Operation Opera
(1956)
Fantasy and Science Fiction April 1956
Tom Godwin

	Lieutenant Drake's Space Patrol scoutship sat by the alien city's ornamental park, inclosing him in temporary safety as the purple-skinned natives of Geffon gathered outside it. They waited silently for him to emerge, for the time being, making no hostile moves, and he drew what comfort he could from the fact that the Missionary Proctor had still been sane when he reported them to be a friendly race. It was small comfort; Proctor had not know them very well at that time …

	The communicator rattled and the voice of his temporary superior on Earth, Supervisor Haffey of the Extraterrestrial Cultural Advancement Bureau, spoke to him:

	"Are you ready to leave your ship?"

	"Yes, sir," Drake replied without enthusiasm. "There are now about a hundred of them out there waiting for me."

	"You will proceed with caution," Supervisor Haffey said. "You saw what happened to Missionary Proctor."

	Drake recalled the way Proctor's gibbering screams had echoed down the hospital's corridors and said, "Yes, sir—I saw."

	"Field Missionary Proctor was one of our most competent and experienced men, yet something horrible happened to him on Geffon. We have no clue as to its nature. His first report was: 'The natives are very friendly and intelligent.' He was shown their city, attended many of their theatrical performances, and said of them: 'They are a splendid race, gentle, and trying hard to improve themselves. They need only the guiding hand of the Extraterrestrial Cultural Advancement Bureau to lead them upward to our own intellectual and spiritual heights.'

	"Then, one night, he reported: 'I was deeply touched today: I was made a full-fledged citizen of Geffon.' That was the last report he ever made. His ship was found a week later in a cabbage patch just outside Helltown, Zimmerman V, and he was finally located in one of the Helltown saloons, laughing hysterically and repeating over and over: 'Oh, my pretty little crown of flowers!' Occasionally he would stop laughing, say 'Urk moom bug oogle—THUNK!' and begin screaming in terror.

	"It is your job to discover what it was on Geffon that transformed Missionary Proctor into a madman. You will leave your ship now and make contact with the natives, proceeding with as much caution as possible."

	"Yes, sir."

	At close range the Geffonese were grotesquely goblin-like humanoids: purple-skinned, with bald heads shading to pale lavender on top; bulbous-nosed, with huge and wobbly ears. But their eyes were brown and soft and intelligent.

	Two of the natives stepped forward and the larger of the two said:

	"We are delighted to welcome you officially to the world of Geffon. I am Goff, and he"—Goff indicated his companion, whose gentle brown eyes seemed to have a perpetually sad and dreamy look—"is Fuzzin."

	"Thank you," Drake said, and added quite honestly, "I was hoping I would be welcomed in a friendlier manner."

	"But how else would one welcome a stranger?" Goff asked.

	"Yes, how else?" the dreamy-eyed Fuzzin asked. He sighed wistfully. "We have so few visitors and we always try so hard to make them welcome, but they never seem to want to stay."

	Drake concluded his report to Supervisor Haffey that night:

	"I was never treated with such friendliness in my life. I met dozens of the natives and they were all equally friendly."

	"Just as Missionary Proctor described them," Haffey said. "Did they mention his name to you?"

	"No, sir."

	"Did you put out any—ah—feeler questions?"

	"Not yet. I don't want to be too hasty about asking them what happened to Proctor—they might decide to show me instead of just telling me.

	The succeeding days brought no clue to indicate what hat turned Missionary Proctor into a madman. Drake was taken on tours of the multitude of landscaped city parts, shown through scores of art galleries, invited daily to attend gatherings where a nauseatingly sweet lavender fruit juice in fragile little cups was always served, together with equally sweet pink cakes, and where are, music, poetry and the opera were invariably the topics of conversaion. He did as best he could to simulate a deep interest in Art and waited hopefully for some mention of Missionary Proctor.

	But none ever came and on the fifth day, while drinking the lavender fruit juice as a guest of Goff and Fuzzin, he decided Proctor's fate could not be much worse than returning to his ship each night pale and sick from drinking the equivalent of a quart of syrup.

	"By the way," he said to Goff, "you never did tell me how you happened to know the Terran language."

	A strange expression passed across the faces of Goff and Fuzzin.

	"Ah—there was an Earthman here a short time ago," Goff said.

	"Oh? Did he stay very long?"

