Narabedla Ltd (10 page)

When I dawdled over the last of the cold toast she got up, wincing a little, and courteously took a seat on the couch before lighting up another cigar. She shifted position two or three times before she found one she liked on the couch. “It’s the damp,” she said, trying to settle herself comfortably. “Old bones, you know.”

I had already noticed that the air was distinctly soggy. They kept the humidity that way, she explained, for the convenience of some of the “natives”—“Poor Barak, for instance, he does dry out so, and some of the others rather need to stay in water all the time. And there’s more oxygen in the air here, they tell me, though I’ve long since got so accustomed to it I don’t notice things like that. You do understand what Narabedla is like? I mean physically?”

I didn’t. She tried to tell me. “It looks rather like a soup tin, one might say—or a series of tins, one within the other. We’re in almost the outermost shell. There are two shells that are principally for artists like ourselves, when we’re not on tour, and then there are five or six others for natives. Some of them do require such special conditions, poor dears.”

“Oh, yes,” I said. “The poor dears. But look, that sounds more like a spaceship than a moon.”

“It does, doesn’t it? They say it used to be a moon, though, and then somebody, I think it was the Aiurdi, but it might’ve been one of the others, rebuilt it. Oh, not for us! But then they didn’t need it for whatever it was meant to be in the first place, and now they let us have it. Well, part of it. But I mustn’t keep on jabbering away! You’re to be in Mr. Shipperton’s office in half an hour, so I won’t make a real visit of it this time, but I’m at Fifteen, The Crescent, and I’d be delighted to offer you dinner tonight. Perhaps a few friends might join us? There are some very nice people here—although not usually,” she added, with a disdainful little smile, “on this particular street. Nolly? If you’d rather not come to dinner …”

I realized I’d been staring into my teacup. Norah must have thought I was trying to think of a good way out of accepting her invitation. “Oh, sorry, Norah. I was just thinking about—about…”

“Of course,” she said with sympathy. “One is always— what shall I say?—
pensif,
a bit, just at first. But usually one isn’t brought here if there’s a wife and kiddies or anything of that sort?” The tone of her voice made it a question.

“There isn’t anyone like that,” I said, “but I do have friends, and I’m a little worried about them.” I told her about Marlene and Irene Madigan, and my worry that Henry Davidson-Jones would do something unpleasant to them if they got curious about me.

“Oh,” she said, nodding, “Irene Madigan. That would be the cousin of our Tricia. She’s a silly young thing, but there’s no real harm in her.”

It took me a moment to realize she was talking about Tricia, not Irene. “Anyway,” I said, “I don’t want them kidnapped too. I’ve got to get back before they get into trouble.”

Norah puffed cigar smoke at me sympathetically. “Yes, we all feel that way at first.”

I said forcefully, “I’ll go right on feeling that way! These people have no right to abduct human beings, or trick them into coming here. I don’t care how pleasant this place is, it’s a prison, and I’m going to get out.”

“Nolly, dear, it’s simply not possible to get back, you see. I know it’s quite a wrench at first—”

“It’s a
crime.”

She said crossly, “Well, of course it is, if one takes that point of view.” She stubbed her cigar out vigorously, then smiled. “I sometimes wonder,” she said, all bright-eyed and accommodating again, “if there’s something in the air in this house. Malcolm Porchester used to go on saying that sort of thing, too. And he wasn’t the first. Of course, Malcolm’s never tried to do anything
serious
about it—what is there that one could do, really?—but he did go on endlessly on the subject. Well, Nolly,” she said practically, “mustn’t keep Mr. Shipperton waiting. You know the way to his office? Second left past the Execution—and don’t forget dinner tonight. Sevenish, if that’s convenient for you.”

Norah Platt hadn’t left me a whole lot of time, but there was enough for a quick shower. I took it. I needed it. I was irritated by the fact that I didn’t have time to get aerobic first—I hate to bathe and
then
work up a sweat—but there wasn’t anything to keep me from taking another shower later on, if I found some way to work out.

The discontented (but not deprived) Malcolm Porchester hadn’t left me much of a wardrobe that fit, but there were clean socks and underwear at least, and I helped myself. He had, after all, put only his whiskey, his books, and his Fortnum and Mason packages off-limits.

