Diamond Star Read Online Free PDF Page A

me," Ricki said.
    " 'Nothing.' Just play the music on his ticker."
    "That's it?" What was Mac doing, wasting her time with someone who wasn't ready? She was tempted to tell Del to forget it. She had worked with Mac a long time, though. For the sake of that relationship, she would give this kid a few minutes.
    "What's he going to sing?" she asked.
    "I don't know." The comm crackled the way it did when Greg shook his head and his hair brushed the oversized collar of those metallic shirts he wore. "He's going to, uh, warm up."
    "Well, hell." Ricki couldn't believe this. "He couldn't be bothered to warm up before his audition?"
    "Can't say. It's not like he doesn't know what he's doing. He isn't nervous at all. It's weird."
    "Why does he need a mike? The studio can pick up his voice."
    "He wanted something to hold."
    "Huh." Ricki didn't care if he wanted a michael, mike, or mic as it was historically called, after the antique word microphone. Added to everything else, though, it didn't help her opinion of him.
    Down in the studio, Del flicked on the mike. "Hello?" His voice rumbled with a sultry quality. It sounded good even when Ricki was pissed off.
    She put a comm in her ear that linked to the cockpit so she and Greg could converse without Del overhearing. Then she switched on the audio to the studio below where Del waited. "Go ahead and start," she said.
    Del looked up with a jerk, then glanced around, obviously trying to figure out where her voice came from. Ricki swore under her breath.
    "What did you say?" Greg asked over her ear comm.
     she answered. She formed the word without speaking. Sensors in her body picked up her throat motions and transmitted signals to the plug in her ear, which converted them into words and sent them to Greg.
    Ricki wondered if this Del had lied about being with Mac. The front-liner wasn't even here. One minute. She would give Del one minute to convince her otherwise. Then he was out.
    Del sang a note, and his voice came out clear and full. Great. He could do one note. She ought to jump for joy.
    "Greg, could you play an E4?" Del said.
    "Sure," Greg said over the studio comm. A tone rang out with the same pitch as Del's note. Del tried a few more and had Greg play notes afterward.
     Ricki asked.
    "Checking his pitch, I think," Greg said. "It's perfect, Ricki. No accompaniment, no help, nothing. Perfect pitch."
     she allowed.
    "Sure," Greg said. "It doesn't mean he can sing worth shit, but at least he'll hit the right notes."
    Ricki grunted. She didn't care about perfect pitch. If the slag hit a wrong note, Greg edited it out and put in the right one. Some of her acts couldn't sing at all, and almost none of them could solo in live performances without enhancement. She had her doubts real talent existed.
    A thought curled up from the recesses of Ricki's mind. There had been a time when she believed in the beauty of art for its own sake, the power of a song, some shining quality that transcended the human condition--
    No. That stupid, naive nobody had learned her lesson long ago. If you let yourself be sidetracked by some supposedly higher ideal, people took advantage of you.
    Down in the studio, Del quit with the single notes and did some exercise thing, ah-ah-ah, repeating the pattern higher each time. He started in a bass voice and worked smoothly into the highest baritone range. He had obviously done classical work, which was almost unheard of in the artists Ricki auditioned. Personally she found opera boring, but she knew the value of the training. Whether or not Del could translate it into a marketable holo-vid style was another story, but she was willing to give him a few more minutes.
    He hit the A above middle C, a high note for a baritone. Then he headed down two octaves--and more. Ricki listened, amazed, as he went deeper until he rumbled below the bottom range of a bass. The few singers she knew who carried that voice so well had