Masterpieces

by Orson Scott Card

  “I have a few connections myself, Baque. They don’t run in high society, like Denton, but they’re every bit as dishonest, and Denton has a lot of enemies who’ll be happy to back us. Said he could close me down in an hour, eh? Unfortunately there’s not much we could do that would hurt Denton, but there’s plenty we can do to keep him from hurting us.”

  “I think we’re going to hurt Denton,” Baque said.

  Lankey moved over to the bar and came back with a tall glass of pink, foaming liquid. “Drink it,” he said. “You’ve had a long day, and you’re getting delirious. How could we hurt Denton?”

  “Visiscope depends on Coms. We’ll show the people they can have entertainment without Coms. We’ll make our motto NO COMS AT LANKEY’S!”

  “Great,” Lankey drawled. “I invest a thousand in fancy new costumes for the girls—they can’t wear those plastic things in our new place, you know—and you decide not to let them sing.”

  “Certainly they’re going to sing.”

  Lankey leaned forward, caressing his nose. “And no Coms. Then what are they going to sing?”

  “I took some lyrics out of an old school book my grandfather had. Back in those days they were called poems. I’m setting them to music. I was going to try them out here, but Denton might hear about it, and there’s no use starting trouble before it’s necessary.”

  “No. Save all the trouble for the new place—after opening day we’ll be important enough to be able to handle it. And you’ll be on Morning with Marigold. Are you certain about this overtones business, Baque? You really could be projecting emotions, you know. Not that it makes any difference in the restaurant, but on visiscope—”

  “I’m certain. How soon can we open?”

  “I got three shifts remodeling the place. We’ll seat twelve hundred and still have room for a nice dance floor. Should be ready in two weeks. Baque, I’m not sure this visiscope thing is wise.”

  “I want to do it.”

  Lankey went back to the bar and got a drink for himself. “All right. You do it. If your stuff comes over, all hell is going to break loose, and I might as well start getting ready for it.” He grinned. “Damned if it won’t be good for business!”

  MARIGOLD MANNING HAD changed her hair styling to a spiraled creation by Zann of Hong Kong, and she dallied for ten minutes in deciding which profile she would present to the cameras. Baque waited patiently, his awkward feeling wholly derived from the fact that his dress suit was the most expensive clothing he had ever owned. He kept telling himself to stop wondering if perhaps he really did project emotions.

  “I’ll have it this way,” Marigold said finally, waving a hand screen in front of her face for a last, searching look. “And you, Mr. Baque? What shall we do with you?”

  “Just put me at the multichord,” Baque said.

  “But you can’t just play. You’ll have to say something. I’ve been announcing this every day for a week, and we’ll have the biggest audience in years, and you’ll just have to say something.”

  “Gladly,” Baque said, “if I can talk about Lankey’s.”

  “But of course, you silly man. That’s why you’re here. You talk about Lankey’s, and I’ll talk about Erlin Baque.”

  “Five minutes,” a voice announced crisply.

  “Oh, dear,” she said. “I’m always so nervous just before.”

  “Be happy you’re not nervous during,” Baque said.

  “That’s so right. Jimmy makes fun of me, but it takes an artist to understand another artist. Do you get nervous?”

  “When I’m playing, I’m much too busy.”

  “That’s just the way it is with me. Once my program starts, I’m much too busy.”

  “Four minutes.”

  “Oh, bother!” She seized the hand screen again. “Maybe I would be better the other way.”

  Baque seated himself at the multichord. “You’re perfect the way you are.”

  “Do you really think so? It’s a nice thing to say, anyway. I wonder if Jimmy will take the time to watch.”

  “I’m sure he will.”

  “Three minutes.”

  Baque switched on the power and sounded a chord. Now he was nervous. He had no idea what he would play. He’d intentionally refrained from preparing anything because it was his improvisations that affected people so strangely. The one thing he had to avoid was the Sex Music. Lankey had been emphatic about that.

  He lost himself in thought, failed to hear the final warning, and looked up startled at Marigold’s cheerful, “Good morning, everyone. It’s Morning with Marigold!”

