"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."
"The piano robot, yes," agreed the caretaker. "But there's only one in
the city and you're not it." The caretaker sighed. "You've been lying
to me. I'll have to report you."
Danny struggled, though it was useless. In a few minutes he'd be turned
over to the authorities. Psychological conditioning would be used on
him. He had to avoid that, no matter what.
He stopped struggling; deliberately he relaxed--and whistled.
It was thin and halting, but the caretaker hesitated. Danny's breath
came a little easier and the melody became stronger. The caretaker
paused doubtfully.
Danny swept into a currently popular recomposition. The caretaker let
go.
Triumphantly Danny whistled on. He followed with a new tune he made up
as he went along.
The caretaker sighed when Danny finished. "Then you really are a music
robot."
"What else? Did you ever hear any human make music?"
The caretaker shook its head and walked to the piano. "But why didn't
they tell me you're supposed to play here?"
"Do they tell you anything about music? You're just the caretaker, you
know."
A spark of suspicion remained. "Why do you need to practice? Other
robots don't."
"They're made the way they are," said Danny. "They never get any worse,
or better. But composers are different. We have lots to learn."
The caretaker was satisfied. "All right. Play it, then." It adjusted
the humidity controls in the piano enclosure to compensate for the
increased moisture.
"Can't," said Danny, conscious of time. "Tomorrow, maybe."
"Tonight, if you want," suggested the caretaker.
"Tonight will suit me fine," said Danny.
* * * * *
During the years that followed Danny practiced and played for his
own enjoyment. He did well in his conventional studies; that was a
matter of camouflage. Not so well, though, that he'd be selected for
specialization. That called for more real knowledge than he dared
show. He had to be a step ahead so that he could estimate what he was
supposed to know and then fit himself into the academic specifications.
As he grew older his free time increased. He spent as much of it as
he could at Music Hall. Mornings, evenings, but mostly at night he
practiced. Even by the old forgotten standards he became an excellent
musician. It was a precarious existence; his mastery was sharpened by
the knowledge that he must never be discovered.
During the year he was fourteen he attended a synthony; nothing unusual
in it, a routine matter. He sat in the balcony where he was less
conspicuous. The lights lowered and the conversation in Music Hall
slackened.
On the stage came the Louis Armstrong Hot Five. Satchmo to the life,
all of them, from the first to the last recorded note. Two trumpets, a
cornet, and two singers.
A trumpet soared out on a clean strong singing note and the other
trumpet danced above it with a clarinet effect. Satchmo again, this
time on the cornet, created a staccato growl in the lower register. And
Louis the singer, with uncanny rhythm and knowledge of vocal dynamics,
started the song. The fifth Armstrong backed the ensemble with an
obligato of scat. The Hot Five took it from there.
It was an exhibition of free style counterpoint and melody that had
once been a part of traditional music. Lost for a time, found again by
jazz, heatedly denied and equally defended, it had at last returned to
its rightful place in the great company of music.
Louis, the original Louis, would have been amazed by the performance.
Delighted by it, too. Because it was his, from beginning to end.
Every note, at one time or another, he had played, though not in that
sequence. He might have done it that way, had he, in the flesh, been
able to split himself into five parts, each as musically complete as
the others.
The Caruso quartet followed. Danny listened as raptly as he had to
the first. Different music in each case, but melody was big enough to
include both performers.
During intermission a girl twice his age attached herself to Danny. She
wouldn't have bothered had she known, but he was still big for his age.
It was easy to mistake physical size for maturity, youthful silence for
sophisticated taciturnity.