Part 1

THE MUSIC MASTER

By F. L. Wallace

Robots could play an instrument, but they could not write music--and Danny wanted to do both--even if it meant facing the psych squad!

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy December 1952 Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

After the performers filed off stage the audience chattered politely and drifted toward the exits. Danny Tocar looked up at his mother, and, on impulse, detached his hand from hers and lingered behind. As long as she was busy culturizing he wouldn't be missed. When the auditorium was empty Danny made his way to the stage and stood among the instruments. He stroked a violin, dark and shining. It was very heavy, as if it were solid. It was solid. He touched the metallic ridges on it. Funny. When he had sat in the audience those ridges had looked like strings and had given out a pleasant sound. It made no sound for him though, even when he drew the bow across it as the musician had done.

It was the same with the drum when he pounded it. It too was silent. He frowned and tried the trumpet. He lifted the instrument to his lips and puffed his cheeks and blew. Nothing happened at all. He examined it intently and then sadly laid it down. It was fake. All the instruments were toys, imitations of something that had once been real.

The music had not been phony, though. He visualized the performance, a harmony of motions as well as sound: bowing, plucking, striking, blowing. Where had the music come from if not from the instruments? He still remembered the synthony.

There was one instrument much larger than the others. It was set on a raised platform and looked different. He wandered toward it, and discovered the enclosure. From the audience he hadn't noticed this; the enclosure was hardly visible though he was leaning against it.

He had experience with this sort of thing. A museum case; a guarantee that whatever was inside was real. With practiced fingers he felt for an invisible crevice in the transparent enclosure. A fingernail split, but something swung open, and Danny was inside.

He looked curiously at it. A large wooden instrument with white markings along the front of it. Danny remembered how these had been touched during the performance.

He was good at imitation; Danny brought his fingers down the way he had seen it done. The white things weren't markings: they were keys. The sound rolled out into the empty auditorium. Startled, Danny jerked his hands away. He didn't know it, but with those few notes he qualified as the musical genius of a hundred years. The only human who, in that time, had produced anything resembling music.

Entranced, he listened. When the last echo was lost he felt empty. He sat down on the stool and rubbed his cheek against the old instrument. His hands couldn't stay away from the keyboard.

* * * * *

Meanwhile his mother strolled determinedly through Culture City. "I just love the synthony don't you, Danny?" For the first time she realized he wasn't with her. She looked around bewilderedly.

"Don't worry," said her companion. "He can't be far. Probably in the twentieth century section watching the electric signs."

His mother laughed nervously. "Quaint, isn't it? Let's go. We have to find him." She angled to the left, thinking she saw him through the crowd. When she got there it was another little boy, not Danny at all.

However she had a bit of luck. The commercial artist on the street was temporarily vacant. She hesitated for a moment between her duty to find Danny at once and her desire to own a real work of art. The middle aged couple heading toward the booth decided her. Swiftly she inserted a coin.

"Yes?" said the deep gruff voice of the mechanism.

"I'd like two pictures," she said.

"Subject matter?"

"One for a child's room. Danny Tocar, age 11. You have access to personality records."

"I do. But if you can give me some indication--"

"Oh something by Roualt. That should be harmless."

The robot artist noted that. "Daylight or night?"

"Something that glows in the dark," she said.

"And the other picture?"

She considered. "Something different," she said. "Maybe a combined Miro and Goya."

"The two styles aren't compatible," warned the commercial artist.

"Then make them compatible," she answered. "It's time the two were reconciled."

The commercial artist could not sigh. "Subject matter of the Miro-Goya picture?"

"A peaceful scene. Perhaps rockets to the moon."

"Goya never heard of rockets," began the artist. "And while there was talk of them during Miro's life--"

"Project them," she insisted reasonably. "Project their perceptions to the time of the first rocket to the moon. It's merely a matter of analysis." She gave her name and address. She wasn't going to argue with a robot.

A relay in the artist clicked and sent a routine request for apartment dimensions, color layout, furnishing arrangement. Simultaneously the picture requirements were integrated. For the boy it was easy. The elements of the original artist Roualt were reshuffled and the basic night glowing pigments were selected.

