Narabedla Ltd (21 page)

And I did: “Pa-Pa-Pa-Pa-Pa-Papagena …”

And Binnda came in, vigorously croaking,
“Pa-Pa-Pa-Pa-Pa-Papageno
…”

“Bist du mir nun ganz gegeben?”

“Nun bin ich dir ganz gegeben
,” he squawked back at me, and so on to the end of the silly, beautiful Mozart duet; he knew every word, though I was fumbling on most of the patter lines. “Yes,” he said, waggling his neckless head in pleasure, “you’ll do just fine, Nolly. And, once we get your plumbing back in order, maybe better than that!”

I never had a review I appreciated more. as we went. One or two people looked out their windows curiously as we passed. I didn’t mind.

Rehearsals tomorrow! I was a singer again—or would be; would be a real one, if Meretekabinnda’s promise was good, and I had never dreamed that would be possible again in my life.

To say nothing of his other promise.

Strolling back toward the Execution intersection I let myself wonder about what sort of “operation” might be involved. The Mother’s examination had been only gross, not painful. Norah Platt had boasted of the fact that she was kept in good repair, in spite of her incredible age. Sam Shipperton had sworn I would be well treated.

There was really nothing to worry about. Was there?

That is, I reflected, nothing for
me
to worry about. Not counting what trouble Irene Madigan and Marlene Abramson might be getting into … but, at worst, what would that be? Henry Davidson-Jones might, in desperation, ship them to Narabedla to shut them up; but was that so bad?

True, there was the loss of freedom. But I was beginning to see that there were some pretty fine trade-offs for that.

Also true, I at least had the capacity to perform—that is, to do the things the whole system was designed for. Marlene didn’t. Neither, as far as I knew, did Irene. They might not fit in so well. They might easily, as Shipperton had threatened, have to go into this “slow storage”—but that wouldn’t really harm them; and some day, no doubt, they could be brought out again to live quite happy lives.

Finally true, some of the aliens were not very likable.

I was looking at one that fit that description. It was the monster that was eating the man in the statue in Execution Square. Binnda had called it a Duntidon, and—yes! I remembered!—he’d even said that I might some day be performing on a planet inhabited by such things.

That did not sound attractive at all.

I stopped and looked at it more closely. In the dim light from the nighttime ceiling panels it did not look any better than by daylight. The mean-looking, slitted eyes. The talons like knitting needles. The sharp teeth that were actually pressing into the throat of the silently screaming man in its clutches …

It took me a moment to realize that the last time I’d looked, the teeth had still been an inch or so away from the man’s throat.

I swallowed, hearing the two words reverberate in my brain.
Slow time.

I did not want to believe what I had just thought of.

I made myself touch the “statue.” I couldn’t quite manage it. My fingers would not quite make contact with the terrible, contorted face of the man named Jerry Harper. There was something between. It wasn’t a glass case. It felt tingly to my fingertips at the first touch. Then it felt quite painful, and I jerked my fingers away.

Slow time.

The statue was no statue.

The execution had not been commemorated. It was still going on.

In slow time, Jerry Harper was screaming, was in the talons of the Duntidon … was being murdered before my eyes … and had been, all the time I’d been on Narabedla.

And everyone who had passed that square in all those days had known it except me.

B
ut Nolly, dear,” Norah Platt said patiently, “yes, of course it’s too bad about Jerry Harper, but what can one do? He did kill those people.”

“You don’t have to make a public spectacle of his death.”

“Really?” Norah pursed her lips. “Far be it from me to criticize others, but do you actually think it’s a good idea to have executions in secret? I mean, what’s the point? When I was a girl and my father took me to Tyburn for a hanging, please believe me, I resolved never
ever
to do anything that would put me on the gibbet. Yes, yes. I know you modem people have other customs, but have they really made any difference? To the amount of crime, I mean? No, I thought not; and Nolly, please, if we don’t get started now we’ll be late for our first rehearsal!”

