shipment off on the midnight shuttle. Afterwards he stood in the window
of Willy's hotel room, staring up at the star-filled sky.
"Well, that may be the end of it," he said.
"You've done well," said Willy, joining him. "I didn't think you'd get
that much."
"I hope it'll do some good. Perhaps all this new material will at least
form the basis of a good research library."
Willy glanced at him speculatively.
"I was disappointed about the music," he said. "Not one complete work."
By this time, Walther had learned to know when Willy was maneuvering
toward an objective.
"Just tell me what you've got in mind," he grinned. "No preliminaries."
Willy chuckled his appreciation, then grew serious.
"Our opera season ends this week.... We're supposed to take a month
off, then start rehearsals for the next tour. Perhaps, during this
month...."
Walther sensed what was coming next, but he held his breath--waiting
for Willy to say it. Willy did:
"Perhaps--if you still want to spend more money to pay them--we could
persuade some of our group to record...."
"A full-length opera!" Walther exclaimed. "Would they--could they--do
it?"
Willy pursed his lips thoughtfully.
"As for willingness--you've observed that your wealth is rather
persuasive on Earth. Like most artists, our people spend more than they
earn, and would probably try anything for what you could pay them. As
for ability--we'd undoubtedly have to record in short sessions. We
might even have to break up the arias into sections, because we're not
conditioned for sustained effort."
"I'll pay them anything to try it," Walther broke in, enthusiastically.
"Where would you try it--here in Uniport?"
"Hardly. But there's an old inn in North Wales where I once spent a
vacation with some of our group. If the Happy Time agents should be
watching us now, it would be quite natural to return to that inn."
"Maria ... do you think she would?"
Willy sighed, and shrugged.
"Not for the money alone ... she's quite a perfectionist about her art.
But I'm hopeful that by this time...." His eyes twinkled.
Walther laughed.
"What a chess player you would make! I think you've been moving me
around like a pawn ever since the first evening we met!"
"Not a pawn," Willy corrected him with a smile. "A knight."
However, they decided not to tell Maria the real purpose of the
proposed vacation until they were all set up at the inn in North
Wales. Walther thought the setting sounded perfect for some personal
unfinished business.
"Even I could sing an aria in such a place," Willy enthused.
Willy began quietly and individually contacting other members of his
company. With the kind of payment Walther authorized him to offer,
he had little difficulty getting performers for the venture. Most of
them thought the project ridiculous, but the money was more than they
would normally earn in an entire season. Willy swore each of them to
silence. They were to treat the trip as nothing more than a vacation.
He made arrangements for the various pieces of recording equipment to
be shipped separately from London, Berlin and New York.
Willy's pink cheeks were perpetually flushed these days, and his bright
eyes sparkled brighter than ever. When Walther brought up the question
of which opera would be attempted, he discovered that the shrewd old
maestro had long ago acquired Puccini's complete "Madame Butterfly" and
had already packed the music for shipment to North Wales.
The night before they were to leave Uniport, a familiar, distinguished
figure appeared backstage, threading his way between the huge crates
being packed by the servo-robot stagehands. Willy led him immediately
to one of the dressing rooms.
With admirable simplicity, the underworld contact put a proposition
before them.
The first three shipments had pretty well exhausted the supply of
readily obtainable material. With the Happy Time agents now alerted,
the risk of trying to get more material wasn't justified by the
probable results. But the underworld wasn't anxious to let go of a good
revenue source without one big payoff.
What did they propose to do?
Willy's voice shook as he translated:
"For--for the right--fee--they're willing to break into the Uniport
Library vaults!"
Walther was silent for a long moment. Instinctively, he recoiled from
such overt action. But reason asked: Why should he draw back now?
Everything taken from the vaults would be duplicated and returned in
good condition. Was it right to let his own personal reaction stand in
the way of something that might benefit whole ages of Mankind?
When he had firm control of his own voice, he nodded and asked:
"How do they propose to do it?"
