The Collected Stories of Frank Herbert (109 page)

“But pianos can be replaced,” said Margaret. “Couldn't one of our colony carpenters or cabinetmakers duplicate…”

“Ah, no,” said Linquist. “Not duplicate. It would not be the piano of Maurice Hatchell. You see, your boy is overly conscious that he inherited musical genius from his grandfather … just as he inherited the piano. He's tied the two together. He believes that if—not consciously, you understand? But he believes, nonetheless, that if he loses the piano he loses the talent. And there you have a problem more critical than you might suspect.”

She shook her head. “But children get over these…”

“He's not a child, Mrs. Hatchell. Perhaps I should say he's not
just
a child. He is that sensitive thing we call
genius
. This is a delicate state that goes sour all too easily.”

She felt her mouth go dry. “What are you trying to tell me?”

“I don't want to alarm you without cause, Mrs. Hatchell. But the truth is—and this is the opinion of all of us—that if your boy is deprived of his musical outlet … well, he could die.”

She paled. “Oh, no! He…”

“Such things happen, Mrs. Hatchell. There are therapeutic procedures we could use, of course, but I'm not sure we have the time. They're expecting to set your departure date momentarily. Therapy
could
take years.”

“But David's…”

“David is precocious and overemotional,” said Linquist. “He's invested much more than is healthy in his music. His blindness accounts for part of that, but over and above the fact of blindness there's his need for musical expression. In a genius such as David this is akin to one of the basic drives of life itself.”

“We just couldn't. You don't understand. We're such a close family that we…”

“Then perhaps you should step aside, let some other family have your…”

“It would kill Walter … my husband,” she said. “He's lived for this chance.” She shook her head. “Anyway, I'm not sure we could back out now. Walter's assistant, Dr. Smythe, was killed in a copter crash near Phoenix last week. They already have a replacement, but I'm sure you know how important Walter's function is to the colony's success.”

Linquist nodded. “I read about Smythe, but I failed to make the obvious association here.”

“I'm not important to the colony,” she said. “Nor the children, really. But the ecologists—the success of our entire effort hangs on them. Without Walter…”

“We'll just have to solve it then,” he said. He got to his feet. “We'll be back tomorrow for another look at David, Mrs. Hatchell. Dr. Mowery made him take some amino pills and then gave him a sedative. He should sleep right through the night. If there're any complications—although there shouldn't be—you can reach me at this number.” He pulled a card from his wallet, gave it to her. “It is too bad about the weight problem. I'm sure it would solve everything if he could just take this monster with him.” Linquist patted the piano lid. “Well … good night.”

When Linquist had gone, Margaret leaned against the front door, pressed her forehead against the cool wood. “No,” she whispered. “No … no … no…” Presently, she went to the living room phone, placed a call to Walter. It was ten-twenty
P.M.
The call went right through, proving that he had been waiting for it. Margaret noted the deep worry creases in her husband's forehead, longed to reach out, touch them, smooth them.

“What is it, Margaret?” he asked. “Is David all right?”

“Dear, it's…” she swallowed. “It's about the piano. Your father's Steinway.”

“The
piano
?”

“The doctors have been here all evening up to a few minutes ago examining David. The psychiatrist says if David loses the piano he may lose his … his music … his … and if he loses that he could die.”

Walter blinked. “Over a piano? Oh, now, surely there must be some…”

She told him everything Dr. Linquist had said.

“The boy's so much like Dad,” said Walter. “Dad once threw the philharmonic into an uproar because his piano bench was a half inch too low. Good Lord! I … What'd Linquist say we could do?”

“He said if we could take the piano it'd solve…”

“That concert grand? The damn thing must weigh over a thousand pounds. That's more than three times what our whole family is allowed in private luggage.”

“I know. I'm almost at my wits' end. All this turmoil of deciding what's to go and now … David.”

“To go!” barked Walter. “Good Lord! What with worrying about David I almost forgot: Our departure date was set just tonight.” He glanced at his watch. “Blastoff is fourteen days and six hours away—give or take a few minutes. The old man said…”

“Fourteen days!”