  Her bright voice wandered on and on. Erlin Baque. His career as a tunesmith. Her amazing discovery of him playing in the Lankey-Pank Out. She asked the engineers to run the Tamper Cheese Com. Finally she finished her remarks and risked the distortion of her lovely profile to glance in his direction. “Ladies and gentlemen, with admiration, with pride, with pleasure, I give you a Marigold Exclusive, Erlin Baque!”

  Baque grinned nervously and tapped out a scale with one finger. “This is my first speech. Probably it’ll be my last. The new restaurant opens tonight. Lankey’s, on Broadway. Unfortunately I can’t invite you to join us, because thanks to Miss Manning’s generous comments this past week all space is reserved for the next two months. After that we’ll be setting aside a limited number of reservations for visitors from distant places. Jet over and see us!

  “You’ll find something different at Lankey’s. There is no visiscope screen. Maybe you’ve heard about that. We have attractive young ladies to sing for you. I play the multichord. We know you’ll enjoy our music. We know you’ll enjoy it because you’ll hear no Coms at Lankey’s. Remember that—no Coms at Lankey’s. No soap with your soup. No air cars with your steaks. No shirts with your desserts. No Coms! Just good food, with good music played exclusively for your enjoyment—like this.”

  He brought his hands down onto the keyboard.

  Immediately he knew that something was wrong. He’d always had a throng of faces to watch, he’d paced his playing according to their reactions. Now he had only Miss Manning and the visiscope engineers, and he was suddenly apprehensive that his success had been wholly due to his audiences. People were listening throughout the Western Hemisphere. Would they clap and stomp, would they think awesomely, “So that’s how music sounds without words, without Coms!” Or would they turn away in boredom?

  Baque caught a glimpse of Marigold’s pale face, of the engineers watching with mouths agape, and thought perhaps everything was all right. He lost himself in the music and played fervently.

  He continued to play even after the pilot screen went blank. Miss Manning leaped to her feet and hurried toward him, and the engineers were moving about confusedly. Finally Baque brought his playing to a halt.

  “We were cut off,” Miss Manning said tearfully. “Who would do such a thing to me? Never, never, in all the time I’ve been on visiscope—George, who cut us off?”

  “Orders.”

  “Whose orders?”

  “My orders!” James Denton strode toward them, lips tight, face pale, eyes gleaming violence and sudden death. He spat words at Baque. “I don’t know how you worked that trick, but no man fools James Denton more than once. Now you’ve made yourself a nuisance that has to be eliminated.”

  “Jimmy!” Miss Manning wailed. “My program—cut off. How could you?”

  “Shut up, damn it! I just passed the word, Baque. Lankey’s doesn’t open tonight. Not that it’ll make any difference to you.”

  Baque smiled gently. “I think you’ve lost, Denton. I think enough music got through to beat you. By tomorrow you’ll have a million complaints. So will the government, and then you’ll find out who really runs Visiscope International.”

  “I run Visiscope International.”

  “No, Denton. It belongs to the people. They’ve let things slide for a long time, and they’ve taken anything you’d give them. But if they know what they want, they’ll get it. I g
ave them at least three minutes of what they want. That was more than I’d hoped for.”

  “How’d you work that trick in my office?”

  “That wasn’t my trick, Denton—it was yours. You transmitted the music on a voice intercom. It didn’t carry the overtones, the upper frequencies, so the multichord sounded dead to the men in the other room. Visiscope has the full frequency range of live sound.”

  Denton nodded. “I’ll have the heads of some scientists for that. I’ll also have your head, though I regret the waste. If you’d played square with me I’d have made you a live billionaire. The only alternative is a dead musician.”

  He stalked away, and as the automatic door closed behind him, Marigold Manning clutched Baque’s arm. “Quick! Follow me!” Baque hesitated, and she hissed, “Don’t stand there like an idiot! He’s going to have you killed!”

