Space Opera (16 page)

“We get our share,” admitted the inspector. “But they are not with us long.”

“You mean — they are done away with?”

“Oh no. Nothing like that. Our feeling is that ‘criminal type — criminal act’ is a relationship which works in both directions: that is to say, many persons, especially the highly suggestible, are compelled to act out the symbologic implications of their physiognomies. A man with a prognathous chin as he examines himself in a mirror will say, Ah, I have a strong aggressive chin! He will tend to impose this judgment upon his course of action. A person with small narrow red-rimmed eyes will be conscious of his ‘shifty furtive expression’; he likewise will tend to act out this role. By doing so, of course, he reinforces the popular suppositions which initially created the symbology. Here on Skylark we are sensitive to these relationships, if for no other reason than self-interest. When we receive an individual with beady eyes, receding chin, loose-lipped mouth, an idiotic or malign expression, we process him in what we call our ‘Reconstruction Laboratories’, and remove his most demoralizing flaws. I suppose that our staff — all convict, by the way — tends to standardize upon certain optimum patterns; so that you not only notice a lack of weak chins, shifty eyes and lecherous mouths, but a higher-than-normal proportion of straight noses, noble foreheads, stalwart jaws and benevolent gazes.”

“Yes!” declared Dame Isabel. “This is precisely the situation. And the personalities undergo similar changes?”

“In most cases, though we are by no means a colony of idealistic philanthropists.” He spoke the last with a jocular twitch of the lips.

“As a matter of fact,” said Dame Isabel, “I have been wondering how so small an administrative staff controls such a large number of desperate men. The settlement must be prone to factions and cliques and — what is the term? — kangaroo courts. Not to mention sheer insubordination and riots.”

The inspector acknowledged the pertinence of Dame Isabel’s remarks. “All these might be troublesome without strict discipline. We control certain privileges, and of course we have one or two little tricks. One of our unique institutions is what we call a ‘supervisory militia’, composed of responsible prisoners. They act as the arm of a judicial office, also staffed by prisoners. The verdicts are naturally reviewed by the governor, but he seldom interferes, even in the rare sentences of ‘transportation’.”

“‘Transportation’?” inquired Dame Isabel. “To where?”

“To the other side of the planet, the final stage of the journey by parachute.”

“Into the jungle? But that must be equivalent to death.”

The inspector gave a wry grimace. “We do not know for sure; none of the transported men have ever been seen again.”

Dame Isabel shuddered. “I suppose that even a society of convicts must protect itself.”

“Such events are extremely rare; actually there is less ‘crime’ here than might be found in a similar community on Earth.”

Dame Isabel shook her head in wonder. “I would expect people in such grim circumstances to be completely indifferent to life or death.”

The inspector smiled gently. “By no means. In a quiet way I enjoy my life; I would neither wish to be transported, nor forfeit my status.”

Dame Isabel blinked. “You — you are a convict? Surely not?”

“Indeed I am,” declared the inspector. “I murdered my grandmother with an axe, and since it was my second precisely identical offense —”

“‘Second’?” asked Roger, who had wandered up a few moments previously. “‘Precisely identical’? How could that be?”

“Everyone has two grandmothers,” the inspector told him politely. “But this is all water under the bridge, and some of us — not many, but a few — make a new life for ourselves. Some of us — again not many — are transported. The rest are simply — convicts.”

“All this is highly illuminating,” said Dame Isabel. With a meaningful glance for Roger she added, “It is also a strong argument against idleness and libertinism, and for a career of hard and useful work.”

On the second day after arrival
Turandot
was performed before a packed house.
Der Rosenkavalier
and
Cosi Fan Tutte
met with equal success, to such effect that the gloom and listlessness which had threatened to demoralize the company vanished completely.

The Governor entertained the company at a buffet dinner, and his expressions of gratitude touched Dame Isabel to such an extent that she promised another three performances and asked the Governor to name his special favorites. Declaring himself partial to Verdi, he suggested
Rigoletto
,
La Traviata
and
Il Trovatore
. Dame Isabel wondered whether the unrelieved tragedy, no matter how unreal, might not depress the convicts. The Governor dispelled her apprehensions. “By no means; do the blighters good to realize that someone beside themselves has troubles.” He was a large stout man with a bluff manner which obviously concealed a real talent for administration.

Immediately after the Governor’s dinner the Skylark Symphonic Orchestra presented a short concert in honor of the
Phoebus
, and Sir Henry Rixon delivered a speech celebrating the universality of music. On the day following
Rigoletto
was performed, then
La Traviata
, then
Il Trovatore
, and at every performance uniformed guards were needed to prevent overcrowding in the theater. Other precautions were rigidly enforced: the ship’s entry-port was guarded and every night members of the crew in the company of administration personnel made a careful inspection of every cubic inch of the ship.

After
Il Trovatore
, musicians and singers alike were exhausted. The audience clamored for more, and Dame Isabel, stepping before the footlights made a short speech regretting the necessity for departure. “We have many other worlds to visit, many other folk before whom to perform. But be assured that we have enjoyed playing before you, and your applause has definitely been most heartening. If we ever make another similar tour of the stars, be assured that without fail we shall call by Skylark!”

After the performance the guards gave the ship an even more careful scrutiny than usual. On the morrow, before departure, there would be another search and the final formalities.

The guards had departed the ship, to keep vigilant watch by the entry-port, which was sealed from within and without. Roger walked uneasily here and there: from the bridge, through the crew’s mess-hall, back to the saloon where Madoc Roswyn sat playing cribbage with Logan de Appling, and it was an indication of Roger’s perplexity that he hardly noticed. At last he made up his mind. Going to Dame Isabel’s cabin, he knocked on the door.

“Yes? Who is it?”

“It’s I. Roger.”

The door opened; Dame Isabel looked out. “What is the matter?”

“Can I come in for a moment? There’s something I’ve got to tell you.”

“I’m extremely tired, Roger. Certainly tomorrow should be early enough for whatever is troubling you.”

“I’m not so sure. There’s something very strange going on.”

“Strange? What manner of strangeness?”

Roger looked up and down the corridor. All other doors were closed, but nevertheless he lowered his voice. “You heard the orchestra tonight?”

“Yes, naturally.”

“Did you notice anything — well, different?”

“I did not.”

“Well, I did. It’s something rather trivial I suppose, but the more I think of it the stranger it seems.”

“If you inform me as to what you noticed, I might be in a position to judge.”

“Have you ever watched Calvin Martineau the first oboeist?”

“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.”