The Space Opera Novella

by Frank Belknap Long

  Harkrader grunted his envy.

  “Wish I could say the same! This area is a regular hotbed of them. Mass demonstrations, noonday worships, public exhibitions of resistance, passive and otherwise—everything you’ve ever heard of them doing anywhere else, and some you’ve never dreamed of in your worst nightmares. Where do you come from, anyway?”

  “Pan-American,” I told him. “St. Thomas.”

  His brows lifted.

  “Oh? Intelligence?”

  “That’s right.”

  He selected a cigarette with slow care and lighted it. “Here on furlough?” he asked, not casually enough. “Or assignment?”

  “Assignment,” I said frankly. Then, as a swift apprehension swept his eyes, “But there’s nothing for you to be concerned about, General. I’m not here to investigate Fedhed or your command, but to ask your help. We need information.”

  He seemed almost to expand with relief. It’s funny how the rest of the Corps always jells with something akin to horror when you admit to being an I-man. It must trace back to the Loyalty Purges. But, Lord, those took place way back in ’71 or ’72, when I was a cadet on the Island.

  “Anything I can do to help, Lieutenant—”

  “Good. Here’s the sixtifor. What do you know about a man named Douglas Frisbee?”

  “Professor Frisbee?”

  “He calls himself that,” I said, “in spite of the edict against such titles.”

  “Of course,” said Harkrader, flustered. “I mean, he used to be a profess—a teacher at Columbia, here in New York, when that university was still in use as an institution of higher learning.”

  “Distributing point,” I corrected mechanically, “of individualistic fallacies.”

  “Quite!” agreed the Fedhed commander immediately. “I mean simply that—well, I’m thirty years your senior, Lieutenant, and we oldsters are inclined to be a bit lenient in our appraisal of the old ways and customs—”

  “We were speaking of Frisbee,” I reminded him.

  “Oh, yes—Frisbee. Nice old fellow. Shade on the dreamy side, but solid—confoundedly solid!—in his field. Which was—”

  “Nuclear physics. We know that. What else?”

  “Eh? Why—nothing else. You’re right, of course. Frisbee was a nuclear physicist. One of the pioneer students in that field. Studied with Bohr in the early part of the century, worked with the United States Government on the primitive A-bomb experiments of World War II.”

  “With the U.S. Government? A highly nationalistic man, then?”

  “No more than any man born before the Federation was formed,” denied Harkrader. “No more than I—and I was a voting adult in 1971, the year the Federation militia seized control of world government.”

  “Assumed control,” I amended, “under mandate of the freemen. You use words rather carelessly, General, for the commander of so important a post.”

  “Lieutenant,” he said curtly, “you forget the difference in our rank!”

  “And you, General,” I answered quietly, “forget the difference in our branches of service. It is my job to learn the facts. If in attempting to do so I offend you, I am sorry. But your condoning of Frisbee implies sympathy with his ideology. If you, yourself, have nationalistic leanings—”

  “Now, Lieutenant,” interposed Harkrader hastily, “don’t jump to conclusions. I use words poorly, perhaps, but I’m a good soldier. I’ve commanded this post for a long time without any complaints. I don’t want to tangle with Intelligence at this late date. I’m not a separationist, and I’m not a crackpot, radical, or troublemaker of any kind. I’m just a middle-aged human who understands—as you Island-bred youngsters may never understand—how the older generation feels about this strange new world we live in.

  “Now,” he went on, “you were speaking about Douglas Frisbee. What else do you want to know about him?”

  “To your knowledge,” I asked, “is he connected with Diarist activities?”

  Harkrader stared at me incredulously.

  “Frisbee a Sackie? Damn it, man, the very thought is absurd! If you had ever met him—”

  “It is my intention to do just that,” I said. “For your sake—and for his—I hope our suspicions are baseless. But Frisbee’s movements during the past year have been most mysterious. His rural retreat has been frequented by an odd, if not sinister, group of associates. An inventory of his purchases discloses the fact that a great and rather alarming amount of dangerous material has been accumulated at his workshop. There is even reason to believe that from somewhere he has obtained a small amount of radioactive ore, and that he is conducting research prohibited by law.”