  She led him through a control room and out into a small corridor. They raced the length of it, darted through a reception room and passed a startled secretary without a word, and burst through a rear door into another corridor. She jerked Baque after her into an anti-grav lift, and they shot upward. At the top of the building she hurried him to an air car strip and left him standing in a doorway. “When I give you a signal, you walk out,” she said. “Don’t run, just walk.”

  She calmly approached an attendant, and Baque heard his surprised greeting. “Through early this morning, Miss Manning?”

  “We’re running a lot of Coms,” she said. “I want the big Waring.”

  “Coming right up.”

  Peering around the corner, Baque saw her step into the flyer. As soon as the attendant’s back was turned, she waved frantically. Baque walked carefully toward her, keeping the flyer between the attendant and himself. A moment later they were airborne, and far below them a siren was sounding faintly.

  “We did it!” she gasped. “If you hadn’t got away before that alarm sounded, you wouldn’t have left the building alive.”

  “Well, thanks,” Baque said, looking back at the Visiscope International building. “But surely this wasn’t necessary. Earth is a civilized planet.”

  “Visiscope International is not civilized!” she snapped.

  He looked at her wonderingly. Her face was flushed, her eyes wide with fear, and for the first time Baque saw her as a human being, a woman, a lovely woman. As he looked, she turned away and burst into tears.

  “Now Jimmy’ll have me killed, too. And where can we go?”

  “Lankey’s,” Baque said. “Look—you can see it from here.”

  She pointed the flyer at the freshly painted letters on the strip above the new restaurant, and Baque, looking backward, saw a crowd forming in the street by Visiscope International.

  LANKEY FLOATED HIS desk over to the wall and leaned back comfortably. He wore a trim dress suit, and he’d carefully groomed himself for the role of a jovial host, but in his office he was the same ungainly Lankey that Baque had first seen leaning over a bar.

  “I told you all hell would break loose,” he said, grinning. “There are five thousand people over by Visiscope International, and they’re screaming for Erlin Baque. And the crowd is growing.”

  “I didn’t play for more than three minutes,” Baque said. “I thought a lot of people might write in to complain about Denton cutting me off, but I didn’t expect anything like this.”

  “You didn’t, eh? Five thousand people—maybe ten thousand by now—and Miss Manning risks her neck to get you out of the place. Ask her why, Baque.”

  “Yes,” Baque said. “Why go to all that trouble for me?”

  She shuddered. “Your music does things to me.”

  “It sure does,” Lankey said. “Baque, you fool, you gave a quarter of Earth’s population three minutes of Sex Music!”

  LANKEY’S OPENED ON schedule that evening, with crowds filling the street outside and struggling through the doors as long as there was standing room. The shrewd Lankey had instituted an admission charge. The standees bought no food, and Lankey saw no point in furnishing free music, even if people were willing to stand to hear it.

  He made one last-minute change in plans. Astutely reasoning that the customers would prefer a glamorous hostess to a flat-nosed elderly host, he hired Marigold Manning. She moved about gracefully, the deep blue of her flowing gown offsetting her golden hair.

  When Baque took his place at the multichord, the frenzied ovation lasted for twenty minutes.

  Midway through the evening Baque sought out Lankey. “Has Denton tried anything?”

  “Nothing that I’ve noticed. Everything is running smoothly.”

  “That seems odd. He swore we wouldn’t open tonight.”

  Lankey chuckled. “He’s had troubles of his own to worry about. The authorities are on his neck about the rioting. I was afraid they’d blame you, but they didn’t. Denton put you on visiscope, and then he cut you off, and they figure he’s responsible. And according to my last report, Visiscope International has had more than ten million complaints. Don’t worry, Baque. We’ll hear from Denton soon enough, and the guilds, too.”

  “The guilds? Why the guilds?”

  “The Tunesmiths’ Guild will be damned furious about your dropping the Coms. The Lyric Writers’ Guild will go along with them on account of the Coms and because you’re using music without words. The Performers’ Guild already has it in for you because not many of its members can play worth a damn, and of course it’ll support the other guilds. By tomorrow morning, Baque, you’ll be the most popular man in the Solar System, and the sponsors, and the visiscope people, and the guilds are going to hate your guts. I’m giving you a twenty-four-hour bodyguard. Miss Manning, too. I want both of you to come out of this alive.”