“Yes, but
you
have only eight days. That's the colony assembly date. The pickup crews will be around to get your luggage on the afternoon of…”

“Walter! I haven't even decided what to…” She broke off. “I was sure we had at least another month. You told me yourself that we…”

“I know. But fuel production came out ahead of schedule, and the long-range weather forecast is favorable. And it's part of the psychology not to drag out leavetaking. This way the shock of abruptness cuts everything clean.”

“But what're we going to do about David?” She chewed her lower lip.

“Is he awake?”

“I don't think so. They gave him a sedative.”

Walter frowned. “I want to talk to David first thing in the morning. I've been neglecting him lately because of all the work here, but…”

“He understands, Walter.”

“I'm sure he does, but I want to see him for myself. I only wish I had the time to come home, but things are pretty frantic here right now.” He shook his head. “I just don't see how that diagnosis could be right. All this fuss over a piano!”

“Walter … you're not attached to things. With you it's people and ideas.” She lowered her eyes, fought back tears. “But some people can grow to love inanimate objects, too … things that mean comfort and security.” She swallowed.

He shook his head. “I guess I just don't understand. We'll work out something, though. Depend on it.”

Margaret forced a smile. “I know you will, dear.”

“Now that we have the departure date it may blow the whole thing right out of his mind,” Walter said.

“Perhaps you're right.”

He glanced at his wristwatch. “I have to sign off now. Got some experiments running.” He winked. “I miss my family.”

“So do I,” she whispered.

In the morning there was a call from Prester Charlesworthy, colony director. His face came onto the phone screen in Margaret's kitchen just as she finished dishing up breakfast for Rita. David was still in bed. And Margaret had told neither of them about the departure date.

Charlesworthy was a man of skinny features, nervous mannerisms. There was a bumpkin look about him until you saw the incisive stare of the pale blue eyes.

“Forgive me for bothering you like this, Mrs. Hatchell,” he said.

She forced herself to calmness. “No bother. We were expecting a call from Walter this morning. I thought this was it.”

“I've just been talking to Walter,” said Charlesworthy. “He's been telling me about David. We had a report first thing this morning from Dr. Linquist.”

After a sleepless night with periodic cat-footed trips to look in on David, Margaret felt her nerves jangling out to frayed helplessness. She was primed to leap at the worst interpretations that entered her mind. “You're putting us out of the colony group!” she blurted. “You're getting another ecologist to…”

“Oh, no, Mrs. Hatchell!” Dr. Charlesworthy took a deep breath. “I know it must seem odd—my calling you like this—but our little group will be alone on a very alien world, very dependent upon each other for almost ten years—until the next ship gets there. We've got to work together on everything. I sincerely want to help you.”

“I'm sorry,” she said. “But I didn't get much sleep last night.”

“I quite understand. Believe me, I'd like nothing better than to be able to send Walter home to you right now.” Charlesworthy shrugged. “But that's out of the question. With poor Smythe dead there's a terribly heavy load on Walter's shoulders. Without him, we might even have to abort this attempt.”

Margaret wet her lips with her tongue. “Dr. Charlesworthy, is there any possibility at all that we could … I mean … the piano—take it on the ship?”

“Mrs. Hatchell!” Charlesworthy pulled back from his screen. “It must weigh half a ton!”

She sighed. “I called the moving company first thing this morning—the company that moved the piano here into this house. They checked their records. It weighs fourteen hundred and eight pounds.”

“Out of the question! Why … we've had to eliminate high priority technical equipment that doesn't weigh half that much!”

“I guess I'm desperate,” she said. “I keep thinking over what Dr. Linquist said about David dying if…”

“Of course,” said Charleworthy. “That's why I called you. I want you to know what we've done. We dispatched Hector Torres to the Steinway factory this morning. Hector is one of the cabinetmakers we'll have in the colony. The Steinway people have generously consented to show him all of their construction secrets so Hector can build an exact duplicate of this piano—correct in all details. Philip Jackson, one of our metallurgists, will be following Hector this afternoon for the same reason. I'm sure that when you tell David this it'll completely resolve all his fears.”

