Blue Adept

CHAPTER 9 - Music

It was Round Six of the Tourney. Barely one fifth of the original entrants remained. The concentration of the skilled and the lucky increased. The audience for individual Games was larger, and would grow larger yet, as the numbers of contestants dwindled further and each Round be-came more important.

His opponent was another Citizen. This was not unusual at this stage; the Citizens tended to be the best players, and suffered elimination reluctantly. This one was old, obviously not in prime physical vigor—but any Citizen was dangerous, in and out of the Tourney.

Stile resolved to put it into the PHYSICAL column if he had the chance, not risking this man’s accumulated knowledge and experience.

He had the chance. They were in 2B, Tool-Assisted PHYSICAL GAMES. Stile’s area of strength. Yet the Citizen did not seem alarmed. Did he have a secret? They played the subgrids and came up with the Ice Climb. This was a frozen waterfall about fifteen meters high that had to be mounted by use of spikes and pitons from the base. Safety ropes suspended from above pre-vented it from being dangerous, but the climb itself was arduous. Stile did not see how this old man could handle it.

Stile was naked; all he had to do was put on the spiked shoes, gloves, and safety line. He did not need insulative clothing; the ice was frozen by elements beneath, while the air of the dome was warm. A naked man could handle it well enough, since his own exertion heated him. The voluminous robes of the Citizen would interfere with his climbing. Slowly he undressed. Stile was amazed. Under his concealing cloak the Citizen had a body of considerable gristle and muscle. The man was older than Stile—perhaps much older because of possible rejuvenation—but his torso resembled that of a man in his mid-forties, well developed. Stile still should have the edge, but much less of one than he had thought. They donned their gear, and approached the waterfall. It gleamed prettily, like translucent quartz. Stile had the right channel, the Citizen the left. The first to touch an electronically keyed marker at the top would win. The first to fall would lose. Theoretically one person could swing across on his safety rope and interfere with the other, but he would already have lost. Throwing pitons at each other meant immediate forfeiture. Cheating and fouling never occurred in Games.

Now the Citizen faced the ice and stared into it, unmoving. It was time for the match to begin, but Citizens could not be rushed. Stile had to wait.

The man remained for several minutes in silence. What was he up to? Stile, alert for some significant factor, was alarmed by this behavior. There had to be meaning in it. Why should a person delay a match by remaining trance-like?

Trance! That was it! The Citizen was indulging in self-hypnosis, or a yoga exercise, putting himself into a mental state that would allow him to draw without normal restraint on the full resources of his body. This was the sort of thing that lent strength to madmen and to the mothers of threatened children. Stile never used it, preferring to live a fully healthy life, saving his ultimate resources for some genuine life-and-death need. But the Citizen was evidently under no such constraint.

This could be trouble! No wonder the man had made it this far in the Tourney. He had suckered opponents into 2challenging him on the physical plane, then expended his inner resources to defeat them. Stile had fallen neatly into the trap.

But Stile, because of his light weight and physical fitness and indefatigable training in all aspects of the Game, was an excellent ice climber. Or had been, before the injury to his knees. Since he could place his pitons to avoid severe flexation of his knees, that should not hamper him much. Very few people could scale the falls faster than he could. He might win anyway. Trance-strength was fine, but the body reserves had to be there to be drawn on, and a rejuvenated Citizen might not have large reserves. Stile did mild limbering exercises, toning up his muscles. He could throw himself into a light trance at will, of course, but refused to. Not even for this. At last the Citizen came out of it. “I am ready,” he said.

They donned the safety belts. The lines would keep pace with the ascent, rising but not falling again. Stile felt his heartbeat and respiratory rate increase with the incipience of this effort.

The starting gong sounded. Both went to work, hammering the first piton. There were little tricks to this Game; the ice could vary from day to day because of ambient conditions. Sometimes it was a trifle soft, which made insertion easier but less secure; today it was a trifle hard, which posed the risk of cracking. Since each piton had to be set as rapidly as possible, judgment was important. If a contestant took too long, making a piton unnecessarily firm for its brief use, he lost time that might mean loss of the match; if he proceeded carelessly, he would fall, and lose the match. Discrimination, as much as physical strength and endurance, was critical.

