their meeting places are cheerless, murky and cold. But though these people are alienated they are not dead; each lone mind craves nourishment and pleasure. That is where we, the so-called Muses, come in. We supply the machine-like artisans to which we are contracted with transmutable creative energy for their work. In return we are supported by the writers. There are Muses contracted to painters, writers, sculptors, as well as musicians and other artists. Our contracts range from one to twenty years and can be renewed.
On my home planet things are very bad—there is severe overpopulation and the governments are harsh and restrictive. If I had not become a Muse I would have been judged unnecessary and eventually eliminated. There is a trade pact between this world and my own and Muses are valuable commodities.
Something in me, of me, is being tapped, siphoned out by the cables and utilized. My emotions are being sucked dry, for a price. I have thought of running away but I have seen the crucifixion poles jutting through the yellow fog. I’ve seen what is done to Muses who run away. If anything, the governments of this world are even more ruthless than those on my home planet. If I did escape, where would I run to? There is, in fact, no escape.
There is much pain within me, but at least I am alive and can express myself, unlike the lonely monsters of this world.
Unlike Bates.
IV
Days have passed; I sit in my gray cylindrical room in my chair and Bates composes above me. He has begun another piece; he has been working at his usual pace at the normal console setting.
Someone climbs the stairs and enters Bates’ room and suddenly he stops. I can hear muffled voices through the ceiling. Perhaps it is Trevor, Bates’ business contact. The day, as usual, is bleak; sickly yellow mist drifts by the small window.
There are shuffling sounds above me; the visitor departs. Bates leaves his room and hurriedly descends the stairs.
I swivel around in my chair to face him as he enters the room. His silent eyes are bright.
“Trevor was here,” he says, holding out something in his hand. “He gave me this—a check for five thousand credits. He listened to the composition and wants me to write more, immediately. He especially liked the ending.”
“Bates—” I begin.
“He says that if I write a piece that’s like the ending of the other one all the way through he’ll double the number of credits I got for this one. He says there’s an audience for this type of music at the moment. We must start immediately.” His eyes stare through me.
“Bates,” I say, “I told you the other night it can’t be done. The contract doesn’t call for it. It’s a terrible strain on me.”
“I don’t care. If you could do it once you can do it now. I’ll make you do it. We’ll begin immediately.”
“Bates—” I say, but he closes the door behind him.
I swing around in my chair as he reaches the console upstairs. His stool grunts as he settles himself on to it, and I can hear him strapping the wires from the console to his arms and legs. The cable pads are hot on my temples. He has obviously turned the console to a high setting. He replaces the chip from the composition he was working on with a new one, and begins to urge me through the cables.
I try to hold it down but the console setting is strong. I begin to sweat. The urge increases to a forcible level.
Suddenly the dam breaks and a tide of feeling rushes out of me. The tones of the console above form a harmonic boom and then settle, after a moment of silence, into a slow, ominous crescendo. A theme forms, then another and another, and they begin to grind against one another, each building in intensity and each fighting against the others. I grit my teeth; the strain is unbearable. Tears burn my eyes. The room around me begins to tremble as the music builds to a feverish pitch. The three themes converge into a monstrous, tortured strain as my soul tries to tear loose from my body…
Hours later it is over. The ceiling above me rumbles quietly and I can hear Bates struggling for breath. The cable pads have burned my flesh and my arms and legs are very weak.
Just as I begin to calm down the pain comes again. Bates has put a new chip in. I hear him shout through the ceiling, to himself, “More!” The ceiling shakes; my arms fly about madly, uncontrollably. My head is thrown violently about.
He composes continuously for the next two days. I can barely catch a gasp of breath between cries of pain.
Finally he shuts down the console. I can dimly hear it wind down as the power decreases. I can hear Bates pull the wires from his arms and legs and stumble from his stool to the bed.
The room above me is silent.
V
Bates continues this type of work for the next four months. The days drag by. Occasionally Trevor visits him; after these visits Bates’ fervor climbs to an almost manic level. Even the console seems to plead for rest. My mind is driven to emotive heights for prolonged periods of time; I am forced to survive on bits of food and water fed to me by Bates at odd and infrequent hours—he will not even allow me to remove the cable pads in fear that I may do something drastic despite the threat of horrible punishment. I could not leave my chair even if I were allowed, my body is so weak. Bates, above, pauses only for food or snatches of rest. Composition after composition is completed.
One day Bates comes to see me. It is after a visit from Trevor, and Bates bursts into my room. He comes to my chair and stands before me. He, too, is wasted and yellow; nevertheless he smiles.
“Trevor has just left,” he says in a low, weak voice. “Everything I’ve composed has received tremendous acceptance.”
I stare at him mutely.
“Look here,” he continues, pulling small bundles of credit notes from his pockets. “And there’s much more coming. But that’s not what I wanted to tell you.” He pauses. “I’ve had your contract amended.”
My gaze is unmoved.
“There was nearly trouble. It’s been all right up to now, but for what I want to do next I had to be sure. I’m ready to do something larger.”
“Bates,” I say hoarsely, from deep within me. “Bates, it can’t be done. I haven’t eaten, slept—”
“I know,” he says, “but that can’t be helped. It’s in the contract and this thing must be done now. Trevor says—”
“To hell with Trevor!” I cry brokenly. “You’re destroying me. I can’t think anymore, Bates. I can’t
~ * ~
“Never mind your needs! You work for me. Trevor says the public is ready for a symphonic cycle, something magnificent.” His eyes are aflame in his dead, blank face. “We must begin.”
“Bates—”
“You’re my Muse,” he snaps. “Amending that contract cost me a lot of credits; you won’t disappoint me. It’s time to begin.” He turns to leave.
I stare weakly at the curved gray wall framing Bates’ back. Words rise and die in my dry throat. Bates shuts the door and goes upstairs.