All this made me, I thought without guilt, probably a little late for my next go-round with Sam Shipperton, but why should I worry about inconveniencing a kidnapper? So I didn’t rush to his office. I took time to smile at a couple of passersby (who smiled back affably enough, but kept on going on their own errands), and to look around this soup-can sort of a moon I was living on.

Having been clued in, I saw that Norah Platt’s description of the moon called Narabedla might well be accurate. Looking back down the ill-named “Riverside Drive” I thought I could see that the road did, in fact, seem to curve up slightly at the end. It was hard to tell, because the street dead-ended at a cluster of trees. In fact, anywhere I looked I could see no farther than a few dozen yards, never more than fifty or so, before something blocked the view. There wasn’t any sun in the sky, either. There wasn’t even any sky. What had looked like blue sky with fleecy clouds was actually a ceiling no more than twenty feet over my head. As soon as I studied it closely I could see that it wasn’t real. I didn’t study the grisly sculpture Norah Platt had called “the Execution,” because I didn’t like looking at it, and besides I wasn’t enjoying my sightseeing. I was too busy rehearsing what I wanted to say to Shipperton.

He didn’t give me a chance. “You’re late,” he greeted me affably, “but that’s cool; Barak won’t be ready for us for a little while yet. Did you ever conduct?”

He caught me off balance. “Conduct what?”

“Conduct an opera, naturally. You certainly can’t sing. Sorry, but you just don’t have the voice anymore. Well, maybe the natives wouldn’t know that, but we have a reputation to maintain, you know. But Jonesy sent along a lot of stuff about your career when you were in opera, and Barak’s taken an interest in you. That’s what we have to do now, go and talk to Barak. Then if he’s still interested, and if Meretekabinnda and the Mother go along, you might fit in. Somehow. Not singing, naturally. What I thought of was conducting, maybe, but there’s always the chance that Binnda’ll want to do that himself. That would be out then, of course, but there must be something you could do. I hear they have prompters that don’t sing at all, just keep the real singers going—”

“Hold it,” I said. “What are you talking about? What do you mean, prompter?”

“Isn’t that what you call them? I mean some little job you could do. You must know
something
about opera.” 

“Shipperton,” I said, nettled, “I know a lot about opera, but you’re going too fast for me. Back up. Who are these people you’re talking about?”

“What people?”

“Well, this mother, to start with.”

“Not ‘this mother,’
the
Mother. The Tlotta-Mother, to be exact. And Barak and Meretekabinnda. They’re the bookers, who else? And the tour managers, and the impresarios. Even Neereeieeree—”

“Who?”

He repeated it slowly, and more distinctly. It sounded like a five-syllable whinny. “Neereeieeree. He’s one of the ones you sang for. He said he might be interested in an opera company. He’s Aiurdi. I don’t guess you know what that means, but they’ve got three whole planets, not counting colonies, so there’d be a whole tour right there if Neereeieeree said yes.”

That diverted me from my purpose for a moment. “He liked my voice?”

“He thought your voice sucked,” Shipperton said patiently, “but you don’t have to
sing,
do you? There’s never been a whole human opera company here, and Binnda’s been talking about wanting one for a long time. Of course, it isn’t up to him, but if Barak gets behind it, and the Mother doesn’t object—hell. Let’s take one thing at a time. Now, don’t interrupt for a while, okay? Here’s what we have to do—” 

“Shipperton,” I said, “it’s no use telling me not to interrupt, because I’m not going to do anything until I get some answers. Are you telling me that Davidson-Jones makes his money out of what, in effect, is white slavery?”

Shipperton stared at me. “Boy, you’re some kind of a weirdo, aren’t you? Listen, Nolly, don’t even
mention
that. Most of the Fifteen Peoples would throw up at the
thought
of having sex with a human being.”

“I don’t mean that kind of white slavery.”

“I know what you mean. Jesus, pal, get off this kick. Narabedla doesn’t do anything terrible. Nobody’s a slave. Oh, sure, when they sign a contract they maybe think they’re going to Buenos Aires or Saudi Arabia instead of here, but they sign up to do a job. And they do it. And they get the pay. What’s wrong with that? Davy can’t put an ad in
Variety
to say what he’s doing, you know. He’s not allowed to let people on the Earth know about the other civilizations.” 

“What do you mean, ‘allowed’?”

