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throbbing sounds she made, hearing her voice filling the whole room, flooding it with beauty. He knew, too, without looking round, that she was singing with everything, not just her throat, but every nerve and muscle in her whole body. Dimly, in some gestalt of understanding, he knew that this was why she seemed so alive, so vivid. Because she was all of a piece, a completeness. And this, too, was the way he felt when he was playing something especially demanding.
In the hushed silence after she had finished there came a single pop-pop or applause, and then a storm of clapping. Up from his stool in haste, he went to her. "That was magnificent. I've never heard anything like it in all my life," he said. "Just listen to that applause!"
She swayed, unsteadily. He caught her arm, felt a tingle at the touch of her smooth skin. She was shivering like a plucked string.
"Hold on to me. Ill take you back to the table. Can I get you anything? A drink?"
"Just water.Ill be all right." She managed to get down the two steps and to her seat, where she sank down, gratefully. Anthony poured water for her, anxiously, watched her fumble in her hand-bag. She produced a box, popped the lid off, shook out a white tablet, reached for the glass and her hand shook so that she couldn't grasp it properly. In weaving irritation she fumbled off her dark glasses, laid them on the table-top, and reached again. The tablet went on her tongue, the glass came up, she swallowed greedily and shuddered again.
"Hah!" she sighed, and put the glass down. "That's better!" Anthony cast a baffled glance at Luigi, and Greg Hartford, who were just as baffled as he was. Then Miss Merrill became aware of their stares, and laughed. It was a rich gurgling sound, deep in her throat.
"Sorry if I scared you all," she said. "It's not what you're probably thinking. Just sugar. A touch of sugar gets me higher than a late, and I can sing like crazy when I'm high."
"And this?" Anthony took up the little box.
"Just plain aspirin, mister. See for yourself. Don't ask me why it flattens me out again, it just does." She looked up at him, challengingly, and her eyes were the deepest, dark-
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est blue he had ever seen. Almost violet. Almost glowing, in the dimness.
He mumbled something incoherent. He had no memory whatever of stumbling back to the piano. That was lost in the roaring maelstrom of unbelief in his mind. The grinning teeth of the piano keys, staring at him, broke him out of his daze, made him suck in great chestfuls of air.
Martha Merrill was a Greenie. The thought echoed insistently, almost shouted itself inside his head. A Greenie! He put out his hand, blindly, and the resulting discord made him wince. He shoved the ridiculous thought away, stamped it down into silence. It couldn't be true. It was just a fantastic coincidence. It had to be. In the meantime he was supposed to be going to play something. What had Luigi said? Anthony groped for his disorganized memories, painfully. The Transcendental Studies. Mazeppa. By Liszt. That was it.
For a moment, and for the very first time in his life, the music eluded him, seemed unimportant. Then the discipline of a life-time exerted its power. The hours, months, years, of soaking himself in everything that went with a piano, took charge. He sat up, memories flooding back, firing his fingers. He began to play, and in the first few seconds, everything else had faded from his mind. He became Franz Liszt, at his best and worst. A brilliant, effective showman, a genius deliberately playing down to the common level. Obvious, vulgar and shallow, flashy stuff, but knowing there wasn't one in the audience listening to him who wouldn't have given an arm to be able to play like that, he conspired with the instrument to insult them all on a level that they hadn't the wit to understand.
Then it was done, and the cafe crowd rewarded him with a spatter of hand-claps as he went back to the table. The place was a little more crowded, now, and Luigi had gone, to lend a hand in the kitchen. His place was taken by a stranger, in a sweeping silver-gray cloak with a high collar. Anthony dropped into his seat, too emotionally exhausted to give more than a glance that way. He looked to Miss Merrill, and something about her expression jolted him out of his numbness.
"Can you really play piano that well, son ... or is that your show-off piece?" The voice was crisp, coldly confident,
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familiar. Anthony swung his head round, and recognized Borden Harper, the man from Venus.
"You know who this is, Tone?" Hartford's voice was an unbelieving squeak.
"Yes. I know." Anthony hardly recognized his own voice. All his insides shrunk to mouse-size, had crept away into a hole.