The plan was a piece of professional craftsmanship. In the century
of its existence, no one had ever attempted to enter the new library
illegally. With the absence of any known motive for doing so, the need
for guarding against it was routine. There were the usual doors and
time-locks, the alarm systems and servo-robot guards, but nothing that
couldn't be handled. They would bring in technicians from Vega VI to
handle the time-locks. Otherwise, barring some unsuspected move by the
Happy Time security police, the job was within the bounds of their own
abilities. Of course, there must be meticulous attention to detail and
planning.
The contact explained that, according to preliminary surveys, they
could count on about two hours of work after gaining entrance to
the vaults. By concentrating only on books, for speed of handling
and packing, a reasonable sized crew should be able to get at least
twenty thousand volumes out of the vaults and into a waiting monorail
transport, where the crates would already be assembled. Previous
arrangements could be made for the midnight freight shuttle to take the
crates from the Uniport landing to Cyngus III. From there, the crates
could be dispersed throughout the immeasurable reaches of deep space.
"But they must be returned," Walther insisted. "I'll see to that!"
Their visitor shrugged, indicating that this detail was of no interest
to him. He named a price, and when Walther promptly agreed to it, Willy
poured them all a drink.
"When I was a small boy," Willy said, in a voice that still trembled,
"I slid on the seat of my trousers down an icy slope in the Alps. It
was good fun for the first twenty yards; and then I realized I had gone
beyond my power to stop. That's the way I feel right now. Prosit!"
As their caller started to leave, Walther stopped him by raising his
hand. Throughout the discussion, an irresistible compulsion had been
growing within him. Now he had to speak:
"I've come a long way," he told Willy. "Granting that nothing goes
wrong, and that I'm able to leave, I know I'll never return to Earth
again. But there's one selfish, personal thing I want to do before
leaving. It isn't sensible, I know--but neither was my dream to begin
with. I want to go with these men into the Uniport vaults--just to see
for an hour--greater treasures than I can ever hope to see again."
* * * * *
From his room on the second floor of the Bridge End Inn, Walther
could look down upon the River Dee, tumbling along beside what was
still called the Shropshire and Union Railroad Canal, although the
tracks of that ancient railroad had been torn up centuries ago. Old
ways and names had a way of persisting in North Wales, despite the
pace of modern leisure. Walther had noted with satisfaction that the
double consonants of the old language, with their strange throaty
pronunciation, had defied contraction. Llangollen and Llantysilio were
two nearby cities whose names were still spelled out, as they had been
for a thousand years.
He glanced at his watch. Maria should be waking from her nap just
about now. In a half hour, Willy wanted to meet with her and ask her
cooperation in doing "Madame Butterfly". Walther had suggested waiting
until the next day, since Maria was tired from the closing night
festivities in Uniport, and from packing the rest of the night in time
to catch the morning stratoway. But Willy opposed delay.
As he stood there by his window, Walther had a sense of peace, for the
first time since he'd been on Earth. The moment was all the more to be
cherished, since he knew it could not last.
A light knock on his door jarred the view and the peace out of focus.
"Come in," he called, and turned, expecting to see Willy.
But it was Maria who entered, looking remarkably refreshed after
her short nap. She wore a sweater, a very short skirt and open-toed
sandals. Her long, dark hair was combed out loose.
It was the first time he had seen her dressed so casually. She looked
more like a Welsh mountain girl than the star of the Uniport opera.
"Hi!" he said, inadequately.
She laughed at his surprise, and put her arms around him.
"Hi," she answered.
Maria had not forgotten her first lesson beside the Tahiti lagoon; and
Walther was reviewing some subsequent lessons when both of them became
aware of the unwelcome fact that they were not alone.
Willy Fritsh stood in the doorway, smiling benignly.
"Oh, hell," said Walther.
"Believe me, I didn't intend to interrupt," Willy said happily. "But
since we're all together right now ... under such ... ah ... propitious
circumstances, suppose we talk things over."
"Later," said Walther.
Ignoring his protest, Willy sat himself comfortably on the window seat,
opened a large envelope and took out the bound libretto of "Madame
Butterfly". He handed it to Maria, without comment. She stared at it
curiously, but made no move to open it until Willy motioned her to do
so.