	"No," Fuzzin answered, a note of sadness in his voice. "He left very suddenly one night."

	Drake would have continued the line of questioning but Goff abruptly changed the subject. Halfway through the sixth cup of lavender syrup, Drake asked the other question:

	"What does 'Urk moom bug oogle' mean?"

	"Freely translated, it would be 'My heast is a sad, pale petal'." Goff answered. "it is an expression often used in our poems and songs."

	"And what does the word, 'THUNK!' mean?"

	" 'THUNK'?" Goff blinked in surprise. "There is no such word."

	Drake lay awake a long time that night thinking of Missionary Proctor saying, 'My heart is a sad, pale petal—THUNK!' and then screaming with terror.

	It refused to make sense.

	The next day he was invited to attend the opera in the theater managed by Goff and Fuzzin.

	"Our theaters are our supreme pride," Goff said, "And we saved them for the climax of your tour of our city. You will greatly enjoy our operas."

	"Yes." Fuzzin nodded in agreement until his ears bobbled. "We are a race of artists, poets and musicians and the theater is an essential medium of expression for us. You will find attending one of our operas an experience infinitely delightful and soul-stirring."

	"I'm sure I will," Drake said, trying to sound more convinced than he felt.

	The theater was already packed when Drake arrived. Fuzzin took him in charge and led him to the front row of the many rows of wooden seats. Fuzzin asked proudly, when they had seated themselves, "Is it not a splendid theater, Lieutenant Drake?"

	"Beautiful—wonderful," he answered politely. "But don't you ever use cushions in your theater seats?"

	"Cushions?" Fizzin asked in surprise. "Our theatrical performances are for the elevation and inspiratoin of the soul, not for the pampering of the mortal flesh."

	"Oh—of course," Drake agreed, twisting on the hard seat in a futile attempt to paper his mortal flesh.

	He sat on the rock-hard seat for four hours without moving. A bull-necked basso with a garland of pink flowers around his neck rumbled and bellowed endlessly while a siren-voiced over-padded soprano shrieked back at him. In the end the basso bellowed his last and fell ponderously to the floor at the feet of the heroine amid a shower of white petals from some source above the stage. The curtain went down and Fuzzin sniffed loudly, wiping at his eyes. Drake could hear snuffling sounds all through the audience behind him.

	"He died for Art and Beauty," Fuzzin explained, sniffling again. "Was it not a superlatively splendid and sad performance, Lieutenant Drake?"

	Drake rose to his feet and immediately dropped to the floor as his legs, from which the hard seat had cut off the circulation for four hours, collapsed under him.

	"Yes," he agreed, reaching up for the edge of the seat. "I never had such a sad experience in my life."

	He attended two more of the operas on following nights. Fuzzin explained them as they proceeded and Drake found them all to be amazingly similar. In the first one, the basso had been a struggling young artist who had painted a masterpiece but for the touch of one final bit of color—a color he eventually found, too late, in the pink of the flowers around his neck. The second opera concerned a struggling young musician who had composed a masterpiece but for the final chord—a chord he found, after four hours of bellowing despairingly, in the song of a bird. The third opera was again about a struggling young artist, who ultimately found the color he sought in a rainbow …

	On the seventh day of his stay in Geffon, he was invited to a much larger gathering than usual. Goff made a speech in which he extolled Drake as "a man of moral virtue with aspirations toward even loftier ideals—aspirations which it is our duty to help him achieve …" and ended with the announcement, "Therefore, it is with great pleasure we hereby proclaim Lieutenant Drake a citizen of Geffon."

	Drake made a suitably grateful reply, surprised to see that the eyes of many of the Geffonese present were dewy with tears of sentiment.

	Goff handed him a thick volume entitled The Code Of Truth And Beauty. "This is our philosophy, our way of life," Goff said. "It was translated into Terran especially for you. May it lead you ever upward. May the future bring many more warm and intimate relations with Earth. We shall consider it both a joy and our duty to give all Earthmen the advantage of our philosophy and our high intellectual and spiritual ideals."

	He endured the fourth opera that night—one concerning a struggling young poet who had composed a masterpiece but for the final rhyming word—and glanced at the book when he returned to his ship. It seemed to consist entirely of meaningless phrases: In the mortal climb toward the Higher Planes will come refinement of soul …One must express one's adoration for Truth and Beauty that one may know the joy and glory that is the Afterlife in the Realm of Infinite Beauty …

	He sighed, shook his head, and went to the communicator to make his nightly report to Supervisor Haffey.