The Citizen worked faster than Stile. He was on his first piton and working on the next ahead of Stile. He was pushing the limit, hitting too hard, but the ice was holding. Stile was close behind, but losing headway because he was playing it safer. Ice was funny stuff; sometimes it tolerated violation. Sometimes it did not.

They moved on up. Steadily Stile lost position—yet he did not dare hit his pitons harder. All he could do was marvel at the luck of the Citizen, and hope that the law of averages—

It happened. Halfway up, the ice cracked under the Citizen’s piton. The man had only to put it in a new spot and hammer more carefully—but he would lose just enough time to bring Stile even. The law of averages had come through at last.

But the Citizen, in his trance, was not alert to this. Automatically he put his weight on the piton—and it gave way and fell out. The Citizen swung from the rope, disqualified.

Stile did not even have to complete the climb. He only had to proceed one centimeter higher than the point the Citizen had reached. His caution, his alertness, and his reliance on the odds had brought him easy victory. Somehow it hadn’t seemed easy, though.

There was no fake address this time. Sheen took care of him, questioning him about his latest adventures in Phaze, and let him sleep. She concurred with the Lady Blue; she didn’t like the notion of him bracing the Red Adept in the Red Demesnes. “She’s a mean one; I could tell that from the holo. She’ll cut your throat with a brilliant smile. But I’m only a logical machine,” she complained. “I can’t stop an illogical manbrained flesh creature from being insanely foolish.”

“Right,” Stile agreed complacently. “Even clownish.” She always made reference to her inanimate status when upset.

But first he had to handle Round Seven. This turned out to be against another serf of about his own age. He was Clef, a tall thin man named for a symbol on written music, who evidently had qualified for the Tourney only because the top players of his ladder had not wanted to. Stile knew all the top serf-players of the current ladders, but did not recognize Clef. Therefore this man was no skilled Games-man, though he could have spot-skills.

They chatted while waiting for the grid. “Whoever wins this Round gets an extra year’s tenure,” Stile said. “Or more, depending on which Round he finally reaches.”

“Yes, it is my best hope to achieve Round Eight,” Clef agreed. “I have no chance to win the Tourney itself, unlike you.”

“Unlike me?”

“I have the advantage of you, so to speak,” Clef said. “I am aware of your skill in the Game. To be fair, I should advise you of my own specialties.”

“Fairness is no part of it,” Stile said. “Use any advantage you have. Maybe I’ll misjudge you, and grid right into your specialty. In any event, I have no way of knowing whether what you tell me is the truth.”

“Oh, it has to be the truth!” Clef said, shocked. “There is no place in my philosophy for untruth.”

Stile smiled, once again finding himself liking his opponent. “Glad to hear it. But still, you don’t have to—“

“I am a musician, hence my chosen name. My single other hobby is the rapier.”

“Ah—so you have a strength in either facet. That’s useful.”

“So it has proved. That and fortune. I did lose one match in CHANCE, but since I won three in that category I can not seriously object. I have come further in the Tourney than I really expected.”

“But you know I’ll play away from your strengths,” Stile said.

“I could as readily play for CHANCE again and neutralize your advantage.”

“Not if you get the letters.”

“Then my choice is easy. Rapier and flute are both tools.”

The flute? Stile wasn’t sure how well the Platinum Flute would play in this frame, since its magic could not operate here, but it was such a fine instrument it might well make him competitive. “I am not expert with the rapier,” he said, thinking of the training Neysa had given him in Phaze. “Yet I am not unversed in it, and in other weapons I am proficient. Unless you managed to get the rapier itself, rather than an edged sword, I doubt you would want to meet me in such a category.”

“I have no doubt at all I don’t want to meet you there!” Clef agreed.

“But I have lost one match in this Tourney through CHANCE, as you have, and am eager to avoid another.”

“Are you proffering a deal?” Clef inquired, elevating an eyebrow. He had elegant eyebrows, quite expressive. “This is legal and ethical. Of course no agreement has force in the Game itself. But two honorable players can come to an agreement if they wish.”

