Archform Beauty

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Midway through, I did Dorn Clayton's supposed favorite—"My Funny Valentine.” At the end, I launched into one of the old musical numbers—"Climb Ev'ry Mountain"—which took a little effort, and then "Send in the Clowns.”

  I finished with a rousing old spiritual, "Ride on, King Jesus.”

  As I'd expected, there was much more applause for the Golden Age vocals than for the art songs. "I'm starved,” Marco announced. "Then let's eat.” As I headed toward the buffet table, we eased past a younger group. My ears are too keen, sometimes.

  "No kick to the music.”

  "It's one track. All the old stuff is.”

  "Rezrap has more juice. Even rezpop does.” I kept walking, although I would have liked to say something. Hired help knows its place, but I was seething. I piled more food than I should have on my plate. As I turned away from the table, a man spoke. "You're Professor Cornett? I expected… someone different.”

  He was older, that I could tell from his eyes, but tall, with a warm smile and white-blond hair. He had the build of someone who worked out because he had to, not because he enjoyed it. I felt I should recognize him from somewhere.

  "I teach at the university, but I'm only adjunct. The title of professor is a courtesy.”

  "I think I've heard you sing before,” he added, "but I couldn't say where.”

  "I've sung a few recitals there.”

  "I fear I've missed those.”

  "What do you do?" I didn't want to ask his name. Since he seemed to think I should know, I wasn't about to prove my ignorance.

  "I'm in politics.” He smiled, as if amused. It was a rueful smile, and clearly not a condescending one.

  "You look more like a distinguished historian.” I didn't know exactly what to say. I didn't want to ask another question that would reveal I knew next to nothing about politicians. He was probably very important, or he wouldn't have been at the Claytons' soiree.

  "I find that amusing. Historians are even less objective and more self-serving than politicians, and we're not known for being either objective or altruistic.”

  He was a politician. He'd say that. Just like Dean Donald or Dr. Hinckle would offer amusing self-deprecation, just before they capitulated and repudiated another aspect of thought and beauty.

  "We do have a few virtues. For example, if we don't listen to our constituents we don't stay in office. How many people do you know who really listen?"

  "Not many,” I had to admit. "But just because that's what people want doesn't make it right.”

  "The Burke argument.” He nodded.

  I hadn't the faintest idea what he meant. I wasn't sure I cared.

  "Edmund Burke—eighteenth-century Irish politician and political theorist. He argued that a politician owed his constituents his best judgment, not necessarily slavish adherence to the will of the people.”

  "You'd put your judgment first?"

  "Not necessarily. I do listen and then decide.”

  I must have looked skeptical.

  "All right, Professor.” He smiled again. "I'm listening. Tell me what you think I should do.” He held up a hand. "But make it something I can actually do, and tell me why it's a good idea.”

  He was probably right about insisting that whatever brilliant idea I had should actually be able to be done. I had to think, and I'm never good at thinking when I'm put on a spot, particularly when it's by someone powerful that I don't know.

  "Support beauty in the arts,” I finally said.

  "How would you have me do that? And why?"

  I hated being put on the defensive in situations like that. "Because… because beauty, it's not the same thing as being popular.” I felt like my tongue was tied.

  He waited, still looking at me. That embarrassed me, too.

  "Art song, what I was singing, that has a beauty. In any time. Even most of the best Golden Age vocals do, but they don't pay much now. I do rezads. I have to, to make a living, I mean.” I swallowed, wondering why I was bothering. He'd pretend to listen, and then do what everyone else wanted. But I'd never have another chance. Certainly, no one at the university even pretended to listen. So I plunged on. "When society, government, business… when they just give people what they want, it's not art. It's not beauty. It's like the ancient Romans and their bread and circuses. And things get worse, not better. There's more violence… isn't that what happened with the first Collapse?" I looked at him. "Go on…”

  "I once had a professor who said that you can't improve people or society by pandering to them. You have to challenge them, and give them examples of good singing, and good art, and excellence.”

  "What if people don't want that?"

  "Most people… even me… we're afraid of the unfamiliar. The good and the truly beautiful in music… if people don't get to hear them in school and when they're young, then they'll never change. At the university, they're cutting another course in music appreciation. That's because it's not popular, and the politicians and the bureaucrats listen to the votes. People think music's not relevant. But it ought to be required.” With all the effort of singing, my hair had drifted across my forehead. I flipped it back.

  "Isn't that dictatorship?" he asked with a quizzical smile.

  "We require students to be able to read, to understand economics, to learn about history. Music has been a part of every culture since the Neandertals. Shouldn't they be required to be exposed to something that's been a big part of human history since even before people could write? Shouldn't that be part of higher education? Excellence in the arts is a big part of what makes a society great. Can you name a culture that was great that didn't have great art?"

  "Isn't greatness a subjective judgment?"

  I could catch the hint of condescension in his voice. I hate people who condescend to me. "That's always what people say when they don't like something. You're in politics. I'm not. Wouldn't you say you know more about politics than I do?"

  "I'd hope so,” he said with a laugh.

