before a group like this, which at least is the elite of the city.”
“This is probably the explanation,” said Bernard Bickel. “I have noticed a similar situation elsewhere: a kind of cultural aristocracy which alone is privileged to explore the esthetic mysteries.”
Dame Isabel peered in at the stiffly erect audience, who already were giving careful attention to the sounds of the orchestra tuning. “A rule of the artists, so to speak? A pleasant concept, certainly … Well, we must proceed.”
Sir Henry Rixon mounted the podium. He bowed to the audience, raised his baton: the orchestra produced the three solemn brass chords of the adagio preamble. The audience sat transfixed.
The curtain rose; Tamino came forth pursued by a serpent, and so went the performance. Dame Isabel was delighted with the concentrated attentiveness of the audience. They sat motionless, wincing approval from time to time, especially at Ada Francini’s second act display of her F in altissima .
The opera ended; the cast came forth to bow. The audience rose slowly to their feet and for the first time conferred with each other. There seemed a certain amount of dissension, and ignoring orchestra and singers, the Striads left the theater to continue their discussion on the open ground.
Dame Isabel came forth, smiling graciously to all sides, followed by Bernard Bickel and Darwin Litchley. She marched up to the Striads. “What is your opinion of our wonderful music?” she asked brightly, and Darwin Litchley translated.
A spokesman for the group replied, and Litchley looked a trifle puzzled.
“What does he say?” asked Dame Isabel.
Litchley looked frowningly toward the Striads. “He is asking as to availability.”
“‘Availability’? I don’t understand!”
“Nor I.” Litchley made further inquiry and the Striad responded at length.
Darwin Litchley’s eyebrows rose. He started to speak, then shrugged helplessly and turned to Dame Isabel. “There seems to be a slight mistake, a certain degree of misunderstanding,” he said. “I mentioned that the Striads were familiar with Earth only through an occasional commercial mission?”
“Yes, yes!”
“They seem to have mistaken the Phoebus for a similar mission, and came to the performances in this frame of mind.” Darwin Litchley hesitated, then spoke out in a rush. “They are not unduly impressed. They state that they need no trombones or violins, their diaphragms being adequate in this respect, but they are willing to place a firm order for two oboeists and a coloratura.”
“Good heavens!” declared Dame Isabel. She turned an indignant glance toward the patiently attentive Striads. “You may tell them —”
Bernard Bickel stepped forward. “Tell them,” he said smoothly, “that unfortunately these particular items are much in demand and that we cannot promise delivery at any time in the immediate future.”
The Striads heard Darwin Litchley with patience and courtesy, then turned and marched slowly back toward their city. In disgust Dame Isabel ordered the theater struck, and the Phoebus moved to the lands of the Water-people.
A slow river flowing from the rain-forest wandered first west, then north, then south-west, and finally entered a great inland sea, traversing a delta perhaps fifty miles long and as many wide. Here the Water-people made their homes, evolving into a racial type so different from the Striads as to suggest a different race of beings. They were smaller than the Striads and supple as seals; their diaphragms were atrophied, or perhaps had never developed; in color they were a pallid gray. Their heads were rounder; the black feathery crown of the Striads was represented by a few limp strands of black-green fiber. They were much more numerous than the Striads and much more nervously active. They had altered their environment to a considerable extent, creating an astounding complexity of canals, ponds, levees, floating islands, upon and
“This is probably the explanation,” said Bernard Bickel. “I have noticed a similar situation elsewhere: a kind of cultural aristocracy which alone is privileged to explore the esthetic mysteries.”
Dame Isabel peered in at the stiffly erect audience, who already were giving careful attention to the sounds of the orchestra tuning. “A rule of the artists, so to speak? A pleasant concept, certainly … Well, we must proceed.”
Sir Henry Rixon mounted the podium. He bowed to the audience, raised his baton: the orchestra produced the three solemn brass chords of the adagio preamble. The audience sat transfixed.
The curtain rose; Tamino came forth pursued by a serpent, and so went the performance. Dame Isabel was delighted with the concentrated attentiveness of the audience. They sat motionless, wincing approval from time to time, especially at Ada Francini’s second act display of her F in altissima .
The opera ended; the cast came forth to bow. The audience rose slowly to their feet and for the first time conferred with each other. There seemed a certain amount of dissension, and ignoring orchestra and singers, the Striads left the theater to continue their discussion on the open ground.
Dame Isabel came forth, smiling graciously to all sides, followed by Bernard Bickel and Darwin Litchley. She marched up to the Striads. “What is your opinion of our wonderful music?” she asked brightly, and Darwin Litchley translated.
A spokesman for the group replied, and Litchley looked a trifle puzzled.
“What does he say?” asked Dame Isabel.
Litchley looked frowningly toward the Striads. “He is asking as to availability.”
“‘Availability’? I don’t understand!”
“Nor I.” Litchley made further inquiry and the Striad responded at length.
Darwin Litchley’s eyebrows rose. He started to speak, then shrugged helplessly and turned to Dame Isabel. “There seems to be a slight mistake, a certain degree of misunderstanding,” he said. “I mentioned that the Striads were familiar with Earth only through an occasional commercial mission?”
“Yes, yes!”
“They seem to have mistaken the Phoebus for a similar mission, and came to the performances in this frame of mind.” Darwin Litchley hesitated, then spoke out in a rush. “They are not unduly impressed. They state that they need no trombones or violins, their diaphragms being adequate in this respect, but they are willing to place a firm order for two oboeists and a coloratura.”
“Good heavens!” declared Dame Isabel. She turned an indignant glance toward the patiently attentive Striads. “You may tell them —”
Bernard Bickel stepped forward. “Tell them,” he said smoothly, “that unfortunately these particular items are much in demand and that we cannot promise delivery at any time in the immediate future.”
The Striads heard Darwin Litchley with patience and courtesy, then turned and marched slowly back toward their city. In disgust Dame Isabel ordered the theater struck, and the Phoebus moved to the lands of the Water-people.
A slow river flowing from the rain-forest wandered first west, then north, then south-west, and finally entered a great inland sea, traversing a delta perhaps fifty miles long and as many wide. Here the Water-people made their homes, evolving into a racial type so different from the Striads as to suggest a different race of beings. They were smaller than the Striads and supple as seals; their diaphragms were atrophied, or perhaps had never developed; in color they were a pallid gray. Their heads were rounder; the black feathery crown of the Striads was represented by a few limp strands of black-green fiber. They were much more numerous than the Striads and much more nervously active. They had altered their environment to a considerable extent, creating an astounding complexity of canals, ponds, levees, floating islands, upon and
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