"You haven't answered my question, Mr.—Taylor, isn't it? Are you really a pianist, as good as that last piece you played?"
"I can play," Anthony mumbled. "It's the only thing I can do. It's all my life."
"Didn't I just say that, Mr. Harper? Didn't I? Tone is the best. You name it, hell play it." Harper ignored the squeak, kept his steady eyes on Anthony for a long moment. Then he shifted his gaze to Miss Merrill.
"I heard you sing, too. I ask you the same question. Was it just a show-piece, or are you really a singer?"
"I asked her to sing that last piece, mister." Luigi had come back once more, was standing between Anthony and Miss Merrill. "I don't know you, but I tell you this. You won't find a better pianist than Anthony anywhere in London. I know. I, Luigi Gabrielli, tell you, having heard the best, from fifty years. And the lady? I can just remember old recording of Sutherland, and Callas, and they were no better."
"I'm not speaking of native talent. A voice, a few pieces, that's not important. I'm after repertoire. Suppose"—he shifted to Anthony again—"you're standing up in front of an audience of music-lovers, who are likely to ask for piano works by Beethoven, say, or Chopin, Mozart, Brahms, Scarlatti, could you play them, as well as you just played that Liszt? And you"—he swung back to Miss Merrill—"could you deliver arias from Aida, or the Magic Flute, or Lakhme?"
"Why? What do you want?" Anthony found his voice, suddenly, harshly. "What are you after, mister?"
"If you two are as good as I think you are, I want you. Call it my whim, if you like. But I can pay for what I want."
"Now you're talking." Hartford became suddenly fluent. "This is where I come in, Mr. Harper. I own these two. Gregory Hartford, agent and business manager. Let's talk money, eh?"
Harper smiled, a chill, hard-eyed smile. He reached into the pocket of his cloak, withdrew a gold-stamped wallet. Then, frowning, he looked up to where Luigi was still standing, belligerently protective. "Signor Gabrielli, I'm taking away your entertainers," he said, evenly. "Will that compensate for it?" and he thrust out a crackling note. Anthony saw the color. It was unfamiliar. The he heard Luigi gasp, and whisper, "A thousand solars! It is too much. I do not pay them . . ."
"Keep it. Mr. Hartford, 111 deal with you this way. See?" He took a second note, tore it across, offered one half. "Take it. You get the other half when you deliver these two, free of conditions, to my hotel. Here's my card, and the address. Have them there within the hour and there'll be one more like that for you. Give me any talk about contracts and percentages, and you'll get nothing. Fail to deliver them, and I'll break you!"
Hartford gulped, and was silent, staring at the engraving in his hand. Miss Merrill found her voice.
"What are you offering us?" she asked, unsteadily.
"Luxury, fame, publicity, the chance to perform before a discriminating audience, and enough in hard cash to keep you comfortable for the rest of your lives, afterwards. A concert tour, I believe they used to call it."
"You mean . . . you want us to go to Venus, with you, when you go back? To perform for your friends?"
Harper nodded. "Precisely that," he said.
Anthony got to his feet, stood on legs that had gone suddenly rubbery. The cafe was a dim blur, just beyond the edge of vision. His stomach heaved and knotted itself. Bile pushed at the base of his throat, threatening to spew up and out. He was walking, blundering into tables, aiming somehow for the door out to
freedom, and escape. Someone clutched at his arm, a shrill voice yammered, and he turned, savagely, and shoved. He saw Hartford's wide-open face recede into blur, stumbling backwards. Then he was out, stumbling up concrete steps into the street, and the rain. Wind-driven ice-spray hit his face, saturated his shirt, ran into his eyes, but he tramped on, unheeding, uncaring that sparse pedestrians abroad in that weather stared at him in wonder and gave him room.
In his mind there was a swirling chaos of dark blue-pur-
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pie eyes, and a lean, hard, smiling face, and scattered words. Fame . . . publicity . . . Venus I Touching that word was like thinking of evil. Every time it burst in his mind his stomach heaved again, threatening to come up past his tight lips. Then, somehow, he was in darkness, blundering painfully against a rough wall, wrenching his ankle painfully on an unseen curb, stumbling into a road, and staring around. Blurrily, dashing rain from his face, he saw a distant lonely street lamp and weaved toward it, becoming aware that he was chilled, wet to the skin, and lost. How long had he been walking?
