"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.