“I understand. Are you willing to meet me in Music?”

“Yes, depending.”

“You grant me Music, and I will grant you choice of instruments.”

“That was my notion.”

“However, I should warn you that I am widely versed in this area of the arts. My favorite is the flute, but I am proficient in any of the woodwinds and strings. More so than you, I believe; I have heard you play. So you may prefer to select one of the less sophisticated instruments.” Stile’s fiercely competitive soul was aroused. He had a compulsion to beat opponents in their special areas of strength. That was why he had tackled Hulk in Naked Physical. He thought again of the Platinum Flute, surely the finest instrument he could employ. On it he could play the best music of his life. He might take the measure of this self-proclaimed expert! But caution prevailed. If the flute was Clef’s instrument of choice, no skill of Stile’s could reasonably hope to match him, and it would be foolish to allow himself to believe otherwise. Also the Flute was in Stile’s possession only on loan, and if his use of it here drew the attention of Citizens to it—no, he could not risk that. Fortunately he did have an alternative. “The harmonica,” Stile said.

“A good harmonica is hardly a toy,” Clef said. “Properly played, it can match any instrument in the orchestra. Are you certain—I am trying to be fair, since you are so generously offering me the category—“

“I’m certain,” Stile said, though Clef’s confidence disturbed him. Exactly how good could this man be on the harmonica?

“Then so shall it be,” Clef agreed, and offered his hand.

“A handshake agreement is not worth the paper it’s printed on,” Stile reminded him.

“But it is also said that the man who trusts men will make fewer mistakes than he who distrusts them.”

“I have found it so.” Stile took the proffered hand, and so they sealed the agreement.

Their turn at the grid came. They played as agreed.

They would contest for this Round with the harmonica. Sheen was ready with Stile’s harmonica; she was able to carry objects unobtrusively in her body compartments, and she was the only one in this frame he trusted with such things. It had to be this familiar instrument, the one he had played so often in Phaze, rather than some strange one issued by the Game Computer. It was not the Flute, but there seemed to be a certain magic about it. On this, he could play well enough to defeat a musician—he hoped. For Stile thought it likely that a man who played the flute habitually would not be able to do much on short notice with the harmonica. Not as much as Stile could. Stile was by no means a bad musician himself, and he well under-stood the nature of the Game. There were tricks of victory apart from straight skill. And Stile had practiced with a unicorn.

Sheen, however, was alarmed. She had only a moment to speak to him during the transfer. “Stile, I spot-researched this man Clef. He’s no dabbler in music—he’s expert! He may be the finest musician on the planet—the one Citizens borrow for their social functions. He can play anything!”

Oh-oh. Had he walked into the lion’s den—again? It was the penalty he paid for spending his free time chasing down magicians in the fantasy frame, instead of doing his homework here. When would he learn better? Part of being in the Game was doing one’s research, ascertaining the strengths and weaknesses of one’s likely opponents, devising grid-strategies to exploit whatever situation arose. He would be much better off to remain in Proton for the duration of the Tourney, settling it one way or the other. But he could not; the lure of magic, of Adept status, of free and open land and of his ideal woman—maybe that last told it all!—were too great. He had discounted Clef’s confidence as bravado, at least in part, and that might have been a bad error. “I’ll do my best,” he told Sheen.

“You’ll have to do better than that,” she grumped as they separated. Sometimes she was so human it was painful.

Clef met him in a concert hall. Spectators were permitted here; there were seats for about a hundred. The chamber was already full. “Some interest generated here,” Clef noted. “You appear to be well known.”

“Maybe they are music fans,” Stile said. Often he did attract audiences for his Games, but this was a greater response than he could account for. But of course he had never been in the Tourney before this year; only slightly over one in ten of the original entrants remained, which allowed the audience to concentrate much more heavily on the remaining games.

They took their places on the small stage. There were seats there, and music stands; the archaic paraphernalia of the artistic medium. Clef had obtained a harmonica similar to Stile’s own, from the Game supplies. “The rules of this competition,” the voice of the Game Computer came. “Each contestant will play a solo piece randomly selected. The Computer will judge the level of technical expertise. The human audience will judge the social aspect. Both judgments will be tallied for the decision. Proceed.” And a printed sheet of music appeared on a vision screen in front of Clef.