	"I still don't know what happened to Proctor," he concluded, "unless he went nuts from having to watch their operas."

	"Nonsense!" Haffey said firmly, "Missionary Proctor was himself a talented poet and artist; he was a refined and cultured man and his reactions to the operas would have been entirely different to your own. He enjoyed them.

	"You have been making no progress whatever. Now that you have the rights and privileges of any other Geffonese citizen, you can make a tour of the city tomorrow, taking the 3-D scanner with you. Perhaps I can get a clue os some kind from the scenes you transmit to Earth."

	"Yes, sir. I'll do that."

	He switched off the communicator and turned away, whistling absently and thinking about a sandwich before going to bed. He stopped whistling as a thought came to him.

	It had been on the day he was made a citizen of Geffon that Missionary Proctor had given his last report.

	He roamed the city the next day, the 3-D scanner in his hand. There was little or nothing of interest but he diligently viewed it all.

	It was evening when he saw the swimming pool in the distance. So far as he could make out, several nude or nearly nude females were posing for a group of artists. He had let the scanner observe the scene for some time when he heard the sound of quick heavy footsteps behind him. He turned to see two young and exceptionally muscular Geffonese hurrying toward him. They seemed unduly grim for some unknown reason.

	They stopped before him and one of them said, "You will please go with us to the theater. At once."

	They took him into the main corridor of the theater, then up a side corridor to Goff's and Fuzzin's office, just off the stage. An invisible orchestra was playing and there was the usual bellowing of a basso and shrieking of a soprano.

	"Ah, splendid!" Goff greeted him. "Rehearsal is already well under way. Please be seated there where you can watch the stage."

	He sighed resignedly and seated himself. The stage was brightly illuminated, with something that vaguely resembled a butcher block set in the middle of it. The basso was bellowing across it to a robust soprano.

	We selected one of the standard Final Performance classics," Goff said. "We had so little time, but we feel sure you will be pleased with the way we fitted your role into it."

	"My role?" He shifted in his chair agitatedly. "I'm honored, but I have to get back to the ship. I left the workensnortzel turned on and—"

	"Lieutenant Drake! As a citizen of Geffon, you know that refusal to act in one's Final Performance is unheard of.

	He saw that the two burly young Geffonese were standing just behind his chair, watching him significantly. He decided refusal would remain unheard of and sighed again.

	"This play will precede the regular nightly opera, with your own role very short and dramatic," Goff said. "And you have been highly honored: those two are none other than the great basso, Trimo, and the peerless soprano, Philla."

	"Ah—Lieutenant Drake!" Fuzzin bustled up, smiling in a friendly, preoccupied manner. "The play is approaching the time for your entrance cue. Please listen carefully:

	"Trino is a struggling young artist who has painted a masterpiece … but for the final touch of color." Drake shuddered violently but Fuzzin seemed not to notice. "If his painting wins the art award, the beautiful Prilla will marry him. But he cannot find the color he needs for the finishing touch and he is singing to Prilla now of his despair."

	Trimo's song ended and the music changed to a slow and measured beat of basses.

	"Then you appear, the Earthman who comes from another star. You walk to Trimo and Prilla in time with the music and kneel before the block. Trimo and Prilla began singing again. "They greet you with song and friendship and Trimo tells you of his problem. Prilla tells Trimo that perhaps in this friend from another star he can find the color he seeks … Now, you lay yourself across the block with your chin just over the edge of it and …"

	Prilla whipped a long broad two-handed sword from behind her—an action so unexpected that Drake jerked in surprise. She handed it to Trimo, who accepted it with a glad rumble. He brought it up and down in a mighty swing, to bury it half its own broad width in the block. The music climbed toward a climactic crescendo, fast and gay, and Prilla's shrieking was ecstatic as it blended with Trimo's jubilant bellowing.

	Fuzzin smiled benignly at Trimo and Prilla as the curtain dropped. "Was it not a superlatively inspiring adaptatoin for your Final Performance, Lieutenant Drake? You gladly offered up your life to help them and now his painting will win the art award."

	"Oh?" Drake asked vaguely.

	"Yes. He finds the color he seeks when he beheads you and your bright red blood spews forth—"

	"Blood?" Drake jerked again. "Blood?"