  “Old Frisbee!” said Harkrader. “I simply can’t believe it! Oh, I can understand his accumulating experimental material. That’s in nature with his character. But Frisbee a Sackie? Preposterous! I’d as soon judge you a worshipper of the Sign. Or myself.”

  “Nevertheless,” I told him, “I must meet Frisbee.”

  “And you shall. I’ll arrange transportation to his place right away.” He reached for the visiphone. “Would you rather go by groundcar or gyro?”

  “Gyro,” I said.

  So it was arranged.

  * * * *

  If Douglas Frisbee was engaged in any conspiratorial activity, he was clever enough to have concealed all evidence of it perfectly.

  I had deliberately elected to travel by gyro to his Long Island dwelling in order that from the air I might get a bird’s-eye view of the estate. I got it, and noticed nothing at all suspicious. Frisbee’s place was the home of a typical moderately well-to-do gentleman farmer. It had the usual line of larches separating its small acreage from adjacent estates and shielding it from the highway, and the usual outlay of barns, siloes and storage bins, the usual patch of land under cultivation, the usual formal garden around an attractive home in the somewhat conservative Frank Lloyd Wright manner.

  It had, in addition, a large and beautiful artificial lake, upon the shimmering surface of which bobbed a number of small sail-and rowboats. Between this and the house stretched a wide expanse of lawn. It was here we landed our gyro.

  Someone—a boy in his teens, I thought at first—saw us and crossed the lawn to greet us as our fans idled. I discovered almost immediately, however, that the slim, youthful figure dressed in sport shirt and slacks had deceived me. Our visitor had bronze hair cut to shoulder-length and clubbed in the perennially popular page-boy style. The swing of her walk—the smooth grace of an arm lifted in welcome—the glimpse of golden shadow where the curve of linen collar met the rise of warm young flesh—was pleasing evidence that the newcomer was very much a woman.

  My pilot whistled appreciatively as she approached.

  “Oh, brother!” he chuckled. “For once in my fife they handed me a good assignment. It that’s what little girl Sackies look like, the Corps just lost itself a man!”

  “That will do, Corporal,” I said. I spoke a trifle more sternly than was necessary, I’m afraid, but for some reason or other his attitude annoyed and repelled me. He was a city-bred man, of course, and I should have let that be his apology. On the Island we see few women. Toward the sex, therefore, I have a feeling of curiously mingled respect and uneasiness. “Let me remind you that treason, even though spoken in jest, is still treason.”

  “Yes, sir,” he said. “I’m sorry, sir.”

  Then the girl was beside us, watching us climb from the gyro.

  “Hello!” she called. “You got here early. Dad was not expecting you till—” She stopped in mid-sentence as she saw our uniforms. “Why, you’re Corpsmen!”

  I saluted. “Yes, miss. Lieutenant McLeod, at your service. Corporal Babacz. This is the home of Dr. Frisbee?”

  A look of guarded wariness clouded her gold-flecked eyes, and her smile of pleased expectancy had faded.

  “Y
es, Lieutenant. I am Dana Frisbee. Was my father expecting you?”

  “No. But I’d like to see him. Is he at home?”

  “He’s—on the grounds somewhere. If you gentlemen will make yourselves comfortable on the porch, I’ll find him. Have you had lunch?”

  “Yes, thanks. Before we left Fedhed.”

  “Fedhed! Then this is an official visit?”

  I said quietly, “If I could see your father, miss?”

  “Yes. Oh, yes—of course. I won’t be long.”

  She turned and left us, disappearing in the general direction of the outbuildings we had seen from topside. That she was apprehensive was obvious; that there was some secretive sense of guilt underlying her anxiety was quite possible. I stared after her, frowning.

  “It would be a shame,” I mused, “for such a girl to be involved in illegal activities.”

  Corporal Babacz stared at me in slack-jawed astonishment. “Beg pardon, sir? What did you say?”