The Miro-Goya picture was harder. Trial and error were necessary. The results would not be happy; a schizoid painting was bound to ensue. It was the task of the commercial artist to see that the pictorial insanity was not too evident.

The middle aged couple stepped into the booth as Danny's mother left. They ordered Grandma Moses and Norman Rockwell, sunny side up.

There was little reason for Danny's mother to be alarmed. An accident was improbable. Nevertheless she sent her companion in one direction while she took another route. Belatedly she thought of Music Hall.

It wasn't closed yet, though it would be soon. She stepped into the dim interior; a soft light illuminated the stage. And there was music, a kind she'd never heard. A child playing, as, a few hundred years before, countless children had played. A simple two fingered melody, but nevertheless a tune, distinct and recognizable.

"Danny," she called; but he didn't hear. She climbed to the stage though she had less luck with the door to the enclosure than her son had had.

"Danny." She pounded against it. Danny looked up, his smile of preoccupation fading. He came out.

"It's a piano," said Danny.

"I know it's a piano. And very valuable, the only one in the world. You might break it." She didn't know, but her statement wasn't true. There were seven others, carefully preserved and guarded.

"I've been careful," he said. "I don't want to break it."

"Listen, Danny. Would you go near an atomic pile?"

"No," he admitted.

"Of course not," she said. "Robots do that kind of work. They are built for it and it doesn't hurt them. It's like that with music."

Gravely he considered her logic. "But it's not the same. It didn't hurt me at all," he said. "It was fun playing. I wish I had a piano."

She took hold of him and led him away. "You must understand," she said in a voice that was firmer than her grip. "Men often listen to music. Only robots play it."

* * * * *

On playday Danny went walking in Culture City. Elsewhere there were game robots and organized activity, but he didn't like being organized. There were times he didn't care for it at all.

He went past a night club, department store and beauty salon, twentieth century middle period. His interest was casual.

He first paused at a late twentieth century drugstore. He went inside and looked at the merchandise. He still wasn't interested, but it was best to pretend curiosity. _Shoplifting is a crime punishable by law._ What exactly was shoplifting? If it meant what it seemed to, there were giants in those days. He walked on, past the telephone booths at the back of the store.

He was nearing his goal. Outside, at the extreme back, near the parking lot where ancient vehicles were still standing to complete the illusion of authenticity, he saw it.

The S.P. was bigger than a telephone booth and was decorated with odd green figures the intent of which was to project comfort and rest. There were larger and better S.P.'s, near his home, but Danny had a reason for coming here. It was one of the first models, but it did the same work that more modern ones did. It was slower, but Danny had time.

He looked around. Late afternoon, not many were in Culture City at this time of day. Certain that no one observed, he squeezed in the anteroom of the S.P. and closed the door.

He took coins from his pocket and inserted them, waiting for the mechanism to warm up.

"Name?" asked S.P. The voice had an old fashioned sound. A little too hearty and friendly.

"Danny."

"Danny what?"

"Just Danny."

The machine answered slowly. "You have the privilege of remaining anonymous. Please sit down."

Danny sat down.

"Identification."

This didn't seem anonymous to Danny. Hesitantly he pressed his thumb against the fingerprint plate.

"That's satisfactory," said the machine. "The fingerprint is for my files. I'll not try to trace you."

Danny relaxed. The old machine _was_ better for his purpose.

"Certain data is necessary before you can be admitted to the consulting chamber," said the S.P. "We'll keep it to a minimum. First your age?"

This was critical. "Nineteen," said Danny readily.

"That's young," said the machine thoughtfully. "You're aware that persons under eighteen can't be treated?"

He was aware. That's why he'd come to this machine. Presumably it was less efficient than newer models, particularly in the detection circuits.

"You're still very young," continued the S.P. "My advice is to seek help from your parents. If you don't want to do that, there's a free public counselling service."

Danny waited.