Slowly, rational thoughts came back. He put a hand on the rough cold of the lamp standard and stared about. At this time of night, dark side-streets were dangerous. A quick patter of feet made him whirl, fearfully, and then he wrenched to sudden anger as he recognized the shrill voice.
"Tone! What-the-hell Tone! Wait for me, can't you?"
"You!" he shoved away from the lamp and reached for Greg Hartford as he came stumbling and breathless out of the gloom. "You!" and he took the smaller man by the throat. Hartford squeaked like a rabbit and flailed his arms, clawing at that grip.
"Whatsamatter with you, Tone?You gone crazy, or what?"
"You're not taking me back, to him. You're not going to buy and sell me, like an animal."
"Ease down, will you?" Hartford got his fingers under Anthony's and pried them loose enough to be able to talk. "Who's buying and selling? I'm your agent, ain't I? This is a big deal, Tone. The biggest you'll ever see. What d'you want to run away for? Don't you want to be rich?"
"I don't want to be rich, famous or anything. I just want to be left alone to play piano, my way, and mind my own business. And I don't . . . want . . . to go ... to . . . Venus!" He shook Hartford like a wet bundle of rags with each emphasis, almost screaming himself with the urgent need to get the idea through. "Just go away. Leave me alone. Tell him you couldn't find me."
"Wait!" Hartford pleaded. "Leggo a minute. Let's talk sense, Tone. Let go of me, will you?" He got his throat and jacket free, shook himself, swiped the rain from his face. "Look," he said. "Do me a favor, boy. I done plenty for you, in the past. I've treated you right, ain't I? Well then,
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just for me, Tone. He gave me a thousand solars, remember? That's more loot than I ever had before in all my life. But I haven't got it yet. I get the rest of it when I produce you, at his hotel. Is that bad? Is that selling you? Is it?"
"I won't go. I don't want to hear about it."
"What's the matter with you? Look, all you have to do is come with me, let me deliver you. That's all. That gets me clear, and the loot in my hand. That's what I want. After that, you can do what you like. You can always say no, can't you? It's up to you, isn't it?"
"I don't want it. I'm not going. I don't want to be famous, a big public figure. I don't want to be rich. I just want to be left alone I"
"Publicity, that's what you're scared of, isn't it?" Hartford's keen senses had not entirely deserted him. "And you think this is the way to do it? You're crazy. If Harper doesn't get you, just the way he wants, you'll be the most famous wanted man there ever was, don't you see that?"
The new idea shocked Anthony into acute misery. It was so obvious as to be unarguable. He dropped his grasping hands, and stood, feeling the chill rain seeping through his cheap clothes. Hartford's rat-bright eyes watched, calculatingly;
"It's right, Tone, isn't it?" he said, shrewdly. "You don't use a man like Harper that way, and get off. He's rich, Tone. He could buy London and sell it again, and only use his small change."
"What can I do, Greg?" Anthony's rage had dissolved along with the soaking rain. "What can I do?"
"I think you must be raving mad, anyway, boy, but if you really want to sneak out of this deal, the only way is to stop Harper from wanting you. There's a man who's used to getting what he wants. And he wants you, and the thrush . . . Hold it!" His attitude changed, suddenly, and his lean face tightened as he flashed urgent glances through the gloom. Now Anthony could hear them, too. Shuffling steps, grunts, and the spine-twitching aura of menace. Just out of visibility, figures and approached, perhaps six or seven, threatening shadows.
"Yobs!" Hartford jerked. "Get by the lamp-post, quick!" He moved a hand, and Anthony gasped as a long glittering thing appeared. A knife!
"All right!" Hartford shrilled, into the gloom. "Who's to be first, and slip his guts on the pavement, eh? Come on, come on!" he waved the blade in a slow, professional semicircle. Over his shoulder he said, breathlessly, "Get close to the lamp, and scream!"