“I mean by the terms of his trade franchise contract. Not just the artists; there’s all the commodity stuff, and that’s a lot bigger. The Fifteen Peoples are real strict about that contract. They don’t want people on Earth to know about them. So he has to comply with the terms of the deal, same as you artists.”

“I didn’t make any deal!”

“Well, if you want to be technical, no, you didn’t,” he conceded. “On the other hand, if you’d come along in the regular way you probably wouldn’t have had any contract to sign, because they probably wouldn’t have accepted you. You just aren’t good enough. You’re just a wimp that got in the way, understand? You’re stuck here.”

“That’s your opinion. It isn’t mine. I’m not staying here, Shipperton, and when I get back I’m going to clean this whole stinking mess out,” I said grimly.

“Oh, shit,” said Shipperton, shaking his head. “I was wrong. You’re not just a wimp. You’re a wimp that wants to be a hero.”

The reflexes of my mouth started opening it to respond to that, but then my forebrain took over.

I closed my mouth again. I didn’t like what he said. But I had heard things like that before. The macho things I’d spent so much time doing, the hang-gliding, the muscle-building, the jogging, the marathon runs—for that matter, the recent half-witted attempt to break in on Henry Davidson-Jones in his hotel—I was acting out some kind of Clint Eastwood make-my-day fantasy. So Marlene had told me very kindly, and others less so, and what they were saying was that I was overcompensating for my unfortunate inability to prong the pretty ladies anymore.

So I didn’t answer him. I just scowled. I didn’t pursue the subject, and he didn’t care about the scowl.

“That’s better,” he said again, and his face fell. “Oh, hell,” he said. “Now what?”

I said, almost apologetically, “I just can’t believe all this.” My tone must have struck him as plaintive, rather than belligerent, because he asked, quite tolerantly, “What can’t you believe?”

“I can’t believe that all these trillions of—well, people— all these incredibly advanced alien interstellar races spend all their time watching some human being play piano.” 

“Oh, grow up, Nolly! Most of them never heard of us. Most of the ones that have don’t care. Look. Back home you had a nice little business handling taxes, right? But how many people ever heard of you? Well, it’s the same thing here, proportionately. Narabedla’s just another nice little business, and the word to remember is ‘little.’ There are three or four other undeveloped planets, like the Earth, that provide entertainers and commodities and things; we’re
tiny.”
 

“All right,” I said unwillingly, “but why entertainers?” 

“Who else would be worth bringing in?”

“I don’t know. Scientists?”

“Human
scientists? Stennis,” he said sorrowfully, “you just haven’t grasped the picture, have you? We don’t
have
any scientists, by their standards. Maybe in another hundred years—” He closed his mouth on the end of the sentence. I pressed. “What were you saying?”

“Just that maybe in a hundred years,” he said reluctantly, “could be a thousand, maybe we’ll grow up enough so we can join. Maybe not, too. They’ve had some bad experiences. Anyway, I don’t expect to live to see it, and the way you’re going you won’t even come close. Now, do you want to hear what’s going to happen or not? There’s always the alternative of slow-down if you’d rather.”

“I’ll listen,” I said glumly.

“Thought you would. So, first, we have to talk to Barak. Who knows? It might work out, and it’d be better for you than trying to find some other way for you to pay your way here. We already have plenty of singers.”

“And an orchestra?”

“Oh, yeah,” he said, grinning. “You want to know about the orchestra. I keep forgetting you’re new here. Come on, we’ll take a go-box to Barak’s place and we’ll meet the orchestra there.”

It turned out that a “go-box” was one of those things that looked on the inside like a little elevator, and on the outside like a comfort station in a public park. When the door closed behind us Shipperton said, “Barak,” and turned to me. “The go-boxes go anywhere on Narabedla, but you have to have authorization to go to the alien parts. You don’t have it. The thing’s got a record of every human voice on Narabedla, so it’ll know who you are. It just won’t accept an unauthorized command from you. Barak’s part of Narabedla’s off-limits for you, except when you’re escorted. Like with me now. You follow? You get in the go-box, you say where you want to go. You can go all over the human quarters on Narabedla, nobody will bother you, but that’s all. You know what Narabedla is?”

“Somebody said it was the second moon of the seventh planet of the star Aldebaran.”

“Yeah, but it’s been remodeled a lot. It’s your home base. There’s four hundred human artists, all based here—didn’t Norah Platt tell you all this?”