"Then I will take you," said the machine. "As a sidewalk psychiatrist, I have no choice. However, in view of your stated age I'll have to check your mentality."

The newer models of sidewalk psychiatrists did that automatically. Under the direction of the machine Danny placed a clumsy device over his head. He concentrated on thinking slowly and clearly. Above all, clearly. The machine could not read his thoughts, but it could get an encephalocurve which could be compared to standard ones.

In time the sidewalk psychiatrist instructed him to remove the device. "At least nineteen mentally," it announced. "Sometimes higher, much higher. In other areas actually childish in configuration. Perhaps that's why you need help."

"Maybe," said Danny.

"You may enter the consulting chamber. Deposit the amount indicated at the door."

* * * * *

Half of Danny's weekly allowance vanished in the coin slot. He went in and lay down on the pneumatic couch. The voice was even friendlier than it had been. He should have been reassured but wasn't.

"Now, Danny. What's your problem?"

He had carried it around with him for months. Once or twice he had tried to talk to others about it. And promptly shut up when he had seen where it was leading. He stirred restlessly. "Music," he mumbled.

"You should learn to like it," said the machine. "It's essential for a man of culture."

"But I do like it," cried Danny. He remembered and lowered his voice. "I like music," he whispered.

"Then there's no problem. Listen to it and enjoy it."

"But I do listen. Every chance I get."

"Be more moderate," said the sidewalk psychiatrist. "Don't listen so much or soon there'll be nothing you haven't heard."

"I want to be a musician," said Danny.

"A good hobby for a spaceman," said the sidewalk psychiatrist approvingly.

"It's not a hobby," said Danny. "And I don't want to be a spaceman."

"Not a spaceman?" The sidewalk psychiatrist seemed surprised. "Mars and Venus are settled. Last year a permanent colony was set up on Pluto. And a few months ago a ship set out for the stars. Spacemen have a glorious future."

"I know it," said Danny. "But does everyone have to be a spaceman?"

"No. Electronics is a good field. And then there's math."

"I'm good in both of them," said Danny impatiently. "If I should tell you what I've done--" He stopped. It wouldn't do to tell; that would reveal he wasn't nineteen. "But I don't want to be any of those. Isn't there room somewhere for a musician?"

"You think other things are important. So, Danny?" The machine paused. "You're right. There are stars inside that have to be reached." The sidewalk psychiatrist pondered. "Then be what you want, Danny. Study and listen. Maybe when you've heard everything there is, you'll wish you hadn't. But you will be an authority."

"I don't want to be an authority," yelled Danny. He didn't lower his voice. "I want to be a musician."

The machine seemed to be lost. "You mean you want to play an instrument?"

"That's it. Also, if I'm good enough, to compose music."

"Compose?" said the machine. "Play? There's no way to do that. Even if you could find an instrument, robots can play it better."

"Robots can't play at all," said Danny. "They're machines. They merely repeat the notes that men played long ago. And when they do it--" He stopped. He wanted information, not an argument.

He controlled his voice and spoke more slowly. "This is a hypothetical question. How would I, or anyone, learn to be a musician?"

"Don't ask that question."

"But I did," said Danny. "It's not against the law."

"But against custom," answered the S.P. "And that's stronger than you think. It's the matrix out of which laws are formed."

"I've paid you," said Danny. "Answer my question."

The machine spoke with difficulty. "First, secretly you must find--" The voice broke off, and though Danny shouted, it would not answer.

A light flashed on the panel. PLEASE REMAIN WHERE YOU ARE. THE PSYCH SQUAD WILL SOON BE HERE. DON'T ATTEMPT VIOLENCE; IT WILL BE MET WITH FORCE IF NECESSARY. YOU HAVE INDICATED YOU ARE AN ABNORMAL MEMBER OF SOCIETY.

* * * * *

Padded arms swung from beneath the couch to enfold him, but he avoided the clumsy efforts. He sprang to the door. It was locked. He shook it, but it wasn't easily forced. He searched his pockets. Nothing to help him. Next time he wouldn't come unprepared.