The musician lifted his harmonica and played. Stile’s hope sank.

Clef was not merely good and not merely expert. He was outstanding. He was conversant with every technique of the harmonica, and played the music absolutely true. He tongued notes, he employed the vibrato, he trilled, he shifted modes without slip or hesitation. If the harmonica were not his chosen instrument, that was not apparent now.

The man’s long, tapering fingers enclosed his harmonica lovingly, his right forefinger resting on the chromatic lever, his hands opening to modify the tonal quality. Each note was pure and clear and perfectly timed; a machine could hardly have been more technically accurate. Stile certainly could not improve on that performance.

Yet he had a chance. Because though the Computer reacted to technical expertise, the human audience cared more about feeling. The appearance of the person playing counted for something, and the flair with which he moved and gestured, and the emotion he conveyed to the audience, the beauty and meaning, the experience he shared with it. Music was, most fundamentally, a participant activity; people without other esthetic appreciation nevertheless liked to tap toes, nod heads, sway to the evocative melody and beat. Stile was good at evoking audience response. If he could do that here, he could gain the social facet and pull out a draw. The audience participation in judging the arts was for this very reason; in the early days some Tourneys had been won by performances that no one except the Computer thought were worthwhile. This problem had been evident historically throughout the arts. Prizes had been awarded for paintings that no one could comprehend, and for sculpture that was ludicrous to the average eye, and for literature that few people could read. Refined, rarefied judgments had been substituted for that of the true audience, the common man, to the detriment of the form. So today, in the Tourney, art had to be intelligible to both the experts and the average man, and esthetic to both. Stile had a chance to nullify Clef’s certain computer win and send it back to the grid for the selection of another game. Stile would surely stay clear of music for that one!

Clef finished. The audience applauded politely. It had been an excellent performance, without question; the tiny and subtle nuances of feeling were not something the aver-age person grasped consciously. People seldom knew why they liked what they liked; they only knew that in this instance something had been lacking.

Now it was Stile’s turn. Clef lowered his instrument and stood silently, as Stile had. The music screen lit before Stile with the printed music. Actually, Stile did not need it; he could reproduce it from his memory of Clef’s performance. But he looked at it anyway, because he did not want to make any single false note. Nothing that would jar the audience out of its rapport.

Stile played. From the start, his hands moved well. The Stile had had from the time he discovered it, there in the great valley between the Purple Mountains and the White Mountains in the lovely frame of Phaze. He thought of Neysa as he played, and it was as if he were playing for her, with her again, loving it. Every note was true; he knew he would make no errors.

But he was not playing for himself or for Neysa now. He was performing for an audience. Stile refocused on that, passing his gaze over the people, meeting eyes, leaning forward. He tapped his bare heel, not to keep the beat for himself but to show the audience. A toe could tap unobtrusively, but a heel made the entire leg move; it was obvious. The people started picking it up, their own legs moving. Stile caught the eye of a young woman, and played a brief passage seemingly for her alone, then went on to another person, bringing each one in to him. It was a responsive audience. Soon most of the people were swaying to the music, nodding their heads, tapping their heels. He was working them up, making them part of his act, giving them the thrill of participation. Together, they all played the harmonica.

Suddenly it ended. The piece was over. Had it been enough?

The moment Stile put down his instrument, the audience burst into enthusiastic applause. Stile glanced at Clef —and found the man staring, his lips parted. Clef, it seemed, had not realized that music could be played this way, that it could be hurled out into the audience like a boomerang, and bring that audience back into its ambience. Perhaps Clef considered this a degradation of the form. No matter; Stile had won his audience.

Sure enough, the announcement verified the split decision. “Expertise, first player. Clef. Social content, second player, Stile. Draw.” For the benefit of the audience, the Computer was not employing the assigned Player numbers now.

Clef shook his head ruefully. “You showed me something, Stile. You played very well.”

Stile’s reply was forestalled by another announcement by the computer. “It is an option of the Game Computer to require a continuation of a drawn match in the Tourney.

