THE MUSIC MASTER

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."

"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.

She chattered gaily. "Don't you think it's wonderful?"

He nodded mutely.

"I mean, the world's great masters, all the time. Nothing second rate. The best, any time you want them, of all the ages."

"Not all the ages," he corrected. "What about Paganini?"

"What about him?" she said. "Who's he?"

He reconsidered swiftly. She wouldn't know about Paganini since he had played before recorded music. "Some old virtuoso," he said offhandedly. "I read about him. He was supposed to be good."

"But as long as we haven't heard him we can't miss him," she said cheerfully.

It was too pat. "Not only that," he said. "You said masters of all ages. What about the masters of today? Have you heard them? Where are they?"

"Why here," she said puzzledly. "At any synthony."

"They're not," he said positively. "We're living with borrowed music. Those composers knew nothing of the things that are familiar to us. They never heard rockets coming in from Mars. Nor the hum of hundred story farms. How could they compose the music that we need to hear?"

The girl looked at him queerly, as if seeing him for the first time. "You're very young," she said finally. "Most of us feel that way when we're young." She touched him lightly. "You may be right, but keep your views to yourself." She made her way back to the auditorium.

Fortunately the synthony had begun. The audience had left the lobby; none but the girl had heard him. Danny had said it, though, and having done so, couldn't listen to the music. Casals, Menuhin, Heifetz, Sidney Bechet, Szigetti, Segovia, and others were in the orchestra, but the harmonies were meaningless and the melody, or rather the fusion of a dozen older ones, was thin and hackneyed.

The only composer of the twenty-third century sat in the body of a fourteen year old boy and had nothing to compose on or for.

He went home, confused. What he had said was true, though this was the first time he had recognized it. For several days he did not practice. In the end he went back to the piano and played more fiercely.

Much of his time he now spent in the experimental lab. He puttered with sound and electronics in a seemingly aimless fashion. Outwardly nothing came of this; in six months his interest waned. But in that period he had built, secretly, a small device.

It was not altogether new; it was a combination of several existing sound systems, adapted to his purpose. But the application of the device, that was new.

It did not exist by and for itself; it was a supplement to an existing musical instrument, the piano. It changed the range of the familiar instrument, extended it, developed it.

Danny concealed the electronic device in his room. Piece by piece he took it to the Music Hall and installed it in the piano. When he finished, to all outward appearances, the piano was unchanged.

Hidden in the legs, concealed in the lid, disposed of in various places, his attachment was safe from all but x-ray inspection. And on such a time honored instrument that kind of an examination wasn't likely.

The switch had posed a problem. It couldn't be a mechanical type; that was too difficult to hide. And even the best hidden switch might accidentally be turned on.

A sonic switch was the answer. A complete melody which, when played through, would actuate his invention. The new sound system would then be coupled to the old piano and a twenty-third century instrument would be in operation. A piano, but more than the piano, beyond it. To himself Danny called it a meta piano.

The requirements of the actuating melody, the key that would operate the sonic switch, were simple. It had to be a melody that was never played. Something that had never been recorded in pre-music robot days, or one of which no record had survived.

Danny could read music, an accomplishment he'd taught himself. He visualized a printed score he had once seen in a museum. He ran over it once in his mind and he played it on the piano. The blank tape that was a part of sounds were impressed on the his device.

The melody was keyed in; thereafter, when it was played once, his invention would be ready for operation. A time lapse would switch it off.

Danny arose and walked out of the enclosure. His work as an inventor was done. His accomplishments as a musician were just beginning.

The next two years Danny learned the instrument. Each time he switched it on with the key melody, playing until it was time to go, and then leaving, secure in his knowledge that the passage of time would disconnect his invention. He grew more assured of his technique, expanding and developing it. He had been good before. How much he now knew there was no way of gauging. He had no audience whose reaction he could test.

Of course there were the usual evening concerts. One night he sat in the balcony listening aimlessly. He let conversations flow past without actually hearing them. Background noise, an essential part of the scene at Music Hall.

Without knowing why, he became disturbed. Something was happening. He listened more closely. Several times he heard it mentioned. And no one but himself ought to know that.

For the first time he glanced at the program he'd taken on entering. He read through it with profound unease.

"Tonight's audience will participate in the most exciting musical event of the past generation. A new record has been found. The robot piano master, Horowitz Rubinstein Paderewsky Art Tatum Rozenthal will have a new technique added. Jelly Roll Morton will be integrated into the composite musical personality.

"The record was found several months ago during the excavation of a twentieth century slum. Shattered into several hundred pieces, at first it was not recognized. A keen student of music investigated, and, as a result of modern research was able to restore it to the original condition.

"Transposed to the brain of the robot master, the work is presented tonight for the first time in several centuries. Flee As A Bird To The Mountain...."