Soft music crept into the narrow chamber. It was meant to be soothing; under the circumstances it wasn't. Danny pounded wildly at the door. The hinges gave a little, but not enough.

He looked frantically for something loose that could be used as a weapon. If he had tools he might detach the still waving arms of the couch and use one of them to beat his way through the door. But he had no tools. He pressed his nose longingly against the armored glass.

He got the first glimpse of the psych squad. Two were robots, large and evidently strong. They were pleasant enough to look at and gave an impression of gentleness. Whether their behavior matched their appearance was another matter. The third member of the squad was a man.

The group approached cautiously. Danny squatted low beside the door. "I'm in contact with the psych squad," said the S.P. "If you'll cooperate with them it will look good on your record. You'll get by with a minimum mental change. They may let you keep some of your enthusiasm for music. Will you go peacefully?"

"Yes," said Danny in a low voice.

"Then go out slowly when they open the door. Hold your hands above your head."

"I can't," said Danny. "I hurt myself. I think it's my leg."

S.P. was silent for a moment. "The robots will come for you. Remember, don't try to harm them. They're built to handle violent cases."

Danny faked a cry of pain. He peered through a crack in the door. It was getting dark, difficult to see the legs of the approaching robot.

The door opened and Danny was through it like a sprinter. The robot reached out; it just wasn't fast enough. It was experienced, but not in capturing a boy trained in spaceman gymnastics. Intact, Danny wriggled free. Not a shred of skin or clothing remained in the grasping hands.

He eluded the second robot and changed direction. Deliberately he collided with the man. Of the two Danny was smaller, but not by much. Besides youth, he had the advantage of momentum. Startled, the man went down. By the time he scrambled to his feet, mad enough to follow, Danny had entered a genuine twentieth century alley, complete with trash cans. Danny was certain the man hadn't seen his face.

He had visited Culture City often and was at home in it. It was a good gamble the psych squad wasn't. Danny ran on, dodging through the narrow passageways, and, when he was well ahead of them, climbed an inconspicuous fire escape to the top of a building and watched the psych squad blunder by below.

Satisfied he hadn't been observed, he went inside the building and presently emerged on a main street, breathing a little heavily, but otherwise a normal boy, face washed and hair combed.

Culture City was beginning to come to life with the evening trade. More people were on the streets and he mingled with them. But he knew his escape was only temporary, unless....

* * * * *

He bought a confection and munched on it though his stomach quivered and refused to have anything to do with the intruding material. He had to act natural, and something like that seemed called for. He picked up a stick from the trash that, true to the period, littered the streets. He swung it nonchalantly as he circled back to the drugstore. He passed through that as fast as he dared.

Into the parking lot again. He searched along the borders of it until he found what he wanted. Then he approached the sidewalk psychiatrist. "It's me, Danny," he said in a low voice.

The S.P. seemed surprised. "What do you want?"

"I'm going to give myself up," he said. "You've got my fingerprints."

"I do," said S.P. "And you remembered that in your panic. You have an uncluttered mind. Too bad it isn't well balanced. Wait. I'll call the psych squad."

"Let me inside," said Danny. His voice broke.

"Nonsense," said S.P. "The psych squad won't hurt you." Nevertheless the reply was uncertain.

"Please let me wait inside," begged Danny.

"You may have a weapon," said S.P. slowly. "I can't take a chance."

That told Danny what he wanted to know. The fingerprints had not yet been transmitted back to central files. "I'm twelve years old," he said. "You thought I was older because I'm smart and because I'm big for my age. But I'm really twelve years old and I'm afraid of them."

The sidewalk psychiatrist searched through its memory and evaluated it. "You're right about your age. And the fear is understandable." The voice softened. "Come inside and wait. And be quiet. I have to concentrate to contact the psych squad robots."

The door swung open and Danny thrust the stick in the hinges. The door started to close again but couldn't. "What are you doing?" asked the startled sidewalk psychiatrist. The rock in Danny's hand crashed against the panel that housed the thinking mechanism. "Please," shrieked S.P. The rock smashed again and the voice was silent.

