isabel, very distinctly. “I am interested in learning the whereabouts of Mr. Adolph Gondar. Do you know him?”

  But the aristocrats moved courteously away. Dame Isabel clicked her tongue in exasperation. “Mr. Gondar could so easily have sent us word,” she complained to Bernard Bickel. “Now we are left on tenterhooks … Well, evidently he knows his own business best.” She looked across the meadow to where Roger and Madoc Roswyn were returning from a visit to the riverbank. “Now it seems that Roger has once more taken up with Miss Roswyn. I can’t say that I approve, but he has not troubled to ask my advice.” She heaved a sigh. “But I am sure that the world will never go precisely to my liking.”

  “Does it for anyone?” asked Bernard Bickel with good-natured cynicism.

  “Probably not, and I must reconcile myself to the fact. We had better discuss tomorrow’s performance with Andrei. I must jack him up in regard to his costumes; today they were quite out of press.”

  Bernard Bickel accompanied her to the stage, and stood politely aside while Dame Isabel particularized on what she considered the deficiencies of the costuming.

  As for Roger, the world was going almost precisely to his liking. Madoc Roswyn, now that her obsessions were spent, had become quieter, at once more reserved and more confiding, and in Roger’s estimation, more appealing than ever. They had walked across the meadow to the river, to stroll along the bank. Poplar-like trees with mauve foliage rose above them; dendrons trailed black fronds into the water. A quarter-mile upstream a copse of tall dark trees surrounded what seemed a crumble of ruins. There was no sign of life, no movement, no sound, and presently, in a somewhat subdued mood, they turned away and returned through the golden afternoon to the Phoebus.

  On the next day The Magic Flute was performed, to an even larger audience than the day before, and Dame Isabel was highly pleased. At the final curtain she stepped forth, addressed the audience at large, thanking them for their interest. Briefly she summarized the aims of the expedition, and, as the audience began to depart, inquired for news of Adolph Gondar. But if any among the audience understood her, they gave no acknowledgment.

  The next afternoon, for The Flying Dutchman, attendance dwindled markedly. Dame Isabel was disturbed, both by the scantiness of the audience and their polite indifference to all her friendly overtures. “I hardly like to use the word ‘ingratitude’,” she complained. “The fact remains that we have gone to great trouble and expense, without the slightest acknowledgment on their part. And today, a perfectly grand performance is played to a shadow of an audience, for the most part composed of the lower classes.”

  “Conceivably some special occasion has detained the aristocrats,” Bernard Bickel suggested.

  “But what of the working class? They are not bothering to attend the performances either. We are playing almost entirely to tramps and vagabonds!”

  “I notice they listen at least as attentively as the workers, who seem almost bored,” said Bernard Bickel.

  “Perhaps they have nothing better to do,” sniffed Dame Isabel.

  “I’ve also seen the tramps or vagabonds, whatever they are, half-asleep,” said Andrei Szinc. “I believe they’re drug addicts, and carry their doses in those little pomander bags at their waists.”

  “That’s an interesting thought,” said Dame Isabel. “I’ve never seen them ‘take a dip’, as the expression goes, but this of course means nothing. If true, both their lassitude and the ostracism they appear to suffer is explained.” She reflected a moment. “I have noticed the little balls they carry, but I never considered the possibility of drugs … Hmmm … I wonder if we perhaps shouldn’t bar them from our performances. We might recover some of our audience.”

  Bernard Bickel frowned dubiously. “I’ve never noticed any disesteem between the classes; indeed they ignore each other as completely as they do us.”

  “The whereabouts of Mr. Gondar poses another problem,” said Dame Isabel peevishly. “If anyone knows what has happened to him, they clearly do not intend to inform us.”

  “Which implies one of two things,” said Bernard Bickel. “Either he has met an unfortunate end, or Gondar himself does not wish information to reach us. In either case we are powerless.”

  “That certainly sums up the situation,” said Dame Isabel slowly. “I confess that I am considering an early return to Earth. We have more than fulfilled our ambitions, especially here on Rlaru — although it would be rewarding to receive some sort of acknowledgment.”

  “Yes, the folk here certainly are — well, languid, when it comes to expressing appreciation,” Bernard Bickel agreed.

  “Tomorrow we will do Parsifal,” said Dame Isabel. “Sir Henry suggested The Marriage of Figaro, but I fear it would be too slight, directly following Fliegende Holländer.”

  “On the other hand, there’s always the risk of tedium,” said Bernard Bickel, “especially for persons not imbued with the Wagnerian mystique.”

  “I consider it a calculated risk,” stated Dame Isabel. “The level of musical sophistication is high, we must not forget this.”

  “Which makes today’s fall-off in attendance all the more peculiar,” said Bernard Bickel.

  The following day brought thunderheads drifting in from the west, and it seemed as if a storm were in the offing. But the wind shifted, the clouds veered to the south, and the sun shone down from a magically fresh sky.

  In spite of Dame Isabel’s hopes, the audience for Parsifal was pitiably small, consisting of three or four aristocrats and a score of the indigents. This expression of apathy infuriated Dame Isabel, and she gave serious thought to ending the performance at the end of the first act. She also considered sending Roger over to the village to urge more of the local inhabitants to attend the performance. Theatrical tradition forbade the first course; her inability to find Roger prevented the second.

  To her further annoyance the already sparse audience began to dwi
ndle. One by one, as if answering some unheard summons they rose from their seats and sidled off around the ship. Finally the three aristocrats departed, leaving only half a dozen pariahs. This was too much for Dame Isabel. She sent Bernard Bickel after the aristocrats, to try to persuade them to sit the performance out, if only from courtesy to the singers. Without enthusiasm Bickel went off on his mission, to return five minutes later, grim and angry. “Come with me a moment,” he told Dame Isabel. “I want you to see for yourself.”

  Dame Isabel followed him to the far side of the Phoebus, and there, in the halcyon light of the afternoon sun, sat the Tough Luck Jug Band, playing in all its raucous fervor. In an attentive circle sat thirty or forty of the pariahs and somewhat to the rear as many aristocrats. Nearby stood Roger and Madoc Roswyn and most of the crew.

  In speechless indignation Dame Isabel listened while the Tough Luck Jug Band rendered a tune which seemed to be called You Gotta See Mama Every Night. There were several verses, as many more instrumental choruses, each more unrestrained than the last.

  Dame Isabel glanced at Bernard Bickel; he shook his head in disgust. Together they turned back to the sorry spectacle. Four or five more of the pariahs came from around the Phoebus; the opera apparently was being played to empty seats. Dame Isabel shouted into Bernard Bickel’s ear: “If this represents the level of local taste, we might as well return to Earth at once!”

  Bernard Bickel gave a curt nod; once again they listened as You Gotta See Mama reached a crescendo. The whole band joined to sing a final chorus; Dame Isabel leaned slightly backward. Total vulgarity, total clatter! Rhythmic, even amusing, she thought, if one had inclinations in this direction. Admittedly the music — if such it could be called — did somehow manage to counteract and even vanquish the pervasive melancholy of the world … Dame Isabel noticed that each of the indigents held his little leather sphere, or pomander ball, carefully in his lap. After such a performance, she told herself bitterly, they would need all their drugs and narcotics indeed!