Space Opera

The following communication was recently received in our morning mail, along with the usual stack of letters from readers, writers, literary agents, et al. There was nothing particularly unique about the contents of the missive -- in fact, it was quite typical of letters from professional authors -- but the substance on which it was written was of a metallic nature and was slightly tingling to the touch. The secretary who copied its contents, so we might read it without eyestrain, claimed the letter had a way of "flickering" (her word), by which she meant vanishing and reappearing "as if it didn't want to stay here." This was obviously an excuse to cover a messy job of typing, and the secretary is no longer with us. Neither is the original letter: it seems to have been lost or misplaced. This is just as well, since it was not intended for us, anyway -- a fact we deduce from its mention of prior correspondence (we have had no prior correspondence with this person) and also from the fact that the envelope was addressed to the editor of some foreign publication called Man About Mars. We are reproducing the letter here, as a curiosity, after having anagramized the names of people and places out of respect for their privacy.

-- The Editors

Dear Sir: Your Letter was most appreciated, but I am very sorry you did not like Vixen of Venus. Too melodramatic, you say, and today's readers will have nothing to do with melodrama.

But, my dear sir, life itself is flagrantly melodramatic! The lady I described in Vixen of Venus is an almost literal transcription of an actual lady I encountered there in my travels. However, that is water under the bridge, as you Terrans say.

My purpose in writing to you again is to sketch briefly an article I would like to do for you. It is completely factual, though I fear it may strike you as extravagant. A deep-dyed villain figures prominently in the piece; also a fair maiden in distress; not to mention a righteous, retribution-dealing father right out of the admirable Victor Hugo of your own culture. And, yes, I'm afraid there will even be a tricky twist ending.

If you have read this far, perhaps you will read further. The proposed article, which we might call The Star of Orim, concerns a series of fascinating events that occurred in my own galaxy, 75/890 (I trust you have no editorial taboo against foreign settings). The chronicle begins on the planet Orim, and our antagonist, the war lord Zoonbarolarrio Feng, accompanied by a beautiful young lady who hates him -- it would (continued on page 92) Space Opera (continued from page 89) be well to establish this immediately -- are discovered in a magnificent Orimese palace. To point up their relationship, we might have them leaving a bedroom together. They make an oddly contrasted pair as they walk through the high-ceilinged, luxurious rooms of the palace. Feng is an enormous man -- massive and powerful, with thick black hair and beard; his eyes are like an eagle's and his nose is a formidable promontory that looks well on the coins that bear his likeness. In his black tunic and red robe, he is indeed an imposing figure. The girl is his complete opposite: she is small and slight, with fair skin and with hair red-gold as a dying sun (I'm sorry, but there is hair like that, you know, especially among the Orimese). Her young body is covered only by the most gauze-like pale blue silk, cut in a pattern that leaves much of her smooth skin exposed.

Feng is in a good mood. As they walk, he chatters amiably in his rumbling basso. "Conquering your planet has been rich in rewards. Not only do I capture the most brilliant scientist in the galaxy, but I find that he has an extremely beautiful daughter. A double prize!" This speech is reconstructed, and if the exposition is too crude for you, I can smooth it over in the finish.

As they approach the laboratory, they are saluted by two slender officers in the skintight black uniforms of Feng's personal guards. One of them opens the door. Feng and the girl enter a huge room of glass and metal where a small forge glows and platoons of test tubes and retorts bubble and hiss. At the end of a long aisle, a gray-haired man sits on a high stool and looks at a gleaming piece of metal in his hand.

Feng walks up to him and the girl follows. The black-bearded conqueror greets the scientist with condescending joviality. "Good evening, Torak," he booms. "What have you there?"

The old man ignores Feng, looks past him at the girl. "Vola," he whispers gently. "Vola, my child."

The girl's voice is faint and husky. "You look tired, Father. You work too hard."

"You, my dear -- how are you?"

She lowers her eyes. "I'm all right. Don't worry about me."

Feng laughs. "That's right. Don't worry about her. She's in good hands. Now then, Torak: how soon will the project be finished?"

"It is finished, my lord," Torak answers in a lifeless tone, and holds up a flat piece of metal cut in the form of a four-pointed star.

"This --" asks Feng, "this is it? The new metal?"

"The new metal. The invincible metal. Yes, this is it."

Feng chuckles. "I can see you've made it into the shape of the star of Orim, the symbol of your people, eh? A very clever comment. Torak -- but your rebel's propaganda is wasted on me, I fear. Here, let me have that." He snatches the metal star from Torak's hand. "I shall notify my entire staff to assemble here immediately. The tests will begin at once."

"Tests?"