Margaret blinked back tears. “Dr. Charlesworthy … I don't know how to thank you.”

“Don't thank me at all, my dear. We're a team … we pull together.” He nodded. “Now, one other thing: a favor you can do for me.”

“Certainly.”

“Try not to worry Walter too much this week if you can. He's discovered a mutation that may permit us to cross earth plants with ones already growing on Planet C. He's running final tests this week with dirt samples from C. These are crucial tests, Mrs. Hatchell. They could cut several years off the initial stage of setting up a new life-cycle balance.”

“Of course,” she said. “I'm sorry that I…”

“Don't you be sorry. And don't you worry. The boy's only twelve. Time heals all things.”

“I'm sure it'll work out,” she said.

“Excellent,” said Charlesworthy. “That's the spirit. Now, you call on me for any help you may need … day or night. We're a team. We have to pull together.”

They broke the connection. Margaret stood in front of the phone, facing the blank screen.

Rita spoke from the kitchen table behind her. “What'd he say about the departure date?”

“It's been set, dear.” Margaret turned. “We have to be with Daddy at White Sands in eight days.”

“Whooopeee!” Rita leaped to her feet, upsetting her breakfast dishes. “We're going! We're going!”

“Rita!”

But Rita was already dashing out of the room, out of the house. Her “Eight days!” echoed back from the front hall.

Margaret stepped to the kitchen door. “Rita!”

Her daughter ran back down the hall. “I'm going to tell the kids!”

“You will calm down right now. You're making enough noise to…”

“I heard her.” It was David at the head of the stairs. He came down slowly, guiding himself by the bannister. His face looked white as eggshell, and there was a dragging hesitancy to his steps.

Margaret took a deep breath, told him about Dr. Charlesworthy's plan to replace the piano.

David stopped two steps above her, head down. When she had finished, he said: “It won't be the same.” He stepped around her, went into the music room. There was a slumped finality to his figure.

Margaret whirled back into the kitchen. Angry determination flared in her. She heard Rita's slow footsteps following, spoke without turning: “Rita, how much weight can you cut from your luggage?”

“Mother!”

“We're going to take that piano!” snapped Margaret.

Rita came up beside her. “But our whole family gets to take only two hundred thirty pounds! We couldn't possibly…”

“There are 308 of us in this colonization group,” said Margaret. “Every adult is allowed seventy-five pounds, every child under fourteen years gets forty pounds.” She found her kitchen scratch pad, scribbled figures on it. “If each person donates only four pounds and twelve ounces we can take that piano!” Before she could change her mind, she whirled to the drain-board, swept the package with her mother's Spode china cups and saucers into the discard box. “There! A gift for the people who bought our house! And that's three and a half pounds of it!”

Then she began to cry.

Rita sobered. “I'll leave my insect specimens,” she whispered. Then she buried her head in her mother's dress, and she too was sobbing.

“What're you two crying about?” David spoke from the kitchen doorway, his bat-eye box strapped to his shoulders. His small features were drawn into a pinched look of misery.

Margaret dried her eyes. “Davey … David, we're going to try to take your piano with us.”

His chin lifted, his features momentarily relaxed, then the tight unhappiness returned. “Sure. They'll just dump out some of dad's seeds and a few tools and scientific instruments for my…”

“There's another way,” she said.

“What other way?” His voice was fighting against a hope that might be smashed.

Margaret explained her plan.

“Go begging?” he asked. “Asking people to give up their own…”

“David, this will be a barren and cold new world we're going to colonize—very few comforts, drab issue clothing—almost no refinements or the things we think of as belonging to a civilized culture. A real honest-to-goodness earth piano and the … man to play it would help. It'd help our morale, and keep down the homesickness that's sure to come.”