into the 'chora with a will, driving out the face of the woman who was not his wife and replacing it with the vision of the song.
His fingers fluttered up and down the scales an instant, then found the harsh beat again and filled the room with it, the sound echoing in his throbbing head. His hands fumbled, then recovered. He captured the rhythm with his right hand and began to weave melody around it with his left. He increased the tempo, found a suggestion of an older rhythm, moved into that there . . . .
His right hand left the beat for a moment, switching stops and ranges, intensifying sound. The images drew back from him. The names of the dead he'd known and the faces of those who'd died nameless lay back down, battered into restless submission, into uneasy sleep, by the force of the music.
There came another recognition, almost lost in the music's swirl: this was a talent that belonged to Val Con yos'Phelium, learned and nurtured from joy, not from need.
The driving beats slowed into others; he played what his fingers found and realized that he was playing a lament from a planet he had visited in his early Scouting days. He added to it; he dropped it to its sparest bones, and slowed it even more. He reached an end of it and found that his hands had stopped.
The sound remained in the room for a few moments more as the 'chora slowly let the dirge go, then he dropped his head against the stopfascia, drained. Emotionless.
Bed, he thought with crystal clarity. Rest. Go now.
He stood and she was there, the stranger who had saved his life, standing at the open door to the bedroom, red hair loose, vest and gun gone, shirt unlaced. Her gray eyes regarded him straightly. He did not recognize the expression on her face.
She bowed slightly, hands together in the Terran mode.
"Thank you," she said, and bowed again, turning quickly to enter her room.
"You're welcome," he said, but the door was closed.
He walked carefully across the room to the second closed door. He did not remember passing through or lying down to sleep.
Chapter Four
MIRI WOKE AND stretched slowly, eyes focusing on the clock across the room. Ten hours and change had passed since she'd lain down to sleep. Not too bad. She rolled out and headed for the shower.
Half an hour later, sun-dried and refreshed, she pulled her gun from beneath the pillow, slipped it into the deep pocket of the coverall the valet had supplied, and went in search of protein, carbohydrates, and ideas.
What she found first in the kitchen was coffee! Brewed from real Terran bean, this beverage sat steaming at her right hand as she ordered food and then dialed up the mid-morning local news on the screen set into the table.
The lead story bored her. Something about an explosion at local Terran Party headquarters. One man killed, two injured, one Terrence O'Grady sought in the apparent bombing. An image of O'Grady appeared—it bored her, too, and she hit the REMOVE key in search of something useful.
Transport crash. No lives lost. Robotics Commission to convene today . . . . REMOVE, she said to herself and punched the key.
She took a sip of coffee, savoring it as much as she had the previous night's liquor. Some people get the right jobs, she thought. Scotch and coffee . . . .
She canceled three more articles in rapid succession, then paused to scan the brief story about six bodies found in an alley in the warehouse district. Juntavas work, police speculated.
A little farther on she stopped the text to read about a rash of vehicle thefts, including four robot cabs. All the cabs had been found in a lot at the spaceport, engines running, memories wiped. She smiled—he hadn't told her where he'd sent them—and hit REMOVE. The paper scrolled across the screen, through Obits and into Classified, as she continued with breakfast.
Juntavas work.
It was unfortunate that anyone had connected the incident to the Juntavas. If she'd been found dead by
His fingers fluttered up and down the scales an instant, then found the harsh beat again and filled the room with it, the sound echoing in his throbbing head. His hands fumbled, then recovered. He captured the rhythm with his right hand and began to weave melody around it with his left. He increased the tempo, found a suggestion of an older rhythm, moved into that there . . . .
His right hand left the beat for a moment, switching stops and ranges, intensifying sound. The images drew back from him. The names of the dead he'd known and the faces of those who'd died nameless lay back down, battered into restless submission, into uneasy sleep, by the force of the music.
There came another recognition, almost lost in the music's swirl: this was a talent that belonged to Val Con yos'Phelium, learned and nurtured from joy, not from need.
The driving beats slowed into others; he played what his fingers found and realized that he was playing a lament from a planet he had visited in his early Scouting days. He added to it; he dropped it to its sparest bones, and slowed it even more. He reached an end of it and found that his hands had stopped.
The sound remained in the room for a few moments more as the 'chora slowly let the dirge go, then he dropped his head against the stopfascia, drained. Emotionless.
Bed, he thought with crystal clarity. Rest. Go now.
He stood and she was there, the stranger who had saved his life, standing at the open door to the bedroom, red hair loose, vest and gun gone, shirt unlaced. Her gray eyes regarded him straightly. He did not recognize the expression on her face.
She bowed slightly, hands together in the Terran mode.
"Thank you," she said, and bowed again, turning quickly to enter her room.
"You're welcome," he said, but the door was closed.
He walked carefully across the room to the second closed door. He did not remember passing through or lying down to sleep.
Chapter Four
MIRI WOKE AND stretched slowly, eyes focusing on the clock across the room. Ten hours and change had passed since she'd lain down to sleep. Not too bad. She rolled out and headed for the shower.
Half an hour later, sun-dried and refreshed, she pulled her gun from beneath the pillow, slipped it into the deep pocket of the coverall the valet had supplied, and went in search of protein, carbohydrates, and ideas.
What she found first in the kitchen was coffee! Brewed from real Terran bean, this beverage sat steaming at her right hand as she ordered food and then dialed up the mid-morning local news on the screen set into the table.
The lead story bored her. Something about an explosion at local Terran Party headquarters. One man killed, two injured, one Terrence O'Grady sought in the apparent bombing. An image of O'Grady appeared—it bored her, too, and she hit the REMOVE key in search of something useful.
Transport crash. No lives lost. Robotics Commission to convene today . . . . REMOVE, she said to herself and punched the key.
She took a sip of coffee, savoring it as much as she had the previous night's liquor. Some people get the right jobs, she thought. Scotch and coffee . . . .
She canceled three more articles in rapid succession, then paused to scan the brief story about six bodies found in an alley in the warehouse district. Juntavas work, police speculated.
A little farther on she stopped the text to read about a rash of vehicle thefts, including four robot cabs. All the cabs had been found in a lot at the spaceport, engines running, memories wiped. She smiled—he hadn't told her where he'd sent them—and hit REMOVE. The paper scrolled across the screen, through Obits and into Classified, as she continued with breakfast.
Juntavas work.
It was unfortunate that anyone had connected the incident to the Juntavas. If she'd been found dead by
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