	He tried to jump to his feet and the hamlike hands of the guards pressed him back down into his chair. His voice changed to a choked gurgle. "Are you serious—is that gorilla supposed to chop off my head?"

	Goff answered, "Ah … yes."

	Drake made another futile attempt to get out of the chair. "What kind of insanity is this?"

	Goff primly fitted his fingertips together. "Today you transmitted to Earth views of the Fragile Flower Swimming Pool, views showing the nudes who were posing for the artists. Thus you are guilty of the crime and sin of pornography. In accepting the rights and privileges of Geffonese citizenship, you made yourself subject to the high moral code of the Geffonese. A condition of mortal sin cannot be tolerated. It states very clearly on page one hundred and ninety-seven of The Code Of Truth And Beauty. 'The Final Performance shall cleanse the sullied soul and liberate it into the Realm of Infinite Beauty."

	"But the artists—they were painting the nudes at close range," Drake protested.

	"That was different," Goff said. "The artists draws Inspiration from the nude model. Into his work goes his love fore Beauty, his very soul. Your scanning machine had no soul, no love for Beauty. It merely reproduced for the ogling eyes of those who do not appreciate True Art."

	"Ogling?" Drake choked. "Who would want to ogle one of your bat-eared, tomato-nosed female goblins? Besides—"

	He stopped as memory of the four words of Trimo's song that had preceded the THUNK! of the sword flashed suddenly into his mind. The words had been Urk moom bug oogle. 

	"So you were going to murder Proctor too?" he asked.

	"Ah … Missionary Proctor was to have made a Final Performance," Goff said. "He behaved in a most undignified manner—instead of going on stage when his entrance cue came, he ran from the theater and to his ship. We did not want to embarrass you by telling you of his disgraceful and un-Geffonese action.

	"What was his crime and sin?"

	"On the day following his acceptance of Geffonese citizenship, Missionary Proctor invited a group of young men and women from the Budding Flower Art and Poetry Club. He then served them with what he called 'tea and cookies.' There was no way, of course, that those innocent young men and women could know that the tea was a powerful intoxicant. They drank it and all their senses of higher and finer things in life were subdued and overridden by animal passions. When the noise brought others of us to the ship, we found the young men and women in an uproar of laughter as they exchanged intimate and significant remarks about"—Goff almost whispered the word—"sex!"

	"At first we held Missionary Proctor in such high esteem. He seemed to be trying hard to improve himself and we were sure he needed only the helping hand of Geffonese to lead him upward. It was such a disappointment to us that he should do a thing so vulgar."

	He claimed there was a difference between Terran and Geffonese metabolisms," Fuzzin said, "and that tea was not an intoxicating aphrodisiac to Terrans. But it was such a shocking crime and—"

	A whistle blew from somewhere offstage and Goff said, "I'll have to ask you please excuse me, Lieutenant Drake. If I don't have time to remind you before you go on stage: Remember to have your right profile turned to the audience when you lay yourself across the block."

	He hurried away and Drake scowled savagely at his retreating back. A Geffonese stagehand appeared, a large basket on his arm, and his scowl faded as he wondered sickly if the basket would be used to carry out his head. But the stagehand began strewing flowers from the basket, starting at the block and making a carpet of flowers almost to where Drake sat. He handed Fuzzin a wreath made of pink blossoms before leaving.

	Fuzzin sniffed the wreath appreciatively. "Is it not delicately beautiful?" he asked. "It is your tiara."

	"My what?"

	"Your tiara—your crown of flowers. It is symbolic of the Supreme Transition and you will wear it as you walk the carpet of flowers to the block."

	"Like hell I will!"

	"But you must. It is always the custom." Fuzzin place the wreath over Drake's head and pulled it down tightly. "Is that comfortable?"

	"No. It sticks and itches."

	"I'm sorry, but your crown must be closefitting like that or it might fall off into the basin in advance of your head."

	Drake gulped, a gulp that was drowned in the opening chord or the hidden orchestra. The curtain went up and Trimo burst into rumbling song. Prilla faced him across the block, keeping the long sword hidden behind her until Trimo should have need for it. Drake looked about him for some hope of escape but there was none. The guards still held him by the shoulders in vise-like grips and their hands tightened suggestively whenever he made a movement.

	He spoke to Fuzzin. "Are you sure there's nothing on the ship you might want? You can have anything—just leave me a drive in it."