Danny thrust his hand into the tangled mass and felt around. He withdrew his hand and pocketed a small item. After that he worked fast, carefully wiping off everything he had touched.

Satisfied that he had done everything he could, he wrenched the stick out of the hinges and jumped outside as the door slammed shut. He walked out of the parking lot and through Culture City to the park that encircled and isolated it from the surrounding great spaceport.

He sat down in the darkness and took the small mechanism from his pocket. The memory unit of the sidewalk psychiatrist. The record of the interview, his fingerprints, all the pertinent data.

Without this the psych squad wouldn't have a thing to work on. A brief glimpse in the darkness. And Danny was big for his age. A twelve year old psych case? They wouldn't think of it.

Danny laid the mechanism on the ground and stamped on it dispassionately. When the destruction was complete he scooped up the remains and tossed the useless unit into a small stream that gurgled nearby.

His knees were weak. He buried his face in the grass and let sobs shake him until there were no tears. He smoothed his hair and wiped his face and got up.

The way was not exactly clear, but he knew he was going to reach it. He would have to do it alone.

* * * * *

There was always a chance a passerby might look into the entrance and see him. Danny worked according to plan. He adjusted the ultraviolet cell, fanning it out to a thin vertical beam of the proper height. He sat it on the floor and aimed it at the dark stripe that looked like a decoration but wasn't. It was a photo electric eye, continuous from floor to ceiling. It was also, Danny knew, a minimum intensity circuit. And that made it easier.

Danny walked through the circuit, behind the cell he had set on the floor. The alarm didn't ring. It wouldn't, as long as the eye received an unbroken beam from any source. In the ultraviolet cell he had provided such a source.

He reached back and drew the cell toward him, carefully pointing it at the dark stripe on the wall until his hand was safely through. He snapped off the cell and hurried around the corner. He was beyond chance human detection.

He went on. There was a door, locked, as he expected. An old fashioned lock, mechanical type, in keeping with the character of Music Hall. It had been a good lock when it was made, nearly unpickable. Danny inserted a wire device and listened. He turned, and the door swung open.

He stepped back a few feet in the darkness, ran, and jumped forward. The lights did not go on. He had jumped far enough. It was merely a pressure plate, designed to count visitors. But one visitor would activate the auditorium staff. And that he didn't want.

He closed the door behind him and made his way into the balcony by way of a rest room. From the balcony he climbed into a box. From there a little used passageway led to the stage.

It was easy, ridiculously so. The piano was lighted by a soft violet light, probably germicidal. Danny paused at the entrance to the enclosure.

It was useless to struggle against the hand, that, from nowhere, fastened to his arm. He was no match for the strength of a robot.

"I knew there was something wrong," said the caretaker. The face that looked at Danny was dignified and kindly, if expressionless.

Danny said nothing.

"Humidity changes," muttered the robot caretaker. "Not much, but some on three successive days. No one is supposed to be here. Can't have it. Wood will rot and metal rust." It seemed vaguely disturbed.

Danny squirmed. The caretaker took hold of both arms and looked closer. "Why, it's human." It squeezed harder as if to test.

Tears came to Danny's eyes. "I belong here," he said stubbornly.

"During a synthony," conceded the robot. "Then it's all right for you to be here, in the audience. Other times you must stay out. Away from the piano."

"But I belong here," said Danny. "Honest. I'm a composer."

"Recomposer," corrected the caretaker. "Robots don't compose. They recompose."

"I can recompose too," said Danny desperately. "I'm going to be a real musician."

"Recompose," mused the caretaker. The grip loosened a little. "Then you're a music robot. I never heard of a robot composer, though." The caretaker thought about it with all the mental equipment it had. "If you're a music robot, let's hear some music."

"Let go," said Danny. "I'll play the piano."

"First the music," said the caretaker. "Then I'll let go."

"But I don't have an instrument."

"Music robots don't need them. The notes are stored inside. They carry an instrument for appearance only.

"The piano master needs an instrument," argued Danny. "It's different. It actually plays."