The Metallic Muse (4 page)

They had a lawyer draw up a contract. Baque’s lawyer. Lankey insisted on that.

In the bleak gray of early morning Baque sleepily rode the crowded conveyer toward his apartment. It was the peak rush load, when commuters jammed against each other and snarled grumpily when a neighbor shifted his feet. The crowd seemed even heavier than usual, but Baque shrugged off the jostling and elbowing and lost himself in thought. It was time that he found a better place to live. He hadn’t minded the dumpy apartment as long as he could afford nothing better, but Val had been complaining for years. And now when they could move, when they could have a luxury apartment or even a small home over in Pennsylvania, Val refused to go. Didn’t want to leave her friends, she said. Mulling over this problem in feminine contrariness, Baque realized suddenly that he was approaching his own stop. He attempted to move toward a deceleration strip— he shoved firmly, he tried to step between his fellow riders, he applied his elbows, first gently and then viciously. The crowd about him did not yield. “I beg your pardon,” Baque said, making another attempt. “I get off here.” This time a pair of brawny arms barred his way. “Not this morning, Baque. You got an appointment uptown.” Baque flung a glance at the circle of hard, grinning faces that surrounded him. With a sudden effort he hurled himself sideways, fighting with all of his strength. The arms hauled him back roughly. “Uptown, Baque. If you want to go dead, that’s your affair.” “Uptown,” Baque agreed. At a public parking strip they left the conveyer. A flyer was waiting for them, a plush, private job that displayed a high-priority X registration number. They flew swiftly toward Manhattan, cutting across air lanes with a monumental contempt for regulations, and they veered in for a landing on the towering Visiscope International building. Baque was bundled down an anti-grav shaft, led through a labyrinth of corridors, and finally prodded none too gently into an office. It was a huge room, and its sparse furnishings made it look more enormous than it was. It contained only a desk, a few chairs, a bar in the far corner, an enormous visiscope screen—and a multichord. The desk was occupied, but it was the group of men about the bar that caught Baque’s attention. His gaze swept the blur of faces and found one that he recognized: Hulsey. The plump agent took two steps forward and stood glaring at Baque. “Day of reckoning, Erlin,” he said coldly. A hand rapped sharply on the desk. “I take care of any reckoning that’s done around here, Hulsey. Please sit down, Mr. Baque.” A chair was thrust forward, and Baque seated himself and waited nervously, his eyes on the man behind the desk. “My name is James Denton. Does my fame extend to such a remote place as the Lankey-Pank Out?” “No,” Baque said. “But I’ve heard of you.” James Denton. Czar of Visiscope International. Ruthless arbiter of public taste. He was no more than forty, with a swarthy, handsome face, flashing eyes, and a ready smile. He tapped a cigar on the edge of his desk and carefully placed it in his mouth. Men sprang forward with lighters extended, and he chose one without looking up, puffed deeply, and nodded. “I won’t bore you with introductions to this gathering, Baque. Some of these men are here for professional reasons. Some are here because they’re curious. I heard about you for the first time yesterday, and what I heard made me want to find out whether you’re a potential asset that might be made use of, or a potential nuisance that should be eliminated, or a nonentity that can be ignored. When I want to know something, Baque, I waste no time about it.” He chuckled. “As you can see from the fact that I had you brought in at the earliest moment you were—shall we say— available.” “The man’s dangerous, Denton!” Hulsey blurted. Denton flashed his smile. “I like dangerous men, Hulsey. They’re useful to have around. If I can use whatever it is Mr. Baque has, I’ll make him an attractive offer. I’m sure he’ll accept it gratefully. If I can’t use it, I aim to make damned certain that he won’t be inconveniencing me. Do I make myself clear, Baque?” Baque, looking past Denton to avoid his eyes, said nothing. Denton leaned forward. His smile did not waver, but his eyes narrowed and his voice was suddenly icy. “Do I make myself clear, Baque?” “Yes,” Baque muttered weakly. Denton jerked a thumb toward the door, and half of those present, including Hulsey, solemnly filed out. The others waited, talking in whispers, while Denton puffed steadily on his cigar. Finally an intercom rasped a single word. “Ready!” Denton pointed at the multichord. “We crave a demonstration of your skill, Mr. Baque. And take care that it’s a good demonstration. Hulsey is listening, and he can tell us if you try to stall.” Baque nodded and took his place at the multichord. He sat with fingers poised, timidly looking up at a circle of staring faces. Overlords of business, they were, and of science and industry, and never in their lives had they heard real music. As for Hulsey—yes, Hulsey would be listening, but over Denton’s intercom, over a communication system designed to carry voices. And Hulsey had a terrible ear for music. Baque grinned contemptuously, touched the violin filter, touched it again, and faltered. Denton chuckled dryly. “I neglected to inform you, Mr. Baque. On Hulsey’s advice, we’ve had the filters disconnected.” Anger surged within Baque. He jammed his foot down hard on the volume control, insolently tapped out a visiscope fanfare, and started to play his Tamper Cheese Com. Denton, his own anger evident in his flushed face, leaned forward and snarled something. The men around him stirred uneasily. Baque shifted to another Com, improvised some variations, and began to watch the circle of faces. Overlords of industry, science and business. It would be amusing, he thought, to make them stomp their feet. His fingers shaped a compelling rhythm, and they began to sway restlessly. He forgot his resolution to play cautiously. Laughing silently to himself, he released an overpowering torrent of sound that set the men dancing and brought Denton to his feet. He froze them in ridiculous postures with an outburst of surging emotion. He made them stomp recklessly, he brought tears to their eyes, and he finished off with the pounding force that Lankey called, “Sex Music.” Then he slumped over the keyboard, terrified at what he had done. Denton stood behind his desk, face pale, hands clenching and unclenching. “Good God!” he muttered. He snarled a word at his intercom. “Reaction?” “Negative,” came the prompt answer. “Let’s wind it up.” Denton sat down, passed his hands across his face, and turned to Baque with a bland smile. “An impressive performance, Mr. Baque. We’ll know in a few minutes— ah, here they are.” Those who had left earlier filed back into the room, and several men huddled together in a whispered conference. Denton left his desk and paced the floor meditatively. The other men in the room, including Hulsey, gravitated toward the bar. Baque kept his place at the multichord and watched the conference uneasily. Once he accidentally touched a key, and the single tone shattered the poise of the conferees, halted Denton in midstride, and startled Hulsey into spilling his drink. “Mr. Baque is getting impatient,” Denton called. “Can’t we finish this?” “One moment, sir.” Finally they filed toward Denton’s desk. The spokesman, a white-haired, scholarly-looking man with a delicate pink complexion, cleared his throat self-consciously and waited until Denton had returned to his chair. “It is established,” he said, “that those in this room were powerfully affected by the music. Those listening on the intercom experienced no reaction except a mild boredom.” “I didn’t call you in here to state the obvious,” Denton snapped. “How does he do it?” “We can only offer a working hypothesis.” “So you’re guessing. Let’s have it.” “Erlin Baque has the ability to telepathically project his emotional experience. When the projection is subtly reinforced by his multichord playing, those in his immediate presence share that experience intensely. The projection has no effect upon those listening to his music at a distance.” “And—visiscope?” “He could not project his emotions by way of visiscope.” “I see,” Denton said. A meditative scowl twisted his face. “What about his long-term effectiveness?” “It’s difficult to predict—” “Predict, damn it!” “The novelty of his playing would attract attention, at first. While the novelty lasted he might become a kind of fad. By the time his public lost interest he would probably have a small group of followers who would use