	"What?" Fuzzin asked absently, his eyes on Trimo.

	He raised his voice. "I said—"

	"Quiet—please!" Fuzzin cautioned. "Trimo is singing."

	"Nothing could ever dent that racket. Just tell me if—"

	"Quiet!" Fuzzin repeated. "Listen to Trimo—this is a very beautiful passage in his song of despair."

	Drake groaned impotently and listened. The minutes went by and he wiped sweat from his forehead at more frequent intervals. At last, Fuzzin spoke again: "Now it is almost time for your own entrance. Is everything satisfactory?" Drake glared and Fuzzin amended hastily, "I mean such things as the stage lighting?"

	Drake looked longingly at the corridor door without answering. It was not more than ten feet away and only Fuzzin stood between him and it. But the heavy hands of the guards still gripped his shoulders …

	Trimo's song came to an end and the music changed to the measured beat of the basses.

	"Now!" Fuzzin said.

	The hands on his shoulders released their grip and he stood up. Trimo and Prilla were looking expectantly toward him and it seemed to him he could hear a sigh of anticipation run through the invisible audience. He could think of but one shadowy plan for escape and when he took the first forward step he staggered as though about to fall.

	"My legs," he moaned in answer to Fuzzin's surprised and questioning look. "They went to sleep."

	"Oh, good heavens—good heavens—" Fuzzin fluttered his hands in agitation. "It is considered bad taste to keep the audience waiting. Can't you walk at all, Lieutenant Drake?"

	"In only a moment," he answered, staggering half a step away from the guards and kicking his legs as though to restore the circulation. "I'll be all right in a moment."

	He had managed to stagger three feet away from the guards, toward the fluttering Fuzzin and the corridor door, when sudden suspicion flashed across the face of one of the guards. Drake snatched the wreath from his head as the guard made the first forward movement and flung it hard into his face. The guard yelled "Hoom goop!" as his face disappeared in  a shower of pink petals and both guards lunged at him like a pair of charging bulls. He wheeled and caught the astonished Fuzzin in the stomach with his shoulder. Fuzzin made a shrill ooof sound and his bald head struck the wall with what, to Drake, was a pleasantly solid thud.

	The outstretched fingers of one of the guards brushed his shirt collar as he went through the corridor door; then he was running down it with his arms spread wide to guide him in the darkness. He came to the right-angle turn sooner than he expected and a white light exploded in his brain as his nose flattened against the wall. He lurched dizzily, with the dim light of the corridor's exit before him and the yelling of the guards close behind him. It seemed to him he could hear, above their commanding shouts and the pound of their feet, a distant, forlorn wail from Fuzzin:

	"Lieutenant Drake … wait!"

	The sound of his own panting was drowning out the sounds of pursuit when he reached his ship. He closed the outer door behind him, not waiting to close the inner door, and ran to the control room. He shoved down the acceleration lever the moment he was in the pilot's sear and saw what was the most beautiful sight in all his life; the world of Geffon dropping away from under his ship.

	Geffon was far behind him and he was halfway through the ship's supply of grain alcohol by the time his pulse was fully back to normal and he had completed his report to Supervisor Haffey.

	So that's what happened to Proctor's plan to show the Geffonese the light," he concluded. He lowered his head to tenderly touch his swollen nose, and several stray pink petals fell from his hair and into his drink. He fished them out, resisting an urge to laugh hysterically, and said, "The Geffonese are a race of maniacs. Nobody could ever show them anything."

	Supervisor Haffey sighed, "Yes, you are quite right. We had hopes of helping them upward—but they are a menace to our own culture; utterly without morals or a sense of Right and Wrong. One cannot make a silk purse out of a sow's ear."

	Goff and Fuzzin stood before the theater and watched the rocket trail of the ship climb faster and faster into the night sky.

	"He's gone," Goff said sadly. "I don't suppose he'll ever return."

	Fuzzin sighed wistfully. "They never do. We had so much to offer the people of Earth, our high ideals and gentle, noble precepts. We could have uplifted them so." He sighed again and gingerly touched the blue lump on his head. "They are so inconsiderate of others—so barbaric. I dare say they are insane."

	"You are quite right," Goff replied. "I'm afraid that for the welfare of our own culture we must abandon our hopes of leading them upward. They are utterly without any conception of morals or sense of Right and Wrong. One cannot paint a masterpiece with daubs of mud."

The End