This option is now exercised. The contestants will perform a medley in duet, the parts alternating as marked on the score. A panel of qualified musicians will be the final arbiter.”

Oh, no! Stile had thought himself safe. A new trap had suddenly closed on him. But there was nothing to do except play it out, despite a judgment that would surely be unfavorable to him. He would not be able to evoke the confused passions of an audience of experts. There was an intermission while the panel was assembled. “This is new to me,” Clef said. “Is there a precedent?”

“I’ve heard of it,” Stile said. “But normally it is invoked only when the contestants can’t agree on the draw and insist on playing it out.”

“Is it fair? I hardly object to finishing this in Music, but it seems to me you should prefer—I mean, a panel of musicians—“

“Is likely to favor the musician,” Stile agreed. “I might win the audience again, but not the computer or the panel. You’re bound to take it.”

“You must lodge a protest!”

“No good,” Stile said. “The Computer does have the option. I’m stuck for it. I knew the rules when I entered the Tourney.” And this was very likely the end of his participation in it. So close to the key Round, secured by that prize of tenure!

“I don’t like this at all,” Clef said. “I do want to win, and I’ll have to play my best, but there is a fundamental inequity here on more than one level. It is not merely that the odds of your winning are greatly in your favor if we go to a new grid. It is that you have a chance to go consider-ably farther in the Tourney than I do; you are a skilled player, while my skills are largely limited to this particular pursuit. You should be allowed to continue, for I shall surely be eliminated in the next Round or two.”

“Play your best,” Stile said. “Chance is always a factor in the Game. Someone always profits, someone always loses. I do have another resource.” Stile knew he faced disaster, but his liking for this honest man increased. How much better it was to lose to superior talent than to blind chance!

“While we wait—would you be so kind as to explain to me how you make the audience respond like that? I saw it, but I have never been able to do that. I rather envy it.”

Stile shrugged. “It’s apart from the music itself, yet also the essence of it. Basically you have to achieve rapport with the people you’re performing for. You have to feel.”

“But that isn’t music!” Clef protested.

“That is the vital spirit of music,” Stile insisted. “Sonic emotion. The transmission of mood and feeling from one person to another. The instrument is merely the means. The notes are merely means. Music itself is only a process, not the end.”

“I don’t know. This is like heresy, to me. I love music, pure music. Most people and most institutions fall short of the ideal; they are imperfect. Music is the ideal.”

“You can’t separate them,” Stile said, finding this exploration interesting. “You are thinking of music as pearls, and the audience as swine, but in truth pearls are the accretions of the irritation of a clam, while the audience is mankind. These things must go together to have meaning. Like man and woman, there’s so much lost when apart...”

“Like man and woman,” Clef echoed. “That too, I have never quite understood.”

“It’s not easy,” Stile said, thinking of the Lady Blue and her violent shifts of attitude during their last encounter.

“But until—“

He was interrupted by the Game Computer. “The panel has been assembled. Proceed.” Musical scores appeared before Clef and Stile. The sound of a metronome gave them the countdown. Quickly each lifted his harmonica to his mouth.

It was an intricate medley, highly varied, with segments of popular, folk and classical music from Planet Earth. The two ranges counterpointed each other nicely. The audience listened raptly. The music of a single instrument could be excellent, but the action of two instruments in harmony was qualitatively as well as quantitatively superior.

Stile found that he liked this composite piece. He was playing well—even better than before. Partly it was the inherent joy of the counterpoint, always a pleasure; that was why he and Neysa had played together so often. But more, it was Clef; the musician played so well that Stile needed to make no allowances. He could depend on Clef, lean on him, knowing there would be no error, no weakness. Stile could do his utmost. Everything was keyed correctly for takeoff.

Stile took off. He played his part with feeling, absorbing the rapture of that perfect harmony. He saw the audience reacting, knowing the technique was working. He put just a little syncopation in it, adding to the verve of the presentation. The Computer would scale him down for that, of course; it could not comprehend any slightest deviation from the score. To hell with that; Stile was lost anyway. He could not exceed his opponent’s perfection of conformance, and had to go for his best mode. He had to go down in the style he preferred. He refused to be bound by the limitations of machine interpretation. He had to feel. And—he was doing that well.