She nodded with recognition at the title page, then as she riffled
through succeeding pages, her expression changed from surprise to
distaste. She tried to hand the libretto back to Willy, but instead of
taking it, he drew her to the window seat beside him, and spoke to her
as a father might speak to his daughter.
By this time, Walther could understand a little of what Willy was
saying and he could guess the rest of it. Maria's first reaction was to
stare incredulously at Willy. As the full meaning of what he was asking
became clear to her, she looked up at Walther. He saw scorn and anger
in her dark eyes.
When she looked back at Willy, it was to shake her head in emphatic
refusal.
Willy's tone became even more persuasive. He gazed out the window as he
spoke, down at the river pouring over the weir and ducking under the
old stone bridge. Maria rolled the libretto into a tight scroll. Her
fingers showed white through her unpolished nails.
Willy stopped abruptly. He looked older, tired. Maria remained silent,
her lips compressed into a tight line. At last she answered him, in a
voice that was tightly, coldly controlled.
She stood up and walked toward the door. Walther held out his hand; she
ignored it. He started after her, and Willy said,
"Let her go."
Willy looked so depressed that Walther felt a need to comfort him.
"It's all right," he said. "We'll forget the whole idea."
Willy shook his head.
"She'll do it," he said wearily.
"But...."
"She'll do it because she thinks she owes it to me."
Walther waited for the old maestro to continue.
"As soon as we're through recording," Willy went on, pushing himself
up from the window seat, "Maria wants to be released to another opera
company."
"I'll go see her right now," Walther began.
"Not now," Willy interrupted. "She wouldn't have anything to do with
you. She thinks your only interest has been this recording."
* * * * *
Willy started rehearsals early the next morning, in the big stone barn
behind the inn. The structure's high roof and thick walls provided
natural acoustics, while its location was far enough from Llangollen
to avoid creating undue curiosity. Recording equipment had been set up
along one side; around it, the orchestra was grouped. The center area
was marked off for vocal rehearsals.
Willy handled the direction himself, and not for a century had any
director on Earth undertaken such a staggering task.
From the first moments of rehearsal, it became evident that the
orchestra could never hope to play an entire number in one sustained
effort. It was not so much the physical effort involved, as the
difficulty of maintaining an emotional crest for so long a period. The
first violinist fainted halfway through the opening sequence between
Lieutenant Pinkerton and the American consul. This triggered a mass
collapse among the woodwinds. The pianist wavered off an octave through
sheer fatigue, and the drummer dropped his sticks when Willy cued him
to step up tempo.
Willy was frantic.
"We'll have to record a few bars at a time--until they're more
accustomed to the strain," he told Walther. "What an editing job this
will be!"
The problem with the vocalists was even more acute. Every duet would
have to be recorded in at least ten segments.
Maria was the only one who stubbornly insisted on doing a complete
number. It was a point of pride with her. She hated the music; it
violated every principle she had ever learned. But the perfectionist
in her, reinforced by her bitterness toward Walther and her sense of
obligation to Willy, drove her to deliver the full measure of her
promise.
In the love duet between Butterfly and Pinkerton, which closed Act I,
the pale and perspiring Pinkerton was nearly spent as he began his
final lines:
Come then,
Love, what fear holds you trembling?
Have done with all misgivings....
His impassioned plea quavered; he clutched Maria's arm to steady
himself. Willy cut the music. For five minutes they held cold
compresses to the singer's wrists, while members of the orchestra
slumped, exhausted, in their chairs. When all were somewhat recovered,
Pinkerton attempted the next two lines of his wedding night rapture:
The night doth enfold us,
See the world lies sleeping....
And then he had to rest again.
But when Maria answered, her dark eyes flashing defiantly, she went
through her entire eight lines without a pause.
Her great test came with the famous second act solo, "One Fine Day".
It was difficult enough to learn the strange words and music, but to
achieve and hold the emotional peaks of the solo for nearly two minutes
was something she had never before attempted.
Because she insisted on doing the entire aria without resting, Willy
set the recording for early in the morning, when the orchestra would be
fresh. He asked them to assemble on the improvised sound stage an hour
after breakfast.