She limped with dignity out of my door.

I followed. The thing was, I had forgotten for a moment how old Norah Platt was. As we passed the “statue” she paused to study critically the depth to which the Duntidon’s fangs were penetrating Jerry Harper’s doomed throat.

She didn’t say anything, and neither did I.

I was in a somewhat peculiarly fractured state of mind. There was one of me boiling with outrage at the brutal murder of a fellow human being, raging at my captivity, calculating the chances of shooting my way out of this place (but where to find a weapon?), or taking a hostage (but how did you go about that, exactly?), or somehow, anyhow, breaking out of this slavery.

And then there was the other of me. The one whose ear tingled joyously at the word “rehearsal,” and whose heart beat faster at the thought of being restored to all those powers I had kissed good-bye.

I don’t really blame myself for hurrying after Norah Platt to the rehearsal hall. I guess there were times—oh, say, around the end of the year 1776—when even George Washington took his mind off the worrisome work of trying to free the American colonies from King George III, because he had a houseful of Christmas guests and a lot of mulled wine to drink up. Maybe even V. I. Lenin spent some of his Zurich days sitting at a sidewalk café with a seidel of brew, checking out the girls who strolled by. It stands to reason. You can’t be a revolutionary all the time.

Especially when you’ve got a rehearsal to go to.

The rehearsal hall was the little theater where I had auditioned on arriving in Narabedla. Then I had been too confused to look at it very carefully. Now I saw that it was not actually a theater. A rehearsal hall is exactly what it was; there wasn’t really enough room for an audience, just a couple of rows of seats (well, they weren’t all
seats;
one part was a tank of water and another was a sort of artificial tree). There was a narrow stage, bare except for a piano on stage right. A plump young woman whom I had never seen before was plunking aimlessly at the piano keys.

The rubbery-legged Binnda was standing just at the steps to the stage. He left off talking to a pretty little man with long, curled hair to hurry toward me, long arms writhing in greeting. “My dear boy, my dear boy,” he rasped, the three-cornered mouth working in what might have been a smile. “I hope you slept well? No? Ah, just the natural nervousness of the artist, of course, but you’ll be fine! Shipperton has done wonders finding artists for our troupe. He must have been up all night! Let me introduce you to some of your colleagues. This is Ugolino Malatesta, our Idamante, and Eloise Gatt over there at the piano—say hello, Eloise!—will sing Ilia.” I must have looked confused, because he took my arm—strange feeling, that rubbery, warm, snaky limb linked with my own—and walked me away. “Oh, didn’t I tell you? Shipperton isn’t the only one who was busy while the rest of you were all sleeping. I’ve chosen the operas. For our first production we’re going to mount an
Idomeneo
!”

I gave him a suspicious look. “
Idomeneo
?”

“Yes, exactly. Won’t that be wonderful? And the Mother is sure to approve, since she’s such a Mozart fancier!” How can you tell when an alien creature with no nose is trying to insult you? I couldn’t. I kept a firm grip on my temper and only said, “You don’t expect me to sing the castrato part, do you?”

“Of course not, Nolly!”

“In fact,” I said, nodding, “there’s no baritone part at all in
Idomeneo,
is there?”

Binnda gave me a wounded look. “But I thought you’d understand,” he complained. “We’ll do the
Idomeneo
first, so you won’t have to sing until you’re, ah, ready. Then we’ll do two other productions, and of course there’ll be parts for you. Big ones!” He peered up at me to see if I was angry, then was distracted as a couple of Kekketies came trotting in with armloads of •paper. “Ah, here come the scores! Excuse me, Nolly, let me make sure they’ve got the right ones. ”

Shipperton’s all-night labors had turned up eight or nine other human singers in the troupe. While Meretekabinnda was sorting the scores out, Norah introduced me all over again to the people he had already introduced, and to all the others present, too.