  "So why does every politician and every administrator question our judgment as artists and scholars? Why can a businessman or an economist use their knowledge and be respected, but why does every parent and every politician and administrator seem to think they know more about our field than we do?" I was steaming, and I could feel my voice rising and getting harder. I tried to calm down.

  "That's a good question. You've obviously thought about it. Why do you think so?"

  I ignored the condescension. "Because everyone with any education at all thinks that they can sing or write. When the arts keep getting degraded by politicians who pander to the ignorant, and when the only question is how much money a performer makes, and not how good they are, then the arts suffer. When the arts suffer, we all suffer, because credits are used as the only measure of excellence. Credits don't measure excellence. They only measure popularity, and they're not the same thing.” I had to take a deep breath. I was almost panting.

  "You offer a good argument as to why I should do something.” He gave me that condescending smile again. "What do you suggest?"

  "You're the politician. How about something that gives more funds, or grants, to programs in music, with an emphasis on excellence in performing? Maybe a grant program for artists performing the great works of the past. And for seminars that explain that greatness.”

  "The past? Why not the present?"

  "No one's writing great music today. There's no money in it. You have to start with the past. You start with what's written now, and you reinforce mediocrity.”

  "I can see that you're passionate about your music.” Passionate… and stupid. There wasn't any future in being passionate. Dean Donald had made that clear. It was clear once more from the reactions of the tall politician.

  "I did listen. And I will promise to think about it.” He offered another smile, somehow different. "You do have beautiful eyes, Professor.” Then he inclined his head, not quite a bow, and turned away.

  "Lots of people would have paid m
illions of credits to spend that much time with Senator Cannon,” Marco said, easing back up beside me.

  "That was Senator Cannon? The Senator Cannon?" Somehow, I'd never quite connected the man who had just talked to me with the net images of Senator Cannon. Maybe that was because I'd thought of senators as aloof and unapproachable.

  "Everyone was watching you, and listening,” Marco said. "I wish I had your nerve.”

  "My stupidity, you mean.” There were so many things I could have said. I could have been far more reasonable, more rational. I could have cited figures, facts, the success that students who knew music had… and it had all gone out the window with my stupid passion.

  And if he found out that I'd been singing his rezads? Would I lose those, too?

  I swallowed. They were probably mostly done, and I'd been paid. But I could have used more creds. I'd contracted with the Brazelton people to have the scanners fixed, and ordered a new formulator, and those two purchases would be putting a big hole in my account.

  One of the younger men—with the fixed smile on his face that indicated he was probably on soop—brushed past me on his way out. I couldn't help but overhear what he said to the woman with him, since he clearly meant me to overhear. "Classical stuff, should have been buried with the composers…”

  I wished he'd been buried before he'd been born.

  Then I looked down at the plate heaped with delicacies. I didn't have any appetite.

  I put on a fixed smile as I saw Roberta Clayton approaching.

  Chapter 29

  Cannon

  I was tired Friday morning when I got to my office at the Legislature. That might have been because I got there by seven and because I'd stayed longer at the Claytons' than I'd planned, but Dorn had always been a strong supporter, and you don't keep supporters by ducking out of their functions early, especially not when they insist on talking to you.

  With Dewey's death, and Heber Smith masterminding Alredd's campaign, and probably Hansen's, I was going to need every supporter that I could dig up—and every angle I could turn to my advantage. Rather than look over what Ted had waiting for me, I called up a holo display of the news. NorNews. I liked the tones of the NorNet, even if it had the lowest ratings on the NorAm net. Michael Rasmussen was on the Capital News segment.

  * * * *

  "D'Amico has introduced his bill which will restrict the use of rezads to certain periods and certain segments of the broadcast spectrum… applauded by the FamilyNow! lobby… bill described as a charade by Jared Kirtley, speaking for the NorAm ComFed…

  209

  "Although the number of fatalities in NorAm from ebol4 is less than originally predicted, the disease remains a threat, particularly for children and those with circulatory problems… continues to spread worldwide…

  "The Agkhanate has repeated its denial that any member of the Talibanate was involved in the nuclear attack on the Russe shuttle Perun…

  "Halvor Freeman, President of the Martian Republic, suggested that if the guilty were not found and punished, the Republic would have to consider some form of economic sanctions against all Earth, and not just the Agkhanate…”

  * * * *

  All I needed with the campaign coming up was higher prices and shortages. CerraCraft depended heavily on such imports. How Kemal had managed getting his hands on the company, I still didn't know. I shook my head, but my concern there wasn't Kemal directly, but all the voters who worked there. When all was said and done, credits didn't vote, people did. Too many politicians forgot that. I wasn't about to.

  After hearing the news summary, I leaned back in the big black leather chair behind the desk. The singer from Clayton's soirée had intrigued me, puzzled me as well. I laughed to myself. I'd seen the look on her face when her accompanist had told her who I was. Still… her words had been unguarded, and worth more than most of what people told me.

