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 cla.s.sic 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 cla.s.sical 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 soupcon 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 s.p.a.ceport 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 bra.s.sy 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 elan 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 a.s.sociated 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 s.p.a.ce 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 cla.s.sical 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 s.p.a.ce is at a premium. If you were a soprano of the highest quality, absolutely secure in the princ.i.p.al 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 amus.e.m.e.nt, 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.

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."

"a.s.suming 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 Ca.s.sandra 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. s.p.a.ce 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 h.e.l.l with the s.p.a.ce-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 s.p.a.ce-trip? I'll stay home!"