"Of course," Feng smiles. "You didn't think I would take your word for it, did you? Why, for all I know, this shiny new stuff of yours might collapse like tin foil in a baby's fist. Nothing would please you more, would it?" He laughs again. "No, my friend. I am not such a fool. I have not conquered almost the entire galaxy to be finally outwitted by a rebel scientist. This metal shall be thoroughly tested, I assure you. And my own scientists shall conduct the tests." Feng's eyes grow suddenly sharper. "If it is all you claim it to be, then the last stronghold in the galaxy shall yield before me -- the planet Klor!"

Now, somewhere in through here we will have to sandwich the information that, for years, Feng had been looking forward to the day when the whole galaxy would be his. Slowly, planet by planet, he saw his dream coming true, but always the planet Klor resisted his mighty navies. Perhaps in a footnote we can remind your readers that Klor is a world almost completely under water: most of its people are fishlike depth creatures. And Feng's engineers had despaired of building amphibious ships versatile enough to fling themselves from the base-planet, Sarg, across the black emptiness of outer space, and down into the watery depths of Klor. Such ships would have had to be made of metal as light as spaceship alloy and yet pressure-resistant to heat and cold and radiation. But back to our scene in the laboratory:

The scarlet-robed emperor grasps the metal star and repeats, "Yes, the tests will begin at once." He turns and strides out of the room.

When the door clangs shut, Vola buries her face in her father's chest and breaks into uncontrollable weeping. "Oh, Father! It's been so horrible! That man is a beast -- a filthy beast!"

Torak's hands clench as a father's indignation rises in him. "Vola, be brave. It will not last much longer. We must both be brave."

Vola pulls herself away and collapses onto one of the benches. She sighs. "Not much longer? Who are you trying to deceive, Father? You know as well as I do that we will be Feng's prisoners as long as we live."

"Or," Torak's voice takes on a strange resonance, "as long as he lives."

She shrugs. "What's the difference? Feng is strong and healthy. He has the vitality of a demon: I know . . . He is not ready to die."

"Often, death comes when it is least expected."

The girl looks up. "What are you talking about, Father?"

He turns to her and his old eyes are aglow like embers. "Courage, my dear," he says. "Trust me."

As you pointed out in regard to Vixen of Venus, dialog is not my strong point. I realize this and am perfectly willing to do the piece in straight reportorial form, should you so desire. However, since I have begun my outline in this style, I shall continue so:

Sparks fly in the darkened laboratory, as a group of dark-goggled men recoil from terrific heat. A powerful ray is bombarding the small, star-shaped piece of metal. "See, my lord!" says one of the men. "The upper side of the metal is white hot, while the underside--"

"Yes?" hisses Feng.

"The underside is cool to the touch! Incredible! Your captive scientist has achieved perfect insulation." He turns off the ray and they all remove their goggles. "That concludes the series of tests, my lord. This piece of metal was subjected to powerful explosives, searing acids, atomic radiation, great pressure, and now -- withering heat. Nothing affects it! It is completely impervious."

Feng smiles. He turns to Torak. "My congratulations. You have not failed me. You shall have an honored place in the scientific hierarchy of my empire." Abruptly, he turns to his chief engineer. "Great quantities of this metal must be produced and made into the spaceships you have designed. You will work with Torak. I shall expect you to begin tomorrow. And remember, gentlemen: the conquest of Klor means the conquest of the galaxy." He walks away as the scientists and generals bow. At the door, he turns to a figure in the shadows. "Come, Vola," he says. (We can play down this sex element if you wish.)

During the next months, Torak forces himself to be oblivious to his daughter's tears. While she struggles in the arms of Feng, the scientist supervises at foundries where ton after ton of the molten new metal are poured from monstrous blast furnaces. Captive slave-workers from the far reaches of the galaxy labor day and night until they drop from exhaustion and are whipped into consciousness again. And often at Torak's side is the exultant Feng who slaps him on the back and praises him.

As soon as the sheets of metal roll from the foundries, they are rushed to the shipyards where, already, the armada of (continued on page 207) Space Opera (continued from page 92) amphibious destroyers is growing. Feng himself supervises the construction of the largest of these, his flagship. His escutcheon, the flaming sword of Sarg, is deeply etched on its gleaming prow; rich draperies and costly furniture -- the loot of a thousand plundered worlds -- are carried aboard to embellish his cabin. It is only a matter of months (incidentally, I am using Earth time throughout) before the fleet is finished. Poised and sparkling in the sun, the ships stand ready for embarkation.

Feng and his highest officers stand on a great platform, repeating a ritual that has taken place before the conquest of each new planet. Martial music blares from a phalanx of glittering horns. The people of Orim cheer -- with Sargian guns at their backs -- as Feng, resplendent in his battle armor made completely of Torak's new metal, declaims his customary ritual speech. (I have a copy of this, for verification.) His big, rough voice thunders over the loudspeakers in phrases heavy with emotionalism and light on logic. Often "the glories of Sarg" and the greatness of "our sacred galactic empire" are spoken of, but no attempt is made to define or examine these terms. Feng emphasizes the importance of conquering Klor, the last remaining planet in the galaxy which still struggles in "a barbaric darkness unilluminated by Sargian glory." He tells why he has ordered not only his generals but also his eldest statesmen and savants to accompany him in his flagship on this mission: "It is fitting that the chiefs of the Sargian Empire be present at the momentous conquest of the last planet." The speech ends with the mighty exclamation, "On to Klor!" and the trumpets drown the unenthusiastic applause.