Then he became more specifically aware of Clef’s playing. The man had started out in perfect conformance to the score, but Stile’s deviations had forced him to deviate somewhat also, for as a musician he could not tolerate the separation of efforts. The piece had to have its unity. Now, amazingly. Clef was making deviations of his own. Not by any great amount, but. Stile could tell, and it was certain the musicians on the panel could, and the Computer would be having inanimate fits. Clef certainly knew better; why was he doing it?

Because he was picking up the feel. Uncertainly at first, then with greater confidence. With dismaying acuity. Clef was following Stile’s lead, emulating him, achieving the same rapport with the human element. But Clef retained his special expertise. Already he was playing Stile’s way—better than Stile was doing himself. Stile had to retreat, to play “straight” in support of Clef’s effort; otherwise the integrity of the medley would suffer, and it was too fine as music to let suffer. Clef had preempted feeling. Now the medley swung into a classical fragment Stile recognized—the Choral Symphony—Beethoven’s Ninth.

Marvelous music never heard by the deaf composer. A beautiful piece—and Clef was playing his theme with inspired brilliance. Stile found his emotions split; part of him was sinking into resignation, knowing there was no way to match this, that he was in fact losing Computer, panel and audience votes, that he had washed out of the Tourney at last. The other part of him was reveling in the sheer delight of the Ode to Joy, of the finest playing he had ever done on any level, the finest duet he had ever participated in. Neysa’s horn was an excellent harmonica—but it had to be conceded that Clef’s instrument was a better one. The man was putting it all together in a way no other could. And—

Clef himself was reveling in it, moving his body dynamically, transported—as was Stile too, and the entire audience. What an experience!

The music ended. Slowly the emotion of the moment settled out of Stile. He descended from his high and came to grips with the onset of reality. He had, without question, been outplayed. If there was a finer musician in all the universe than Clef, Stile could hardly imagine it. Clef stood silent, eyes downcast. There was no applause from the audience. There was only the muted murmuring of the five musicians on the panel, comparing notes, consulting, arguing fine points. Stile wondered why they bothered; there was no question in anyone’s mind who had played better. Stile had only torpedoed himself, explaining the secret of feeling to his opponent; the man had caught on brilliantly. Yet Stile could not really bring himself to regret it, despite the consequence; it had been such a pleasure to share the experience. His loss on the slot machine had been degrading, pointless, unsatisfying; his loss here was exhilarating. If it were ever worthwhile to sacrifice a kingdom for a song, this had been the song. Something of miraculous beauty had been created here, for a small time; it had been a peak of performance Stile knew he would never truly regret. Better this magnificent defeat, than a cheap victory.

The foreman of the musicians signaled the Computer pickup. “Decision is ready,” the Computer’s voice came immediately. “This dual performance has been declared the finest overall rendering of the instrument of the harmonica, and is therefore ensconced in the Tourney archives as a lesson example. A special prize of one year’s extension of tenure is awarded to the loser of this contest.” Stile’s head jerked up. Salvation! This was the prize slated for those who made it to the next Round, that he had just missed. Not as good as a victory, but far, far better than a loss.

The odd thing was that Clef seemed to be reacting identically. Why should he be concerned with an award to the loser? He should be flushed with the victory. “The advisory decision of the Computer: Clef,” the computer continued after a pause. “The advisory decision of the audience, as recorded by tabulation of those receiving the broadcast of this match: Clef.” Yes, of course. Clef had won both the technical and social votes this time, deservedly. Stile walked across to shake his opponent’s hand.

“The decision of the panel of judges,” the Computer continued. “Stile.”

Stile extended his hand to Clef. “Congratulations,” he said.

“Therefore the Round goes to Stile,” the Computer concluded.

Stile froze in midgesture. “What?”

The Computer answered him. “Advisory opinions do not have binding force. Stile is the winner of this contest. Please clear the chamber for ensuing matches.”