Danny laid the program down. A prophetic title. Advice that he ought to take, if he could. Flee As A Bird.... That was the key melody; it would bring in operation his invention, the meta piano.

Automatically he arose. Not to leave; he couldn't do that. Once the meta piano was played it would never be accessible. After that they would guard it well, perhaps with a corps of robots. Moreover they would discover the source of the new sounds. They would trace the parts of the mechanism back to him. They wouldn't be lenient when they found him.

He had perhaps an hour in which to make certain the meta piano was not played.

He headed toward the box seats. He had to approach the piano from backstage. It might be possible to cut the lights, and in the few minutes of darkness wreck the concealed meta piano circuits. The piano wouldn't be harmed; it would play as it always had.

For the first time in his memory all the boxes were filled. A husky, belligerent man glared at him. "I'm sorry," said Danny, "But—"

"Sure, I know," said the occupant. "You want a better seat." He turned away and began chatting with the girls at his side.

Danny shrugged. That was no way to get backstage. He went downstairs. Normally open, tonight the stage entrance was closed. Actually the audience wasn't interested in the performers, but tradition lived long and there was a press of spectators bent on conforming to it.

Fifty minutes left and he still wasn't near the piano. He fought his way outside and strolled speculatively along the building. The power lines were underground, of course. And most likely there were several alternative sources of power. Nothing he could do about that.

On impulse he walked to the back of the building and whistled. The caretaker opened the door and peered out cautiously. "Can't practice tonight."

"After the crowd goes home I can," said Danny. He walked in. Forty minutes remained.

The audience had been all confusion. Backstage it was quiet. Robots were efficient and silent. Tonight, however, a human announcer and one technician were present. It was a complicating factor he hadn't counted on.

The power switches were hard to find. After several fruitless minutes, dodging in and out of the corridors to avoid the human crew, Danny sought out the caretaker.

"Where is the switchboard?" he asked casually.

"Thought you were a music robot," said the caretaker slowly.

"I am," said Danny hastily. He whistled.

The caretaker closed his eyes. "You're not supposed to know about such things." The eyes remained closed. "Anyway, the switches are below. Atom bomb shelter built hundreds of years ago and never used." The eyes came open. "Know anything about atom bombs?"

"Not a thing," said Danny and walked away. He knew about atom bombs but he didn't have one. And short of that there was no way to interrupt the power.

Twenty-five minutes left, and it seemed impossible to get to the meta piano circuits.

The robot piano master was his last hope. Disable it and the critical part of the program would have to be cancelled.

Danny started the search. The music robots, motionless and silent, were seated near the orchestra entrance. The piano robot was not with them.

Acting on a hunch, Danny located the dressing rooms. One by one he went through them. A robot had no need for privacy, but in the third room he found the piano robot. It was listening to music. Vaguely he was disturbed. Generally robots merely reproduced music; they didn't listen to it. Evidently the piano robot was different in ways he hadn't suspected. He'd have to find out about that, later.

He located a short length of metal bar and softly opened the door. The piano robot was still intently listening. A blow from behind knocked it sprawling. Instantly Danny followed with another blow to the side of the head. The robot jerked spasmodically.

Methodically he pounded the hands and arms into a pulpy mass. It wasn't flesh and it didn't look like it; through the synthetic skin covering wires and metal joints splayed as he struck savagely.

"Piano master." Danny straightened up. The human announcer was outside the door.

Danny looked around. There was no other exit save the way he had come in. He turned the music louder. The meta piano was not safe unless he could get out undetected. They would want to know the reasons for his attack on the piano robot and they had means to find out.

"Piano Master." The voice was louder, more insistent.

"Yes?" Danny muffled his voice, spoke through the music.

"The program will begin in ten minutes."

"I know. I'll be there."

"The music committee is waiting to accompany you. When will you be ready?"

He was caught by the logic of the occasion. Normally no one bothered with the piano robot. But this was a big event and old traditions had been resurrected for it. "I'm listening to the music," said Danny. "I'll be ready."

He stripped clothing off the inert robot. Forked black coat and a ridiculous string around his throat: the uniform of the music robot. The existence of such a uniform would help him. Hastily he changed, tossing his own clothing in a corner. He was half a head taller than the piano master, and broader in the shoulders. The sleeves and trousers were too short. He stretched them to fit. Another inch more would have been more than the fabric would lengthen.

Danny's hair was light brown; the robot piano master's an iron grey. Under stage lighting it might not be noticed. He rumpled his hair to conform to standards.

Did anyone look at a robot's face? Danny hoped not; there was nothing he could do about his. He dragged the robot behind a chair, and, assuming a masklike, tranquil expression, walked out of the dressing room as if in a trance.

No one noticed anything. Nodding, the announcer led him to the stage. The committee followed and sat at one side of the stage. So far Danny had passed.