the emotional experience of his playing as… a narcotic.“ ”Thank you, gentlemen. That will be all.“ The room emptied quickly. Hulsey paused in the doorway, glared hatefully at Baque, and then walked out meekly. ”Obviously you’re no nonentity,“ Denton said, ”but whatever it is you have is of no use to me. Unfortunately. If you could project on visiscope, you’d be worth a billion an hour in advertising revenue. Fortunately for you, your nuisance rating is fairly low. I know what you and Lankey are up to. If I say the word, you’ll never in this lifetime find a place for your new restaurant. I could have the Lankey-Pank Out closed down within an hour, but it would hardly be worth the trouble. If you can develop a cult for yourself, why—perhaps it will keep the members out of worse mischief. I’m feeling so generous this morning that I won’t even insist on a visiscope screen in your new restaurant. Now you’d better leave, Baque, before I change my mind.“ Baque got to his feet. At that moment Marigold Manning swept into the room, radiantly lovely, exotically perfumed, her glistening blonde hair swept up into a new and tantalizing hair style. ”Jimmy, darling—oh!“ She stared at Baque, stared at the multichord, and stammered, ”Why, you’re—you’re—Erlin Baque! Jimmy, why didn’t you tell me?“ ”Mr. Baque has been favoring me with a private performance,“ Denton said brusquely. ”I think we understand each other, Baque. Good morning.“ ”You’re going to put him on visiscope!“ Marigold exclaimed. ”Jimmy, that’s wonderful. May I have him first? I can work him in this morning.“ Denton shook his head. ”Sorry, darling. We’ve decided that Mr. Baque’s talent is not quite suitable for visiscope.“ ”At least I can have him for a guest. You’ll be my guest, won’t you, Mr. Baque? There’s nothing wrong with giving him a guest spot, is there, Jimmy?“ Denton chuckled. ”No. After all the fuss you stirred up, it might be a good idea for you to guest him. It’ll serve you right when he bombs.“ ”He won’t bomb. He’ll be wonderful on visiscope. Will you come in this morning, Mr. Baque?“ ”Well—“ Baque began. Denton was nodding at him emphatically. ”We’ll be opening a new restaurant soon. I wouldn’t mind being your guest on opening day.”

