Blue Adept

by Piers Anthony

  Now it was Stile’s turn. Clef lowered his instrument and stood silently, as Stile had. The music screen lit before Stile with the printed music. Actually, Stile did not need it; he could reproduce it from his memory of Clef’s performance. But he looked at it anyway, because he did not want to make any single false note. Nothing that would jar the audience out of its rapport.

  Stile played. From the start, his hands moved well. The harmonica seemed to be animated with all the experiences Stile had had from the time he discovered it, there in the great valley between the Purple Mountains and the White Mountains in the lovely frame of Phaze. He thought of Neysa as he played, and it was as if he were playing for her, with her again, loving it. Every note was true; he knew he would make no errors.

  But he was not playing for himself or for Neysa now. He was performing for an audience. Stile refocused on that, passing his gaze over the people, meeting eyes, leaning forward. He tapped his bare heel, not to keep the beat for himself but to show the audience. A toe could tap unobtrusively, but a heel made the entire leg move; it was obvious. The people started picking it up, their own legs moving. Stile caught the eye of a young woman, and played a brief passage seemingly for her alone, then went on to another person, bringing each one in to him.

  It was a responsive audience. Soon most of the people were swaying to the music, nodding their heads, tapping their heels. He was working them up, making them part of his act, giving them the thrill of participation. Together, they all played the harmonica.

  Suddenly it ended. The piece was over. Had it been enough?

  The moment Stile put down his instrument, the audience burst into enthusiastic applause. Stile glanced at Clef—and found the man staring, his lips parted. Clef, it seemed, had not realized that music could be played this way, that it could be hurled out into the audience like a boomerang, and bring that audience back into its ambience. Perhaps Clef considered this a degradation of the form. No matter; Stile had won his audience.

  Sure enough, the announcement verified the split decision. “Expertise, first player, Clef. Social content, second player, Stile. Draw.” For the benefit of the audience, the Computer was not employing the assigned Player numbers now.

  Clef shook his head ruefully. “You showed me something, Stile. You played very well.”

  Stile’s reply was forestalled by another announcement by the computer. “It is an option of the Game Computer to require a continuation of a drawn match in the Tourney. This option is now exercised. The contestants will perform a medley in duet, the parts alternating as marked on the score. A panel of qualified musicians will be the final arbiter.”

  Oh, no! Stile had thought himself safe. A new trap had suddenly closed on him. But there was nothing to do except play it out, despite a judgment that would surely be unfavorable to him. He would not be able to evoke the confused passions of an audience of experts.

  There was an intermission while the panel was assembled. “This is new to me,” Clef said. “Is there a precedent?”

  “I’ve heard of it,” Stile said. “But normally it is invoked only when the contestants can’t agree on the draw and insist on playing it out.”

  “Is it fair? I hardly object to finishing this in Music, but it seems to me you should prefer—I mean, a panel of musicians—”

  “Is likely to favor the musician,” Stile agreed. “I might win the audience again, but not the computer or the panel. You’re bound to take it.”

  “You must lodge a protest!”

  “No good,” Stile said. “The Computer does have the option. I’m stuck for it. I knew the rules when I entered the Tourney.” And this was very likely the end of his participation in it. So close to the key Round, secured by that prize of tenure!

  “I don’t like this at all,” Clef said. “I do want to win, and I’ll have to play my best, but there is a fundamental inequity here on more than one level. It is not merely that the odds of your winning are greatly in your favor if we go to a new grid. It is that you have a chance to go considerably farther in the Tourney than I do; you are a skilled player, while my skills are largely limited to this particular pursuit. You should be allowed to continue, for I shall surely be eliminated in the next Round or two.”

  “Play your best,” Stile said. “Chance is always a factor in the Game. Someone always profits, someone always loses. I do have another resource.” Stile knew he faced disaster, but his liking for this honest man increased. How much better it was to lose to superior talent than to blind chance!

  “While we wait—would you be so kind as to explain to me how you make the audience respond like that? I saw it, but I have never been able to do that. I rather envy it.”

  Stile shrugged. “It’s apart from the music itself, yet also the essence of it. Basically you have to achieve rapport with the people you’re performing for. You have to feel.”

  “But that isn’t music!” Clef protested.

  “That is the vital spirit of music,” Stile insisted. “Sonic emotion. The transmission of mood and feeling from one person to another. The instrument is merely the means. The notes are merely means. Music itself is only a process, not the end.”

  “I don’t know. This is like heresy, to me. I love music, pure music. Most people and most institutions fall short of the ideal; they are imperfect. Music is the ideal.”

  “You can’t separate them,” Stile said, finding this exploration interesting. “You are thinking of music as pearls, and the audience as swine, but in truth pearls are the accretions of the irritation of a clam, while the audience is mankind. These things must go together to have meaning. Like man and woman, there’s so much lost when apart …”

  “Like man and woman,” Clef echoed. “That too, I have never quite understood.”

  “It’s not easy,” Stile said, thinking of the Lady Blue and her violent shifts of attitude during their last encounter. “But until—”

  He was interrupted by the Game Computer. “The panel has been assembled. Proceed.” Musical scores appeared before Clef and Stile. The sound of a metronome gave them the countdown. Quickly each lifted his harmonica to his mouth.