He had read the program and knew what was to occur. An introductory piano concerto and then the event of the evening. Or perhaps the decade. It rated a human announcer and was probably broadcast to three worlds.

The important thing was the sequence of notes in Flee As A Bird. If it were played exactly as he had keyed it in, the meta piano would go into operation. Once they heard it the audience would never mistake it for any other instrument.

But the sequence was long. If he could alter it by as little as two notes the sonic switch would not operate. It was worth trying.

Outside the enclosure the announcer was making a speech. The audience applauded and then it was his cue.

He smiled ironically. He had never hoped for an audience, and now he had one. It was a debut he didn't care for.

He struck the opening bars of the concerto. The keys rippled under his fingers. He played with the uninspired competence that was expected of a music robot.

It was time for the trumpets to come in, but they didn't. And the violins were long overdue with a repeat of his opening phrase. The orchestra was supposed to play with the piano and it wasn't doing so. Danny looked at the audience; something was wrong: even they knew it. What was it? Danny glanced over his shoulder at the orchestra.

The robots stood there uneasily, dummy instruments poised. Not a sound came from the mechanism concealed in their bodies. For some reason they could not follow his lead.

He let a note drop from his fingers and stared around. It wasn't going the way he had planned. The announcer stepped into the gap.

"Due to an unexpected technical failure, we are unable to present the concerto as scheduled. There will be a brief delay and then the main event of the evening will follow."

Ad libbing, of course. The announcer didn't know what had happened. But he had observed that Danny was playing and the orchestra was not. It would seem logical to him that the fault lay in the orchestra and not with the piano.

Actually, Danny now realized, it was the reverse. The piano robot was the leader of the orchestra. It was different; it coordinated the activities of the other robots, gave them the rhythm, a purpose. Better musician or not, Danny couldn't fill that role. He was a man, not a machine, and his mind did not function on an electronic level.

Danny glanced at the wings of the stage. No matter what he did now he was lost. The robot piano master stood out of sight of the audience and the announcer, broken arms drooping. Beside him were half a dozen members of the psych squad.

The audience was restless, and puzzled. As full as the auditorium was, there was room for a few more men who slipped in quietly and took their stations by the exits. They were probably armed.

Danny faced the piano. They had come to hear an old melody, and he would give it to them. Flee As A Bird To The Mountain. It was a New Orleans funeral march, and that was fitting. It was the end of him as a musician.

He let the first notes roll off his fingers, slow. The music had been buried three hundred years and it was still good. It hadn't been worn out with too much listening.

He got through the first chorus and the audience was listening. They didn't know it, but it was human music they were responding to.

The sonic switch closed and the meta piano took over. Danny had built it and it was to the piano as the piano was to a harpsichord. It was a solitary instrument but an orchestra couldn't compete with it. The sounding board of the original piano was not big enough. It was designed to use the whole building and the air within it as the vibrating medium. He had never used the full force of it before. But he did now. Now was the time; he had nothing to lose.

He finished the New Orleans march on the meta piano and then let them hear what music meant to him. His own compositions, carried around in his memory because it was dangerous to let anyone know he could write music. It was his audience and he was going to show them what previously he had concealed. The technicians wouldn't have enough presence of mind to cut him off the radio hookup.

He played them harmonies no one ever thought of; not only what they heard, but also what they couldn't hear. Overtones piled high on overtones until the last in the series were out of reach of the human ear. Maybe the ears of dogs or bats too, but that didn't matter. It didn't matter either that humans couldn't hear it. It was there and it affected them.

It touched the auditory nerve endings and those nerves that had nothing to do with the perception of sound. It moved with the hush of a comet or shook like an exploding nucleus disrupts an atom. From the big to the little and back again he took them on a musical tour of the universe. No other charge than the price of admission.

It was his first concert and probably his last. When it was over he leaned against the meta piano; it became silent and changed back into the ordinary instrument.

The audience did not move and made no sound. He had expected some reaction, but not this. He had hoped they would like it.

He bowed his head in defeat. When he looked up the audience still had not moved. But the piano master stood at the entrance to the enclosure. "These can be replaced," the robot whispered, holding out his broken hands.

Then the piano master spoke loud enough for everyone to hear. "I don't know anything about music. Will you teach me?"

That was the signal the audience was waiting for; the applause came in waves that would not stop. It engulfed Danny and brought him trembling to his feet. The thunder of sound increased in intensity until it seemed as if the very walls would crash with the vibration. And mingled with it he heard a swelling chorus of human voices shouting a word long buried but now resurrected; Bravo! Bravo—Bravo!

A smile crossed Danny's tense features and suddenly then he felt relaxed; he glanced to the side of the stage, saw the piano robot nodding approval, and beside the robot, the psych squad. The faces had lost their sternness; there was an awe instead, and, Danny saw, smiles....

Danny turned back to the audience and its continuing ovation.

He bowed humbly....