“A new restaurant? That’s wonderful. Does anyone know? I’ll give it out this morning as an exclusive!” “It isn’t exactly settled, yet,” Baque said apologetically. “We haven’t found a place yet.” “Lankey found a place yesterday,” Denton said. “He’s having a contractor check it over this morning, and if no snags develop he’ll sign a lease. Just let Miss Manning know your opening date, Baque, and she’ll arrange a spot for you. Now if you don’t mind—” It took Baque half an hour to find his way out of the building, but he plodded aimlessly along the corridors and disdained asking directions. He hummed happily to himself, and now and then he broke into a laugh. The overlords of business and industry—and their scientists—knew nothing about overtones.

“So That’s the way it is,” Lankey said. “You seem to have no notion of how lucky you were—how lucky we were. Denton should have made his move when he had a chance. Now we know what to expect, and when he finally wises up it’ll be too late.” “What could we do if he decided to put us out of business?” “I have a few connections myself, Baque. They don’t run in high society, like Denton, but they’re every bit as dishonest, and Denton has a lot of enemies who’ll be happy to back us. Said he could close me down in an hour, eh? Unfortunately there’s not much we could do that would hurt Denton, but there’s plenty we can do to keep him from hurting us.” “I think we’re going to hurt Denton,” Baque said. Lankey moved over to the bar and came back with a tall glass of pink, foaming liquid. “Drink it,” he said. “You’ve had a long day, and you’re getting delirious. How could we hurt Denton?” “Visiscope depends on Coms. We’ll show the people they can have entertainment without Coms. We’ll make our motto NO COMS AT LANKEY’S!” “Great,” Lankey drawled. “I invest a thousand in fancy new costumes for the girls—they can’t wear those plastic things in our new place, you know—and you decide not to let them sing.” “Certainly they’re going to sing.” Lankey leaned forward, caressing his nose. “And no Coms. Then what are they going to sing?” “I took some lyrics out of an old school book my grandfather had. Back in those days they were called poems. I’m setting them to music. I was going to try them out here, but Denton might hear about it, and there’s no use starting trouble before it’s necessary.” “No. Save all the trouble for the new place—after opening day we’ll be important enough to be able to handle it. And you’ll be on Morning with Marigold. Are you certain about this overtones business, Baque? You really could be projecting emotions, you know. Not that it makes any difference in the restaurant, but on visiscope—” “I’m certain. How soon can we open?” “I got three shifts remodeling the place. We’ll seat twelve hundred and still have room for a nice dance floor. Should be ready in two weeks. Baque, I’m not sure this visiscope thing is wise.” “I want to do it.” Lankey went back to the bar and got a drink for himself. “All right. You do it. If your stuff comes over, all hell is going to break loose, and I might as well start getting ready for it.” He grinned. “Damned if it won’t be good for business!”

Marigold Manning had changed her hair styling to a spiraled creation by Zann of Hong Kong, and she dallied for ten minutes in deciding which profile she would present to the cameras. Baque waited patiently, his awkward feeling wholly derived from the fact that his dress suit was the most expensive clothing he had ever owned. He kept telling himself to stop wondering if perhaps he really did project emotions. “I’ll have it this way,” Marigold said finally, waving a hand screen in front of her face for a last, searching look. “And you, Mr. Baque? What shall we do with you?” “Just put me at the multichord,” Baque said. “But you can’t just play. You’ll have to say something. I’ve been announcing this every day for a week, and we’ll have the biggest audience in years, and you’ll just have to say something.” “Gladly,” Baque said, “if I can talk about Lankey’s.” “But of course, you silly man. That’s why you’re here. You talk about Lankey’s, and I’ll talk about Erlin Baque.“ ”Five minutes,“ a voice announced crisply. ”Oh, dear,“ she said. ”I’m always so nervous just before.”