  It was an intricate medley, highly varied, with segments of popular, folk and classical music from Planet Earth. The two ranges counterpointed each other nicely. The audience listened raptly. The music of a single instrument could be excellent, but the action of two instruments in harmony was qualitatively as well as quantitatively superior.

  Stile found that he liked this composite piece. He was playing well—even better than before. Partly it was the inherent joy of the counterpoint, always a pleasure; that was why he and Neysa had played together so often. But more, it was Clef; the musician played so well that Stile needed to make no allowances. He could depend on Clef, lean on him, knowing there would be no error, no weakness. Stile could do his utmost. Everything was keyed correctly for takeoff.

  Stile took off. He played his part with feeling, absorbing the rapture of that perfect harmony. He saw the audience reacting, knowing the technique was working. He put just a little syncopation in it, adding to the verve of the presentation. The Computer would scale him down for that, of course; it could not comprehend any slightest deviation from the score. To hell with that; Stile was lost anyway. He could not exceed his opponent’s perfection of conformance, and had to go for his best mode. He had to go down in the style he preferred. He refused to be bound by the limitations of machine interpretation. He had to feel. And—he was doing that well.

  Then he became more specifically aware of Clef’s playing. The man had started out in perfect conformance to the score, but Stile’s deviations had forced him to deviate somewhat also, for as a musician he could not tolerate the separation of efforts. The piece had to have its unity. Now, amazingly, Clef was making deviations of his own. Not by any great amount, but Stile could tell, and it was certain the musicians on the panel could, and the Computer would be having inanimate fits. Clef certainly knew better; why was he doing it?
/>   Because he was picking up the feel. Uncertainly at first, then with greater confidence. With dismaying acuity, Clef was following Stile’s lead, emulating him, achieving the same rapport with the human element. But Clef retained his special expertise. Already he was playing Stile’s way—better than Stile was doing himself. Stile had to retreat, to play “straight” in support of Clef’s effort; otherwise the integrity of the medley would suffer, and it was too fine as music to let suffer. Clef had preempted feeling.

  Now the medley swung into a classical fragment Stile recognized—the Choral Symphony—Beethoven’s Ninth. Marvelous music never heard by the deaf composer. A beautiful piece—and Clef was playing his theme with inspired brilliance. Stile found his emotions split; part of him was sinking into resignation, knowing there was no way to match this, that he was in fact losing Computer, panel and audience votes, that he had washed out of the Tourney at last. The other part of him was reveling in the sheer delight of the Ode to Joy, of the finest playing he had ever done on any level, the finest duet he had ever participated in. Neysa’s horn was an excellent harmonica—but it had to be conceded that Clef’s instrument was a better one. The man was putting it all together in a way no other could. And—Clef himself was reveling in it, moving his body dynamically, transported—as was Stile too, and the entire audience. What an experience!

  The music ended. Slowly the emotion of the moment settled out of Stile. He descended from his high and came to grips with the onset of reality. He had, without question, been outplayed. If there was a finer musician in all the universe than Clef, Stile could hardly imagine it.

  Clef stood silent, eyes downcast. There was no applause from the audience. There was only the muted murmuring of the five musicians on the panel, comparing notes, consulting, arguing fine points. Stile wondered why they bothered; there was no question in anyone’s mind who had played better. Stile had only torpedoed himself, explaining the secret of feeling to his opponent; the man had caught on brilliantly. Yet Stile could not really bring himself to regret it, despite the consequence; it had been such a pleasure to share the experience. His loss on the slot machine had been degrading, pointless, unsatisfying; his loss here was exhilarating. If it were ever worthwhile to sacrifice a kingdom for a song, this had been the song. Something of miraculous beauty had been created here, for a small time; it had been a peak of performance Stile knew he would never truly regret. Better this magnificent defeat, than a cheap victory.

  The foreman of the musicians signaled the Computer pickup. “Decision is ready,” the Computer’s voice came immediately. “This dual performance has been declared the finest overall rendering of the instrument of the harmonica, and is therefore ensconced in the Tourney archives as a lesson example. A special prize of one year’s extension of tenure is awarded to the loser of this contest.”

  Stile’s head jerked up. Salvation! This was the prize slated for those who made it to the next Round, that he had just missed. Not as good as a victory, but far, far better than a loss.

  The odd thing was that Clef seemed to be reacting identically. Why should he be concerned with an award to the loser? He should be flushed with the victory.

  “The advisory decision of the Computer: Clef,” the computer continued after a pause. “The advisory decision of the audience, as recorded by tabulation of those receiving the broadcast of this match: Clef.”

  Yes, of course. Clef had won both the technical and social votes this time, deservedly. Stile walked across to shake his opponent’s hand.

  “The decision of the panel of judges,” the Computer continued. “Stile.”

  Stile extended his hand to Clef. “Congratulations,” he said.

  “Therefore the Round goes to Stile,” the Computer concluded.

  Stile froze in midgesture. “What?”

