Macroscope

The object was vibrating gently, as though the lifting of it had activated its power source. It had come alive, awaiting the musician’s imperative.

He touched a stud at random — and was rewarded by a roll of thunder.

Beatryx, Afra, Groton: they stared up and out, trying instinctively to trace the source, to protect themselves if the walls caved in… before realizing what had happened. Multiphonal sound!

“When you picked it up,” Groton began—

“You touched a control,” Afra finished. Both were shaken. “The BONG button.”

“And now the thunder stud,” Beatryx said.

Ivo slid one finger across a panel. A siren wail came at them from all directions, deafening yet melodious.

He explored the rest of it, producing a measured cacophony: every type of sound he could imagine was represented here, each imbued with visual, tactile and olfactory demesnes. If only he could bring this sensuous panorama under control—

And he could. Already his hands were responding to the instrument’s ratios, achieving the measure of it, growing into the necessary disciplines. This was his talent, this way with an organ of melody. He had confined himself to the flute — Sidney Lanier’s choice — but the truth was that all of Schön’s gift was his. Probably there was no human being with greater natural potential than his own — should he choose to invoke it.

Ivo could not call out the technical aspects or discuss the theory knowledgeably; that was not part of it. He could not even read musical notation, for he had never studied it, choosing instead to learn by ear. But with an instrument in his hands and the desire to play, he could produce a harmony, and he could do it precisely, however complicated the descriptive terms for what he performed.

Now he developed that massive raw talent, bringing all his incipient skill to bear. He picked a suitable exercise, adapting for the flute at first, hearing the words as the song became animate. It was not from Lanier; that would come when he had command. One had to practice with lesser themes first. A trial run only…

Drink to me only with thine eyes and I will pledge with mine;

Or leave a kiss within the cup and I’ll not ask for wine.

The thirst that from the soul doth rise doth ask a drink divine;

But could I of Jove’s nectar sip, I would not change for thine.

The others stood as the simple haunting melody surrounded them, marvelously clear, almost liquid, possessed increasingly of that éclat, that soul that was the true artist’s way. The galactic instrument brought also the suggestion of a heady nectar… and the touch of magic lips.

Afra was staring raptly at him, never having heard him play before. Had that been his worst blunder? Not to employ the real talent he had?

Groton was staring at Afra…

No, he was staring beyond her! The blank wall blocking the continuation of their tour was dissolving, revealing another passage. The way was open again!

“The free ride is over,” Groton murmured. “Now we have to participate.”

They moved down it then in silence, Ivo still carrying the instrument. This hall opened into a tremendous chamber whose ceiling was an opaque mist and whose floor was a translucency without visible termination. There were no walls; the sides merely faded into darkness, though there was light close at hand.

They walked within it, looking in vain for something tangible. But now even the floor was gone. Physically gone: it too had dissolved and left them in free-fall, hanging weightless in an atmosphere. Their point of entry, too, had vanished; they tried to swim back through the pleasant air, but there was nothing to locate. They were isolated and lost.

“So it was a trap,” Afra said, seemingly more irritated than frightened.

“Or — a test,” Groton said. “We had to demonstrate a certain type of competence to gain admittance, after the strictly sightseeing sections were finished. Perhaps we shall have to demonstrate more, before being permitted to leave.”

They looked at Ivo, who was floating a little apart from the others, and he looked at the thing in his hands.

“Try the same tune you did before,” Afra suggested. “Just to be sure.”

He played “Drink to Me Only” again. Nothing happened. He tried several other simple tunes, and the sound came at them from all over the unbounded chamber, not simple at all, but they remained as they were: four people drifting in nebulosity.

“I persist in suspecting that the key is musical,” Groton said. “Why else that instrument, obviously neither toy nor exhibit. So far we may only have touched on its capability.”

“Do you know,” Ivo said thoughtfully, “Lanier believed that the rules for poetry and music were identical, and he tried to demonstrate this in his work. His flute-playing was said to be poetically inspired, and much of his poetry was musically harmonious. He even—”

“Very well,” Afra said, unsurprised and still unworried, though the web of the spider seemed to be tightening. “Let’s follow up on Lanier. He wrote a travelogue of Florida, one poor novel, and the poems ‘Corn,’ ‘The Marshes of Gly

“The Symphony!” Groton said it, but they all had reacted to the title. “Would that be — ?”

“Play it, Ivo!” Beatryx said.

“The Symphony” was poetry, not music; there was no prescribed tune for it. But Ivo lifted the instrument and felt the power come into his being, for he had dreamed of setting this piece to music many times. He had never had the courage to make the attempt, on his own initiative. But here was his chance to make something of himself and his talent; to find out whether he could open, musically, the door to the riddle that was the destroyer.

There was music in meaning, and meaning in music, and they were very close to one another in the work of Sidney Lanier and in this poem in particular. Each portion of it was spoken by a different instrument, personified, and the whole was the orchestral symphony…

The macroscopic communications systems he had experienced shared this trait. Music, color, meaning — all were interchangeable, and he was sure some species communicated melodically on their homeworlds. A translation was possible, if he borrowed from galactic coding — and if he had the skill to do it accurately. He had learned to comprehend galactic languages, but he had never tried to translate into them. The music charged his hands and body — but could he render the poetry?

The others waited, knowing his problem, searching for some way to help. Harold Groton, whose astrological interpretations could do no good in this situation; Afra Summerfield, whose physical beauty and analytical mind were similarly useless; Beatryx Groton, whose empathy could not enchant his suddenly uncertain fingers.

Analysis, empathy, astrology…

Then he saw that they could help, all of them. Just by being available.

Ivo began to play.