THE MUSIC MASTER
By F. L. Wallace
Robots could play an instrument, but they
could not write music—and Danny wanted to do
both—even if it meant facing the psych squad!
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy
December 1952
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
After the performers filed off stage the audience chattered politelyand drifted toward the exits. Danny Tocar looked up at his mother, and,on impulse, detached his hand from hers and lingered behind. As long asshe was busy culturizing he wouldn't be missed. When the auditoriumwas empty Danny made his way to the stage and stood among theinstruments. He stroked a violin, dark and shining. It was very heavy,as if it were solid. It was solid. He touched the metallic ridges onit. Funny. When he had sat in the audience those ridges had lookedlike strings and had given out a pleasant sound. It made no sound forhim though, even when he drew the bow across it as the musician haddone.
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 lipsand puffed his cheeks and blew. Nothing happened at all. He examined itintently and then sadly laid it down. It was fake. All the instrumentswere 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? Hestill remembered the synthony.
There was one instrument much larger than the others. It was set ona raised platform and looked different. He wandered toward it, anddiscovered the enclosure. From the audience he hadn't noticed this; theenclosure was hardly visible though he was leaning against it.
He had experience with this sort of thing. A museum case; a guaranteethat whatever was inside was real. With practiced fingers he felt foran 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 whitemarkings along the front of it. Danny remembered how these had beentouched during the performance.
He was good at imitation; Danny brought his fingers down the way he hadseen it done. The white things weren't markings: they were keys. Thesound rolled out into the empty auditorium. Startled, Danny jerked hishands away. He didn't know it, but with those few notes he qualifiedas the musical genius of a hundred years. The only human who, in thattime, had produced anything resembling music.
Entranced, he listened. When the last echo was lost he felt empty. Hesat 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. "Ijust love the synthony don't you, Danny?" For the first time sherealized he wasn't with her. She looked around bewilderedly.
"Don't worry," said her companion. "He can't be far. Probably in thetwentieth century section watching the electric signs."
His mother laughed nervously. "Quaint, isn't it? Let's go. We have tofind him." She angled to the left, thinking she saw him through thecrowd. When she got there it was another little boy, not Danny at all.
However she had a bit of luck. The commercial artist on