It was a good try, but it was Camp Fire Place Lodge all over again. I was the new boy, and they were indistinguishable lumps of opera company. I did my best, rehearsing the names. There was somebody named Floyd Morcher, a short, dark, morose man in gray pants and gray turtleneck and gray suede shoes. A tenor. There was a big man, no longer young; he had a red mustache and fringes of red hair around a bald pate. He also had a conspicuously red nose; he was a bass, and he looked somehow familiar, but I missed the name because the second tenor was pulling at my arm. He was even more familiar. He was Bartolomeo Canduccio, my acquaintance from Norah’s dinner party. “I hope you did like the book,” he said, wringing my hand to remind me that he had done me a favor. There were three women, all sopranos, ranging from young and Valley Girl looking to tall, dark, and cadaverous. I told them all I was pleased to meet them, though, really, I hadn’t met them.

But I was pleased, all right.

The pleasure came welling up inside me. It took me by surprise. Nothing had changed. I hadn’t really recovered from the shock of Harper’s ongoing murder. I was still a zillion miles from home. I still had all the problems I’d had that morning … but I was in an opera company !

I found myself grinning at the other singers, smiling affectionately at Norah Platt, touched by the way Binnda dashed around like the veriest human producer-director-conductor-resident genius. Not counting the weird aliens and the bizarre setting, it was so very like the first run-through of any opera company on Earth. I strolled around happily. Two of the women were engaged in an intense conversation in a corner of the stage, in almost voiceless whispers; when they glanced up at me I beamed at them. I saw Bart Canduccio walk pointedly by the castrato, Malatesta, cutting him conspicuously cold; I observed it with tolerant amusement. I was only too happy to oblige Norah when she asked me to help her sort out the acts of the piano reduction of the
Idomeneo
score. I was delighted when four Kekketies appeared with trays of hot tea and lemon juice for all us singers, and drank my own cup with delight.

I was awash with good feeling. I was going to sing again!

I almost applauded when at last Binnda climbed up on a chair, clapped his hands for attention, and cried, “Ladies! Gentlemen! Excuse me, I am the Prologue!”

It was an operatic in-joke—it was what the clown says at the beginning of
Pagliacci
—and Binnda got the little titter he was aiming for. Smiling (I
guessed
that three-cornered mouth was smiling), he began to speak. No, to orate. He said, waving his snaky arms, “This is an historic occasion. I feel humbled by the mantle that Fate has cast on me, the mantle of the immortal Diaghilev and Rudolf Bing. Never before in the history of the Fifteen Associated Peoples have we had the grace of a complete opera company to bring your wonderful The Earth human music to our many audiences in its original, all-human, faithfully produced form. You will perhaps have heard,” he went on, his voice taking on a somber timbre, “that many of our friends among the Fifteen Peoples do not care for opera. You may even hear stories that powerful influences—I name no names—are opposed to the creation of this company. Perhaps there is a little truth to that. But it is not an obstacle. It is a
challenge
! On us in this rehearsal hall rests the divine duty to carry on the great traditions of Mozart, Wagner, and Verdi; of Chaliapin and Caruso and Madame Schumann-Heink; of La Scala and Covent Garden and the Met; above all, of the marvelous Bolshoi Opera of Moscow from which we take our name. You have all been personally chosen by me. I know you are as fine a company as has ever been mounted in any city of your human The Earth. If we fail, it will be my failing. But if we succeed— as I know we will succeed!—then that success will be triumphantly your own. And now, are there any questions?”

The man in gray raised his hand. “There’s no brown sugar for the tea,” he complained.

“A thousand apologies, Mr. Morcher,” said Binnda. “That will be remedied at once. And now, if you will all take your scores, we will run through the opening of the first act of Mozart’s immortal
Idomeneo.”

“What did he mean about obstacles and objections?” I asked Norah Platt.

“Oh,” she said absently, rubbing her knuckles, “you know. There’s always someone objecting, isn’t there. Nolly? As long as you’re not otherwise engaged at the moment, my fingers are giving me fits. Would you mind turning the pages for me while I play?”