The Metallic Muse Read Online Free PDF Page B

started for the multichord. The tumult began the moment the customers saw him. They abandoned Marigold Manning, leaped to their feet, and began a stomping, howling ovation. When Baque paused to acknowledge it, Marigold and her escort were staring openmouthed at the nondescript man who could inspire such undignified enthusiasm. Her exclamation rang out sharply as Baque seated himself at the multichord and the ovation faded to an expectant silence. “What the hell!” Baque shrugged and started to play. When Marigold finally left, after a brief conference with Lankey, her escort still hadn’t got his Martian whisky. The next evening Lankey greeted Baque with both fists full of telenotes. “What a hell of a mess this is! You see this Marigold dame’s program this morning?” Baque shook his head. “I haven’t watched visiscope since I came to work here.” “In case it interests you, you were—what does she call it?—a ‘Marigold Exclusive’ on visiscope this morning. Erlin Baque, the famous tunesmith, is now playing the multichord in a queer little restaurant called the Lankey-Pank Out. If you want to hear some amazing music, wander out to the New Jersey Space Port and listen to Baque. Don’t miss it. The experience of a lifetime.” Lankey swore and waved the telenotes. “Queer, she calls us. Now I’ve got ten thousand requests for reservations, some from as far away as Budapest and Shanghai. And our capacity is five hundred, counting standing room. Damn that woman! We already had all the business we could handle.” “You need a bigger place,” Baque said. “Yes. Well, confidentially, I’ve got my eye on a big warehouse. It’ll seat a thousand, at least. We’ll clean up. I’ll give you a contract to take charge of the music.” Baque shook his head. “How about opening a big place uptown? Attract people that have more money to spend. You run it, and I’ll bring in the customers.” Lankey caressed his flattened nose thoughtfully. “How do we split?” “Fifty-fifty,” Baque said. “No,” Lankey said, shaking his head slowly. “I play fair, Baque, but fifty-fifty wouldn’t be right on a deal like that. I’d have to put up all the money myself. I’ll give you one-third to handle the music.”
    They had a lawyer draw up a contract. Baque’s lawyer. Lankey insisted on that.
     
    In the bleak gray of early morning Baque sleepily rode the crowded conveyer toward his apartment. It was the peak rush load, when commuters jammed against each other and snarled grumpily when a neighbor shifted his feet. The crowd seemed even heavier than usual, but Baque shrugged off the jostling and elbowing and lost himself in thought. It was time that he found a better place to live. He hadn’t minded the dumpy apartment as long as he could afford nothing better, but Val had been complaining for years. And now when they could move, when they could have a luxury apartment or even a small home over in Pennsylvania, Val refused to go. Didn’t want to leave her friends, she said. Mulling over this problem in feminine contrariness, Baque realized suddenly that he was approaching his own stop. He attempted to move toward a deceleration strip— he shoved firmly, he tried to step between his fellow riders, he applied his elbows, first gently and then viciously. The crowd about him did not yield. “I beg your pardon,” Baque said, making another attempt. “I get off here.” This time a pair of brawny arms barred his way. “Not this morning, Baque. You got an appointment uptown.” Baque flung a glance at the circle of hard, grinning faces that surrounded him. With a sudden effort he hurled himself sideways, fighting with all of his strength. The arms hauled him back roughly. “Uptown, Baque. If you want to go dead, that’s your affair.” “Uptown,” Baque agreed. At a public parking strip they left the conveyer. A flyer was waiting for them, a plush, private job that displayed a high-priority X registration number.