  What if she were right? I frowned. Surely, we could work out a small program. The FamilyNow! lobby would like something that was traditional and non-rezbased. Educators always liked targeted programs, and I could use some support from the educators. At the very least, it would mute criticism from the leftists, and confuse Hansen totally.

  Ted?

  Yes, sir?

  Have a little assignment for you. See what you can find on funding for classical music studies and performance demonstrations and lectures at the university level. Also, I'd like you to think about how we could set up a small grant program to encourage it. It's the basis of all popular music, even rez stuff, and if we don't preserve some studies of it… valuable heritage, you know, that sort of thing…

  Sir… how did you want to approach that? A standalone bill… ?

  No… it's not that big an initiative. I was thinking twenty to fifty million a year for the program... very limited, no more than twenty programs across all NorAm, and a pilot program here at UDenv, not at Southern. That would be too obvious, but make sure Southern gets into the later list of twenty. We could just add that into the higher ed bill.

  Ah… I see, sir.

  I could tell he didn't. Ted… this is a little winner. Everyone's complaining about the dangerous effect of rezrap and rezpop. We can claim an initiative for pure auditory music and for heritage restoration, and family values. We start it, and have it ready… who will oppose it?

  This time I could sense the smile. I wouldn't have thought of it that way.

  Maybe you could even work something in about how sometimes the small programs are the important ones, that the small things in life are so often lost beside the big issues… but the small programs are often what shape people's lives…

  Yes, sir. You'll want this by Monday, then?

  Right.

  I was smiling as I leaned back in the chair. The professor would be astounded, especially once I found a way to put her in charge of the pilot program. She'd find that honesty paid, if inadvertently.

  She had been beautiful, too, in an intense and yet sub-dued and passionate way. I could dream, but that was about all.

  I snorted, got up, and walked to the window.

  Les Kerras for you, Senator.

  I'll take it.

  I needed to watch Les. So I sat back down at the desk and let him come across on the holo projection.

  "Senator. How are you this morning?" Les looked as polished in the holo display as he did on the netcasts, with his slightly wavy brown hair and the boyish smile.

  "Just fine.” I had a little time, and decided to see what he had in mind, and force him to bring it up.

  "Do you know Roberto Tazzi?"

  Tazzi had been one of my larger supporters, almost as much as Dorn Clayton. "I'm familiar with him. Why?"

  "I thought you'd like to know. His son was killed last night. One of those mysterious drug overdoses. You know, the ones where the DPS hasn't been able to discover any cause, except that the symptoms are OD heart failure?"

  "That's terrible.” I paused, reflecting a moment. "That's always hard on parents. It's hard on the whole family when something like that happens to a bright young person.”

  "I understand you might have seen him last night, that you were at a soiree…”

  "Actually, I did. I'd rather not have my personal life in the nets, Les, but I did talk to him briefly. He mentioned something about wanting to work in politics. He wanted to talk about it there, but it was a social occasion, and I told him to make an appointment here at the office, and that I'd be happy to talk to him.” That was almost exactly what I'd said. The young fool had been on soop, and I hadn't been about to discuss something like that in public, especially under those conditions, where anyone could hear, and I didn't want to offend Roberto.

  Les nodded. "I can understand that, especially with a rough campaign coming up.”

  "All campaigns have their challenges, Les. You know that.”

  "The rumor is that Hansen will be mounting a very aggressive campaign.”

  "He's a very capable opponent.” I smiled,
then asked, "Let me ask you a question, Les.” I paused, then went on, "Have you heard anything recently about Chris Kemal?" I watched closely.

  Kerras frowned, but it had taken him just a moment too long. He knew something.

  "There are always rumors,” he finally admitted.

  "I understand. Well… we might have some interesting news next week, Les.”

  "Let me think about that, Senator. If I can come up with something…”

  "That's fine. Just keep in touch. And… thank you for the news about the Tazzi boy. I appreciate that.”

  "You're welcome.”

  After I collapsed the holo display, I pulled out the left-hand drawer that held the personal stationery, not the office stationery, but the formal cards with just my name on them, and slowly and carefully wrote out a message of condolence to Roberto and Clarice, using the old-style fountain pen. Almost no one even knew how to write by hand anymore. There were times like this when that anachronistic touch was vital, because it showed more than special care.

  I sealed the envelope and wrote their names on the outside, then got up and walked out to the main office.

  Ciella, I've got a message that needs a hand courier. Charge it to my personal account, not the office account, I'm bringing it out.

  Yes, sir.

  When I reached her console, Ciella looked up with that smile. It might have been professional, but I still enjoyed it.

  "This is a letter of condolence to Roberto and Clarice Tazzi. Their address is in the file. Their son was killed last night. If you'd make sure this is hand-delivered today?"

  "Yes, Senator.”

  I smiled the paternal smile, then let it slip into an expression of concern. "Thank you.”

  Little things mean a lot, particularly at times when people are suffering.

  Back in my office, I stood by the window, looking westward.

  There still hadn't been much feedback on Kemal and Alredd, and that was anything but good. Before long, Alredd would have ads out indirectly attacking me. Two weeks to a month after that Hansen would jump in.