  “Do you really think Denton would—”

  “Denton would.”

  The next morning the Performers’ Guild blacklisted Lankey’s and ordered all the musicians, including Baque, to sever relations. Rose and the other singers joined Baque in respectfully declining, and they found themselves blacklisted before noon. Lankey called in an attorney, the most sinister, furtive, disreputable-looking individual Baque had ever seen.

  “They’re supposed to give us a week’s notice,” Lankey said, “and another week if we decide to appeal. I’ll sue them for five million.”

  The Commissioner of Public Safety called, and on his heels came the Health Commissioner and the Liquor Commissioner. All three conferred briefly with Lankey and departed grim-faced.

  “Denton’s moving too late,” Lankey said gleefully. “I got to all of them a week ago and recorded our conversations. They don’t dare take any action.”

  A riot broke out in front of Lankey’s that night. Lankey had his own riot squad ready for action, and the customers never noticed the disturbance. Lankey’s informants estimated that more than fifty million complaints had been received by Visiscope International, and a dozen governmental agencies had scheduled investigations. Anti-Com demonstrations began to errupt spontaneously, and five hundred visiscope screens were smashed in Manhattan restaurants.

  Lankey’s finished its first week unmolested, entertaining capacity crowds daily. Reservations were pouring in from as far away as Pluto, where a returning space detachment voted to spend its first night of leave at Lankey’s. Baque sent to Berlin for a multichordist to understudy him, and Lankey hoped by the end of the month to have the restaurant open twenty-four hours a day.

  At the beginning of the second week, Lankey told Baque, “We’ve got Denton licked. I’ve countered every move he’s made, and now we’re going to make a few moves. You’re going on visiscope again. I’m making application today. We’re a legitimate business, and we’ve got as much right to buy time as anyone else. If he won’t give it to us, I’ll sue. But he won’t dare refuse.”

  “Where do you get the money for this?” Baque asked.

  Lankey grinned. “I saved it up—a little of it. Mostly I’ve had help from people who don’t like Denton.”

 
Denton didn’t refuse. Baque did an Earth-wide program direct from Lankey’s, with Marigold Manning introducing him. He omitted only the Sex Music.

  QUITTING TIME AT Lankey’s. Baque was in his dressing room, wearily changing. Lankey had already left for an early-morning conference with his attorney. They were speculating on Denton’s next move.

  Baque was uneasy. He was, he told himself, only a dumb musician. He didn’t understand legal problems or the tangled web of connections and influence that Lankey negotiated so easily. He knew James Denton was evil incarnate, and he also knew that Denton had enough money to buy Lankey a thousand times over, or to buy the murder of anyone who got in his way. What was he waiting for? Given enough time, Baque might deliver a deathblow to the entire institution of Coms. Surely Denton would know that.

  So what was he waiting for?

  The door burst open, and Marigold Manning stumbled in half undressed, her pale face the bleached whiteness of her plastic breast cups. She slammed the door and leaned against it, sobs shaking her body.

  “Jimmy,” she gasped. “I got a note from Carol—that’s his secretary. She was a good friend of mine. She says Jimmy’s bribed our guards, and they’re going to kill us on the way home this morning. Or let Jimmy’s men kill us.”

  “I’ll call Lankey,” Baque said. “There’s nothing to worry about.”

  “No! If they suspect anything they won’t wait. We won’t have a chance.”

  “Then we’ll just wait until Lankey gets back.”

  “Do you think it’s safe to wait? They know we’re getting ready to leave.”

  Baque sat down heavily. It was the sort of move he expected Denton to make. Lankey picked his men carefully, he knew, but Denton had enough money to buy any man. And yet—

  “Maybe it’s a trap. Maybe that note’s a fake.”

  “No. I saw that fat little snake Hulsey talking with one of your guards last night, and I knew then that Jimmy was up to something.”

  “What do you want to do?” Baque asked.

  “Could we go out the back way?”

  “I don’t know. We’d have to get past at least one guard.”