  The Computer answered him. “Advisory opinions do not have binding force. Stile is the winner of this contest. Please clear the chamber for ensuing matches.”

  “But—” Stile protested, dumbfounded. Then he was drowned out by the tumultuous applause of the local audience, abruptly augmented by that of the speaker system as it carried the reaction of the larger, unseen audience.

  Clef took him firmly by the arm, leading him through the colossal din to the exit. Bemused, unbelieving, Stile suffered himself to be guided out.

  A line of people had formed in the hall. At the head of it was the Rifleman. The Citizen grabbed Stile’s hand and pumped it. “Congratulations!” he cried. “Magnificent performance!” Then the others were congratulating him in turn, until Sheen got to him and began running interference.

  Clef turned to leave. “Wait!” Stile cried. “You can’t go! This is all wrong! You won! Has the planet gone crazy?”

  Clef smiled. “No, you won. I’m surprised you weren’t aware.”

  “You should enter a protest!” Stile said. “You clearly outplayed me. I think you’re the finest musician on the planet!”

  Sheen guided them to seats on the capsule home.

  “I may be so—now,” Clef said. “You showed me how to alleviate the major weakness in my skill. I owe it to you.”

  “Then how—?”

  Clef smiled. “It is a pleasure to have the privilege of educating you as you educated me. You recall how we played separately, to a split decision?”

  “Indeed,” Stile said wryly.

  “And how you then explained to me the manner music is a participatory endeavor? Not every man an island?”

  “Yes, of course! You proved to be an apt student!”

  “A duet is a joint endeavor. Each must help the other, or it fails.”

  “Of course. But—”

  “A man who plays well alone, can play better in company—if he has proper support. Harmony and counterpoint enable a new dimension of effect.”

  “Yes, I played better, because I knew you would make no error. Still—you played better yet. I think you improved more than I did.”

  “I am sure this is the case. Because you provided more support to me than I provided to you,” Clef said. “I gave you merely good technical performance, at the outset; you gave me the essence of feeling. You showed me how. I was never able to accomplish it on my own, but in tandem with you I felt the living essence at last, the heart and spirit of music. I was infused by it, I merged with its potent pulse, and for the first time in my life—I flew.”

  “And you won!” Stile cried. “I agree with everything you said. You and I both know you profited greatly, and played my way better than I ever played in my life. You went from student to master in one phenomenal leap! Surely the panel of judges saw that!”

  “Of course they did. I have known all of the members of that panel for years, and they know me. We have played together often.”

  And this panel of friends had given the match—to Stile? Was it overcompensation?

  The capsule stopped. Sheen took each man by the arm and guided him on toward the apartment.

  “Therefore you won,” Stile said. “That’s obvious.”

  “Let me approach this from another angle, lest you be as obtuse as I was. If you play solo on one instrument and it is good, then play the same piece on another instrument of the same type and it is better, wherein lies the source of the improvement?”

  “In the instrument,” Stile said. “My skill on similar instruments is presumed to be constant.”

  “Precisely. Now if you play a duet with one person, then with another, and your performance stands improved on the second—?”

  “Then probably the other player is superior, enabling me to—” Stile paused. It was beginning to penetrate. “If I improve because of the other player, it’s him that really makes the difference!”

  “When we played together, I improved more than you did,” Clef said. “Who, then, contributed more to the joint effort? The one who flew the heights—or the one who lifted him there?”

  “That duet—it was not to show individual expertise,” Stile said, working it out. “It w
as to show cooperative expertise. How each person fit in as part of a team. Yet surely the Computer did not see it that way; the machine lacks the imagination. So it shouldn’t have—”

  “The machine was not the final arbiter. The musicians saw it that way, and their vote was decisive.”

  The human mind remained more complex than the most sophisticated of machines! Of course the musicians had imposed their standard! “So I supported your effort—”

  “More than I supported yours,” Clef finished. “You gave way to me; you made the sacrifice, for the benefit of the piece. You were the better team player. You contributed more significantly to the total production. Therefore you proved your overall participation to be better than mine. You would have made anyone shine. This is the subtle point the Computer and audience missed, but the musical experts understood. They knew it was from you I derived the ability that enabled me to make the best individual performance of my life. You are the sort of musician who belongs in a group; your talent facilitates that of others.”

  Again Stile thought of his many playing sessions with Neysa, those happy hours riding. Their music had always been beautiful. “I—suppose so,” he said, still amazed.

  Clef extended his hand. “Now permit me to congratulate you on your deserved victory. You are the better man, and I wish you well in the Tourney.”

  “Victor, perhaps, thanks to an unusual judgment. Better man, no.” Stile took the hand. “But if you lost—you can no longer play here on Proton.”

  “I do have one more year, thanks to the special award. We did incidentally render the finest harmonica recital in the Proton records. But this becomes irrelevant. I no longer need Proton. You have given the universe to me! With the skill you have shown me, I can play anywhere, for exorbitant fees. I can live like a Citizen. I have gained so much more than I have lost!”

  “I suppose so,” Stile said, relieved. “A musician of your caliber—the best that any audience is likely to encounter—” He paused, another massive realization coming upon him. “Your preferred instrument is the flute?”