Anthony stumbled backwards until the concrete upright nudged between his shoulder-blades, but he couldn't scream, couldn't even imagine what Hartford meant. He'd heard of yobs, those faceless, light-shunning back-street runners who came out only at night, to rob for enough to live on until the next night. The unusable, under-equipped misfits that any society will throw up, no matter how carefully it may be designed. But why scream? He stared into the gloom, past Hartford, and felt that the menace had halted at sight of that cold blade.
"Scream, dammit!" Hartford whispered. "Oh, never mind, 111 do it myself!" and he put his head back, lean face staring wetly up into the harsh light, and screamed, a high ululation that split the quiet like an obscenity. Drawing breath, he let go again, and Anthony could hear scuffling feet, knew that the creeping shadows had turned tail, were running away.
"Microphone in the lamp, Tone. There's one in every lamp, down the side-streets. Come on, run for it. The cops will be here inside five minutes, and they won't know us from any other yob. Come on."
Back in lighted streets, with the comforting buzz of traffic and the scurrying pedestrians to dodge, Hartford dropped into a fast stroll.
"Was a yob myself, once, Tone. I know the tricks, and the hiding places. You're only a spit and a jump from that life, yourself, you know that? Living on National Income, just enough to buy food and pay rent, and a bit over, from Luigi. You got no tolerance, boy. No leeway. Nothing to fall back on, if you're sick."
Anthony heard him only dimly. He was still grappling with the fact that Hartford had had that knife handy, all the while he was being throttled, but had not drawn it to defend himself. Why not? And where had that murderous impulse come from? Anthony had not raised a hand in anger, nor even thought an aggressive thought, against any one person since leaving school. It had been his nature to retreat, to evade, to go away.
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"Know what happens to a yob, if they catch him, Tone? Goes to a clinic, that's what. There's something wrong with him, see? So they shove juice through his skull, scramble his brains, shoot him full of drugs, and then teach him to be good and useful, get rid of all his daft ideas and give him to the Human Employment Office. Of course, he's stupid from then on, but there's plenty of jobs for stupids, like waiting on at table, baby-minding, washroom attendants, barbers, valets, maids . . . personal service stuff. You fancy that kind of life, Tone?"
The barbed hook on the end of the sentence speared through Anthony's mental fog, brought him to a shocked halt.
"Me? What d'you mean? I'm not a yob!"
"You will be, boy. If you get across Harper. He's putting fame and fortune right in your lap, and you're tossing it back in his face. That is going to make him mad, and it makes you—odd. Queer, get me? So the clinic comes next. Where they make queer people into good people, and take out all those nutty ideas about playing pianos from morning till night for nothing. You, Tone. Think about it. And me. What do yo
u think he'll do to me, if I don't deliver?"
"No! Greg, no!"
"But yes, Tone. Harper can do that. Or society will do it for him, if he makes it big enough."
"What can I do, Greg? What? Tell me. You're smart, you know the tricks. What can I do?" Anthony was hardly coherent. Words never came to him easily. Pictures were much more vivid. Pictures and sounds. One vague horror tugged one way. That was the clinic, undefined, and the death of his music. On the other side lay Venus, equally vague and undefined, equally unthinkable. "What can I do?"
"Hang on. Get in there and keep still." Hartford motioned to the shiny-wet blackness of an auto-cab crouching by the curb. "Costing me a fortune, you are." They had come back to the Cellar, now. "Had that cab waiting ever since you ran away. Now stay there, and I'll get the lady, if she hasn't run off too. That would be just my luck."
Anthony fumbled the door open, climbed in the back and settled, wetly, against the cushions. His little unhappy world of uneasy quiet on the fringe of life had fallen to pieces and he felt naked. What could he do? The door
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opened again, and Miss Merrill came in, head down and knees showing, brushing rain from her bronze hair. Anthony saw that the bronze gave way to jet black where the rain had struck.
"Where did you go?" she asked. "What did you want to run off like that for. Mr. Harper was furious."
"Do you actually want to go to Venus?"
"Are you kidding? I'd go anywhere, twice, for the land of money Harper's got. And for singing!"
"Is that why you sing, for money?"
"Why not. Isn't that what you play a piano for, then?"
He shook himself away from her, turned his nose to the window. The cab bounced as Hartford got in and slammed the door.
John Rackham Page 3