Willy limited the orchestra to a minimum tune up period so that the
musicians could conserve their energies for the ordeal ahead. The
violins were the last to be ready. When the final string had been
tuned, Willy cued the engineers to stand by and pointed the tip of his
baton toward Maria.
"Un Bel Di...."
The words came clear as the notes of a silver bell, calling back to
life the beauty that had been dead for so long. Walther felt his
stomach muscles tighten; a tingle of wonder crept up his spine.
Standing there in the center of the old stone barn, wearing only
sandals, shorts and a light blouse open at the neck, Maria still
managed to convey the feelings of the lonely young Japanese wife who
sang so confidently of her husband's return from across the sea.
This was Maria, the incomparable artist, using all of her technique to
blend the unfamiliar words and music.
But for the first few lines it was only a technical tour de force. Then
Puccini's music began to take hold of Maria, merging the artist with
the woman, and creating yet a third entity out of the two.
He saw Willy turn, transfixed toward Maria. His hands and baton
continued to move, but not by conscious direction. His pink cheeks were
pale, etched with deepening lines. His blue eyes were misted.
Even the other members of the company seemed moved by Maria's
performance. Yet they could not stay with her emotionally; they
were compelled to break the tension by shuffling their feet and
self-consciously lighting cigarettes.
To a man, the orchestra played as if hypnotized, sweeping through
measure after measure with an intensity that seemed impossible to
maintain.
For an uncertain moment, near the end of the aria, it looked as if
Maria could not finish. She swayed, held tightly to the microphone
for support. Walther stepped forward to catch her, but she recovered,
drawing on some inner source of strength to finish:
"... This will all come to pass, as I tell you!
Banish your idle fears ...
For he will return, I know it!"
As Maria finished, she tore herself away from the microphone. Her lips
were trembling; her eyes were wide, like those of a woman in shock. She
half-ran out of the barn, stopped--confused--in the bright sunlight,
and then ran on down the path toward the Inn.
* * * * *
Until late afternoon, Maria would see no one. Then she agreed to see
Willy for a few moments.
When the old maestro left her room, he looked deeply troubled.
"I don't know ..." he told Walther, shaking his head. "I don't know
what this has done to her."
"What did she say?"
"Right now, she says she will never sing again. She's going to her home
in Italy this evening."
"Can we do anything?"
"Looks like we've already done more than we should. Mixing two cultures
in one artist is dangerous chemistry!"
Up to this moment, Walther had deliberately avoided any decision about
Maria. She had been a continuing and delightful challenge, especially
since Tahiti, but beyond that he had not allowed his thoughts to go.
Now there was a responsibility he could no longer evade. He had watched
the dual personality that was Maria being shattered under the impact
of Puccini's music. How would the pieces fit together again? Should
he stand by and watch? Or should he try to help? And if he could
help her, how would it all end? The gulf between two cultures could
be wider than the mathematics of space between two galaxies, or the
bridging power of sex.
Against Willy's advice, Walther decided to catch the same stratoway
with Maria, and take his chances on what might happen.
But a phone call from Uniport abruptly changed his plans. It was
from their underworld contact, who informed Willy that the "Board of
Directors" was meeting that evening; if Walther wanted to attend, he
would have to take the next stratoway to Uniport. Someone would meet
him at the station.
Uniport or Italy? Willy intervened to make the decision easier.
"This will be your only chance to get into the vaults," he counseled.
"Besides, Maria must think some things through for herself."
His emotions in turmoil, Walther boarded the next stratoway for
Uniport. As North Wales and England blurred into the ocean beneath him,
he had the feeling that he would never see the River Dee country again.
A tall, thin young man, with eyes as colorless as waxpaper, met him
at the Uniport station and hurried him into a monorail car. Walther
tentatively began a question, but the young man stopped him with an
opaque stare.
Four times they changed monorail cars, ending up eventually at a
freight terminal, where an older man met them and pointed silently
to one of the freight cars. Inside, Walther saw a strange assortment
of smiling servo-robots and grim-faced humans sitting around on
empty packing cases. The cases were already marked for shipment and
trans-shipment throughout the galaxy.