  I felt myself flush. It was true I had spoken with incautious impulse. A Corpsman should never permit himself to be swayed by personal considerations. But Babacz didn’t have to be so damned obvious in his amazement. I am a human. I have a normal man’s emotions and sympathies.

  “Never mind,” I said. “Let’s go to the porch.”

  CHAPTER III

  “Diarist activities, Lieutenant?” said Dr. Frisbee. “Diarist activities? You’re joking. You can’t mean the Federation is serious in its suspicion that I am implicated in the Diarist movement?”

  “The authorities never joke, sir,” I said severely. “I was sent here by Intelligence—”

  “The title,” said the ex-professor, “is a misnomer. Intelligence is not intelligent if it conceives for one instant that I would ally myself with the forces of superstition, ignorance and terror. Do you know, Lieutenant, just what the Diarist movement is?”

  “Of course. An organized attempt on the part of an exhibitionist cult to overthrow the World Federation.” Frisbee shook his head, and sighed.

  “You have been well versed in the semantics of your profession, Lieutenant. Your definition is letter-perfect—but it describes the goal of the Diarists, not the reason for the cult’s existence. Do you know why they call themselves Diarists? Why they debase themselves in smocks of sackcloth? Why they hold public prayer sessions? Why their most solemn oath is by ‘the Sign’?”

  I said, “It has something to do with the comet.”

  “Something! It has everything to do with the comet! McLeod—are you an educated man?”

  I told him proudly, “I was schooled on the Island, and graduated cum laude from the Federation Military Academy.”

  “I see. Then you are not educated—”

  “My dear sir!”

  “You are not educated,” repeated Frisbee imperturbably, “in subjects of real and lasting importance to mankind. You have been well schooled in the so-called science of military tactics and maneuver, you have learned political dogma, and absorbed a certain amount of more or less distorted history—”

  There was a sound suspiciously like a snicker at my elbow, but when I turned to look sharply at Babacz, he met my gaze with straight-lipped gravity. Dana Frisbee, on the other hand, was openly amused. Her lips curved in a smile that was more than polite friendliness, and in her tawny eyes the gold flecks danced and sparkled.

  It was not a warm day, but I felt the sting of perspiration on my throat and brow.

  I said carefully, “Dr. Frisbee, I think it is only fair to warn you that you are already under investigation for suspected disloyalty to the Federation. I shall have to make an official report on this interview. If you persist in your treasonable attacks on the government—”

  “Treasonable, fiddlesticks!” exploded the scholar. “Since when has it become treason for a man to speak his mind on a subject of his own choosing? The trouble with you, young man—” Here he bent forward and shook his finger in my face as if he were a teacher admonishing some recalcitrant student—“The trouble with you is that you know nothing of life—nothing, sir!—except the pitiful potage of propaganda they’ve shoveled down your gullible young throat at that monstrous academy!

  “No—sit down!” he thundered as I started to rise.

  “I’m not through yet. You came here to interview me, get my views on certain subjects. Well, you shall have them. If you want to arrest me when I’m finished, so be it. But at least I shall have the satisfaction of getting off my chest a lot of words that have needed airing for a long time.”

  “Dad—” ventured Dana Frisbee.

  “Later, my dear. Right now I’m going to give these two young dupes of a corrupt and tyrannous autocracy a little history lesson. You, sir—” he glowered at Babacz from beneath shaggy white brows—“when was the Federation formed?”

  Babacz was wholly under the old pedant’s spell. He parroted reply as if reciting in a grade-school classroom.

  “The World Federation of Sovereign Nations was conjoined in 1961 and ratified by a majority of member states in the same year.”

  “Correct!” snapped Frisbee. “Note that the Charter designated those member states as sovereign nations. And now you, sir. For what purpose was created the military force of which you are an officer?”

  “The World Federation Police Corps,” I replied, “is composed of selected youth of all member states, in ratio to the population of those states. It serves to preserve international harmony—”

  “Ha!” interjected Frisbee savagely.