On the gangplank of his flagship, Feng pauses and turns to Torak. "Upon my return, you shall be decorated for your services to Sarg. And you, Vola" -- he smiles at the unresponsive girl -- "be prepared for a night of revelry on my return. These missions of conquest never fail to excite my blood, and although the water-dwelling females of Klor may turn out to be lovely," he winks knowingly at his generals, "I fear that, as proper entertainers to an emperor, mermaids may have certain . . . disadvantages. Eh?" He laughs at his joke (too coarse for your readership?) and enters the flagship, followed by his generals and key statesmen.

Soon there is a terrific roar and a searing blast of rocket-fire, as the fleet shoots upward and dwindles to a swarm of tiny specks in the clear blue sky of Orim.

During the months of the voyage, the green wine of Sarg flows freely in the imperial flagship. Feng toasts his empire, his generals and himself. He toasts Torak, he toasts Vola, and he toasts the nearly forgotten women of his youth. He sings ribald Sargian ballads and he swears fantastic oaths. All this can easily be expanded into several pages.

At length, the armada approaches Klor. As his flagship hovers above the flooded planet, Feng draws his jeweled ceremonial sword and points dramatically to the objective. His voice roars through the intercoms of every ship:

"Attach!"

Down they plunge, the flagship leading. Cleanly, Feng's ship cuts the surface of the water and his fleet follows, creating a series of immense splashes and vast, ever-widening ripples.

Through the transparent dome of his ship, Feng marvels at the exotic weeds and pouting giant fishes of Klor. Triumph sings in his veins.

Then, suddenly, the cries of startled men reach his ears. He turns and his eagle's eyes bulge with shock . . .

If we do this as a serial, what better place for a break? But that is up to you, of course. And now let me quickly limn the final scene, which takes place back on Orim:

Torak drops a four-pointed metal star into a glass of liquid. It floats slowly to the bottom. He turns to his daughter who is gazing pensively out of the laboratory window. Tenderly, he asks, "Is anything troubling you, my dear?"

There are tears in her eyes. "I was thinking of the people of Klor, that's all."

Torak smiles slightly -- for the first time in many, many months. "I wouldn't spend my tears on them, if I were you. In fact, I see no reason for weeping at all."

"You don't? Father, how can you say that?"

"Feng," says Torak, grimly, "will never molest you again."

"What do you mean?"

"And never again will he subjugate an entire galaxy. By this time, the armada should have reached Klor." Torak verifies this by a glance at his calendar. "Feng is dead."

Vola fears for her father's sanity. She is silent as he continues: "Dead, Floating in the waters of Klor, with all his officers, his ministers and his navy."

He looks up and sees the fear in her face. "No, my dear. I'm not mad. You see, I created a very wonderful metal. A metal both light and strong, resistant to heat and cold and radiation. A miraculous metal. And Feng was smart. He tested it thoroughly. Yes, he put my metal through every possible test -- except one. One so simple, so basic, that it never occurred to him. And so he built his fleet and plunged it into the seas of Klor, without knowing . . ."

Torak turns to regard the glass from which the metal star of Orim has vanished. "Without knowing," he says, "that this rather remarkable metal dissolves -- in water."

Now there, sir, even you must admit, is a natural! And true -- every word. But that is not all -- in fact, the greatest revelation is yet to come.

For suppose we say -- or, at least, hint -- that shrewd Feng, the galaxy-killer, the scourge of 75/890, the man who never trusted anybody in his life, took the characteristic, routine precaution of wearing, under his ceremonial armor of Torak-metal, a conventional depth suit (not because he suspected anything specific, but simply because suspicion was his natural state of mind); that Feng, in other words, survived the disaster?

Perhaps we may even use a title like Feng Is Still Alive! or Feng Is Still Alive? -- a time-tested attention-getter. We can imply that the indestructible Zoonbaro-larrio Feng, after the demolition of his navy, made his relentless and lonely way to one of Klor's few shreds of dry land -- say, the south polar region of Fozkep -- where even now he plots new conquests, like your own Napoleon of yore at Elba. You will say, perhaps, that nobody will believe such an assertion, and I would be inclined to agree with you, but what does that matter so long as they buy your magazine? And speaking of buying brings me to the touchy but unavoidable question of payment. I am in most desperate need of large sums and would expect your highest rates, on acceptance, should this article be commissioned for your pages. So please let me hear from you by return warpmail, since I urgently require every bit of ready cash I can muster.

Yours sincerely, Z. Gnef Fozkep, Klor 75/890