After quick, sharp glances of appraisal, no one paid any attention to
him. He sat down beside one of the servo-robots and forced himself to
wait as patiently as possible. For a half hour nothing happened. The
servo-robots remained motionless; the humans chain-smoked until the air
in the freight car was an acrid grey smog. Nearly every human switched
constantly and nervously from his tiny TV set to his watch-radio.
One of the men brought out a bottle, but quickly put it away after a
staccato command from the greying, square-jawed man who seemed to be in
charge.
At 6 o'clock, without warning, the freight car vibrated slightly and
began to move. The servo-robots stood up attentively; the humans
snuffed out their cigarettes. Peering through one of the small windows,
Walther saw that twilight was merging into night.
It was completely dark when the car stopped at a loading platform
behind the steel-grey building that towered above the Uniport cultural
vaults. A servo-robot guard stepped forward challengingly.
At a gesture from the leader, one of the servo-robots within the car
marched out on the platform and presented a punched bill of lading. As
the guard fed the document into its tabulator, the other stepped closer
and lightly brushed against it. The guard stiffened, as though from a
severe shock. There was a sound like that of a racing motor suddenly
thrown out of gear. Then a click, and silence. The servo-robot guard
unhinged itself at the knees and collapsed on the platform.
Another signal from the leader, and out of the car scurried the humans
and servo-robots. They ran across the platform toward the shadow of the
building. Here, two of the men, who Walther guessed to be the experts
imported to Earth for this job, traced a circle around the door with an
instrument that resembled a small camera. Evidently this was to cut off
the alarm system, for almost immediately they relaxed and went on to
open the door without any attempt at caution.
Proceeding in single file, lighting their way with powerful
flashlights, they passed in similar manner through a series of inner
doors to an elevator leading down into the vaults. A servo-robot took
over its operation, and they shot downward. At each level, the leader
stepped off the elevator to look around. At the sixth level, he nodded
and they followed him into the vault.
This was the book vault. Tier upon tier, the stacks of books reached in
every direction as far as a flashlight beam could probe.
Motioning Walther to follow him, the leader took a piece of chalk and
began marking off groups of books. The men rounded up library carts for
the servo-robots, who swiftly fell to loading the carts and trundling
them back to the elevator.
Walther soon moved ahead of the leader and began marking the books
himself. They had started in the M-sections. With mounting excitement,
Walther chalked off Machiavelli, Mann, Markham, Masefield, Maugham,
Maupassant, Melville, Millay, Moliere....
Leaping to the next tier, he raced through the stacks marking the works
of Nathan and Newton, O'Neill ... Ovid.... Then on to Parker, Pater,
Pepys, Plato, Poe.... Racine, Rousseau.... Sandburg ... Santayana....
What an astounding haul this would be! The masterpieces of the ages,
to be whisked across space, from star system to star system, until at
last they reached his homeland, where they would grow and multiply a
million-fold, generation into generation, down through the millenniums
of universal time.
Back to the A-sections! Adams, Aeschylus, Anderson, Aristotle....
On to the B-sections! Bacon ... Balzac ... Benet ... Bronte ...
Byron....
It was like drinking a heady burgundy. Each new title whetted his taste
for more.
Inevitably, the very magnitude of the thing began to have its sobering
effect. Was it actually possible to get so much material out of the
vaults? Off the Earth?
The leader caught up with him in the K-sections and motioned him not to
mark off any more books. They'd have a hard time getting those Walther
had already chalked.
Walther rode up with the next elevator load. On the way down, he
indicated to the servo-robot that he wanted to go all the way to the
bottom level. There he stepped out of the elevator and stood in the
darkness for a moment to steady himself from the excitement of marking
so many books.
Then he swept his flashlight beam slowly around the vault.
It was like turning on a light in a tomb that had been sealed for
centuries. Certainly this tomb had been sealed, to all except the
Digesters and the servo-robot attendants.
The vault was at least two hundred feet high. Walther could only guess
at the other dimensions, and the extent of the corridors that fanned
out like the spokes of a wheel. Sculptured figures from all the ages of
Earth loomed out of the shadows with a quality of arrested life that
might at any moment move again.