“But—“ Stile protested, dumbfounded. Then he was drowned out by the tumultuous applause of the local audience, abruptly augmented by that of the speaker system as it carried the reaction of the larger, unseen audience. Clef took him firmly by the arm, leading him through the colossal din to the exit. Bemused, unbelieving. Stile suffered himself to be guided out.

A line of people had formed in the hall. At the head of it was the Rifleman. The Citizen grabbed Stile’s hand and pumped it. “Congratulations!” he cried. “Magnificent performance!” Then the others were congratulating him in turn, until Sheen got to him and began running interference.

Clef turned to leave. “Wait!” Stile cried. “You can’t go! This is all wrong! You won! Has the planet gone crazy?”

Clef smiled. “No, you won. I’m surprised you weren’t aware.”

“You should enter a protest!” Stile said. “You clearly outplayed me. I think you’re the finest musician on the planet!”

Sheen guided them to seats on the capsule home. “I may be so—now,” Clef said. “You showed me how to alleviate the major weakness in my skill. I owe it to you.”

“Then how—?”

Clef smiled. “It is a pleasure to have the privilege of educating you as you educated me. You recall how we played separately, to a split decision?”

“Indeed,” Stile said wryly.

“And how you then explained to me the manner music is a participatory endeavor? Not every man an island?”

“Yes, of course! You proved to be an apt student!”

“A duet is a joint endeavor. Each must help the other, or it fails.”

“Of course. But—“

“A man who plays well alone, can play better in company—if he has proper support. Harmony and counter-point enable a new dimension of effect.”

“Yes, I played better, because I knew you would make no error. Still—you played better yet. I think you improved more than I did.”

“I am sure this is the case. Because you provided more support to me than I provided to you,” Clef said. “I gave you merely good technical performance, at the outset; you gave me the essence of feeling. You showed me how. I was never able to accomplish it on my own, but in tandem with you I felt the living essence at last, the heart and spirit of music. I was infused by it, I merged with its potent pulse, and for the first time in my life—I flew.”

“And you won!” Stile cried. “I agree with everything you said. You and I both know you profited greatly, and played my way better than I ever played in my life. You went from student to master in one phenomenal leap! Surely the panel of judges saw that!”

“Of course they did. I have known all of the members of that panel for years, and they know me. We have played together often.”

And this panel of friends had given the match—to Stile?

Was it overcompensation?

The capsule stopped. Sheen took each man by the arm and guided him on toward the apartment. “Therefore you won,” Stile said. “That’s obvious.”

“Let me approach this from another angle, lest you be as obtuse as I was. If you play solo on one instrument and it is good, then play the same piece on another instrument of the same type and it is better, wherein lies the source of the improvement?”

“In the instrument,” Stile said. “My skill on similar instruments is presumed to be constant.”

“Precisely. Now if you play a duet with one person, then with another, and your performance stands improved on the second—?”

“Then probably the other player is superior, enabling me to—“ Stile paused. It was beginning to penetrate. “If I improve because of the other player, it’s him that really makes the difference!”

“When we played together, I improved more than you did,” Clef said. “Who, then, contributed more to the joint effort? The one who flew the heights—or the one who lifted him there?”

“That duet—it was not to show individual expertise,” Stile said, working it out. “It was to show cooperative expertise. How each person fit in as part of a team. Yet surely the Computer did not see it that way; the machine lacks the imagination. So it shouldn’t have—“

“The machine was not the final arbiter. The musicians saw it that way, and their vote was decisive.” The human mind remained more complex than the most sophisticated of machines! Of course the musicians had imposed their standard! “So I supported your effort—“

“More than I supported yours,” Clef finished. “You gave way to me; you made the sacrifice, for the benefit of the piece. You were the better team player. You contributed more significantly to the total production. Therefore you proved your overall participation to be better than mine. You would have made anyone shine. This is the subtle point the Computer and audience missed, but the musical experts understood. They knew it was from you I derived the ability that enabled me to make the best individual performance of my life. You are the sort of musician who belongs in a group; your talent facilitates that of others.”

Again Stile thought of his many playing sessions with Neysa, those happy hours riding. Their music had always been beautiful. “I—suppose so,” he said, still amazed.

