Space Opera Read Online Free PDF Page B

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 associated 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 space 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 classical 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 space is at a premium. If you were a soprano of the highest quality, absolutely secure in the principal 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