  “—protect individual liberties—”

  “Ha!”

  “—and prevent the encroachment of force or ideals by any group upon any other portion of the world populace—”

  “Enough!” said Frisbee. “Those were the principles on which our predecessors, twenty-odd years ago, agreed to surrender their ancient heritage of sovereign rights, in order to create what they hoped might be a finer union of all mankind. But was this dream accomplished? No—because the very tool with which the Federation hoped to implement a high ideal turned out to be the weapon of destruction.

  “The Corps! It was the Corps itself that ten years after ratification of the Federation Charter, in Nineteen seventy-one, ruthlessly took advantage of the fact that it was the only armed body in existence, and in a series of lightning moves overthrew the government and set up its own military oligarchy.

  “It was the Corps which put into effect the drastic and oppressive code under which we now—”

  * * * *

  At this point regrettably occurs one of those interruptions in the narrative of which I was forewarned by Dr. Westcott. This is doubly unfortunate: first, because of vast interest should be Douglas Frisbee’s post facto commentary on that fragment of “history” which is still to us the unguessed future; second, because the manuscript resumes confusingly at a later time, and in other surroundings.

  Anticipating the reader’s natural curiosity, let me point out that the tale appears to resume about a day later, and that without making an arrest, Lieutenant McLeod has returned to Federation Headquarters, or, as in the easy vernacular of that era he calls it Fedhed…

  * * * *

  “—six riot calls since sunrise,” he growled, “and more yet to come, or I miss my guess. I’ve called Boston and Philadelphia for reinforcements. They both turned me down on the same grounds: no can do. The Sackies have opened up with mass demonstrations in their cities, too. And judging by the tele reports—” he gestured hopelessly at the papers strewn on his desk—“it’s the same story everywhere.”

  I asked, “What’s behind it, General? Is this one of their holy days, or something?”

  “Every day is a holy day to them, damn their hides! And will continue to be as long as that burning devil rides the heavens!” He turned to shake an angry fist at the comet which, spiraling high in the western sky, m
erged its crimson with the sun’s summer gold to flood the room with a weird, orange hue. It was that shade of orange found in fog lamps, or on bridges, and in spots where night mists gather. By its reflection living flesh looks dead and corpselike, lips seem swollen to a purplish pulp, and eyes gleam feverishly from heavy-circled sockets. Harkrader shook his fist in futile and impotent rage.

  “It’s a thing of evil. Its red magic is a spell on the minds of men.”

  “It’s only a comet,” I said; “a comet known to man for centuries. Halley’s Comet. Our fathers saw it last time it approached the Earth in nineteen ten; their grandfathers saw it in eighteen thirty-five. It’s nothing to fear. It’s a perfectly natural phenomenon, accurately predicted by astronomers and making its appearance on schedule.”

  “You know that,” grunted the Fedhead commander, “and I know it. But the Diarists don’t know it. Ignorant, superstitious scum that they are, they’ve made it their god, named it a sacred Sign to justify their rebellion.”

  I said, “Well, it’s annoying, but I don’t think it’s anything to get disturbed over. This isn’t the first time we’ve seen Diarist demonstrations.”

  “No? Speak for yourself, Lieutenant. Never in all my years have I seen an uprising to equal this one. This is serious! Spontaneous outbreaks in every major city of the world. Deliberate and concerted efforts to disrupt our lines of communication. Demonstrations of violence against any man wearing the uniform of the Corps. Attempts to break into our arsenals and arm their sackcloth rabble—Yes?”

  This last was over his shoulder as an adjutant came hurriedly into the room, too excited to observe the formality of knocking.

  “The Sackies, sir. The mob surrounding the Central Park Arsenal—”

  “Yes? I gave orders they were to be dispersed. It wasn’t necessary to fire on them?”

  “It was, sir. We did. But—”

  “Too bad. I had hoped to avoid bloodshed. Issue a proclamation informing the public that the Corps sincerely regrets the incident and hopes it may not find it necessary to repeat such stringent measures.”