Clef extended his hand. “Now permit me to congratulate you on your deserved victory. You are the better man, and I wish you well in the Tourney.”

“Victor, perhaps, thanks to an unusual judgment. Better man, no.” Stile took the hand. “But if you lost—you can no longer play here on Proton.”

“I do have one more year, thanks to the special award. We did incidentally render the finest harmonica recital in the Proton records. But this becomes irrelevant. I no longer need Proton. You have given the universe to me! With the skill you have shown me, I can play anywhere, for exorbitant fees. I can live like a Citizen. I have gained so much more than I have lost!”

“I suppose so,” Stile said, relieved. “A musician of your caliber—the best that any audience is likely to en-counter—“ He paused, another massive realization coming upon him. “Your preferred instrument is the flute?”

Clef raised that expressive eyebrow. “Of course. My Employer provides me with a silver flute, and rarely am I allowed to play on a gold one. One day I hope to be able to purchase such an instrument for myself. The tonal quality-“

“How about a platinum flute?”

“That would be best of all! But it would depend on who made it. The craftsmanship is really more important than the metal, though the best craftsmanship does make any given metal significantly superior. But why dream foolishly? The only craftsmen capable of doing justice to platinum are far away on Earth.”

“Sheen,” Stile murmured.

Sheen produced the Platinum Flute and handed it to Clef.

The man took it with infinite respect and awe. “Why it is, it actually is! A finely Grafted platinum instrument! I do not recognize this make, yet it seems excellently done. Who—have aliens gone into the business?”

“Elves,” Stile said.

Clef laughed. “No, really. I must know. This is of considerably more than incidental interest to me. This instrument has the feel of ultimate quality.”

“Mound Folk. Little People. Among them I am a giant. They use magic in their trade. This is an enchanted flute, on loan to me until I pass it along to one who has better use for it than I do. I should have recognized you as a prospect the moment I met you, but I suspect I did not want to part with this magic instrument, and suppressed my own awareness. But I made a commitment, and must honor it. At least I understand, now, how the elves felt about yielding the Flute to me. It is hard to give up.”

“I should think so!” Clef’s eyes were fixed on the Flute as his hands turned it about. Light gleamed from it as it moved. The man seemed mesmerized by it. Then he lifted it to his lips. “May I?”

“Please do. I want to hear you play it.” Clef played. The music poured out in its platinum stream, so pure and eloquent that Stile’s whole body shivered in rapture. It was the finest sound ever created by man, he believed. Even Sheen showed human wonder on her face—an emotion prohibitively rare for a machine. Stile had not played it this well.

Clef finished his piece and contemplated the Flute. “I must have this instrument.”

“The price is high,” Stile warned.

“Price is no object. My entire serf-retirement payment is available—“

“Not money. Life. You may have to give up both your tenure on Proton and your future as a professional musician in the galaxy. You would have to travel into a land of magic where your life would be threatened by monsters and spells, to return the Flute to its makers—and there is no guarantee they would allow you to keep it. They might require some significant and permanent service of you. There may be no escape from their control, once you enter that region. They do not like men, but they are questing 2 for a man they call the Foreordained, and exactly what he is expected to do I do not know, but it is surely difficult and significant.”

Clef’s eyes remained on the Platinum Flute. “Show me the way.”

“I can start you on that journey, but can not remain with you once you enter the Demesnes of the Platinum Elves. The Flute will protect you; at need it will become an excellent rapier. When you reach the Mound, you will be in their power. I warn you again—“

“I must go,” Clef said.

Stile spread his hands. “Then the Flute is yours, on loan until you determine whether you are in fact the Foreordained. I will take you across the curtain. Perhaps we shall meet again, thereafter.” Somehow he knew Clef would have no trouble crossing into Phaze.

“You took Hulk across,” Sheen reminded him. “When he returned—“

“Some things transcend life and death,” Stile said. “What must be, must be.” And he wondered: how could the Mound Folk have known that Stile would encounter Clef, the man they evidently wanted, in this frame where they could not go? His meeting with Clef as an opponent in the Tourney had been coincidental—hadn’t it?