In the gray of the glancing dawn,
When the hounds are out with a treble shout
And the whip and spur of the merry rout . . .
“A treble shout,” he reflected, would nicely characterize that last dramatic soprano. . . The baritone sang on, as big as the hall itself; and as empty. Dear God, how long was it since anyone even here on Terra had indulged in the absurdity of fox hunting, and when would concert baritones stop singing about it?
An attendant was shoving a broom down the aisle, unperturbed by the baritone or anything else—even, apparently, by the fact that the aisle was perfectly clean. There was nothing to sweep away in front of his broom; yet oddly a scrap of paper remained behind it.
Jon Arthur was careful not to catch the attendant’s eye as he let his hand slip down and gather in the scrap. He tucked it under the pad and resolutely kept his gaze on the baritone.
The hunting song ended. The baritone paused, made an effort to adjust himself to the logical fact that there is no applause at auditions, and launched into his second number.
Jon Arthur grinned. He had won a bet with himself; he knew that so robustious a man would be bound to select Rhysling’s Jet Song. The familiar words boomed forth with that loving vigor of all baritones who have never seen deep Space.
Feel her rise! Feel her drive!
Straining steel, come alive . . .
It was safe to unfold the scrap of paper now. Arthur read the four simple words and knew that the pattern of his life was changed:
Kleinbach is at Venusberg
It was the finest rice paper, of course, and easy to swallow. Gulping, he looked at his fellow critics and wondered how many of them would vote in the election (the last election?) with one tenth of the care with which they were now considering their audition ballots. And whether, if he did not reach Kleinbach at Venusberg, it could possibly matter a damn how carefully they voted.
Jet Song was over, and it was clear from all expressions that this baritone, at any rate, would not get the scholarship to Mme. Storm’s Resident Laboratory. There was one more contestant, and Arthur grudgingly cursed the waste of even that much time before he could get started.
The girl looked like nothing much. Nobody had explained to her how unfortunate this year’s styles were for tall women. Then she began to sing.
Jon Arthur hastily consulted the audition list and noted the name Faustina Parva. He began to make a note on the pad, then let the pencil rest idle in his hand while his whole being lived in his ears.
The music was almost as inconsequential as the baritone’s hunting song—an arrangement of one of the waltz-like Martian kumbus. But the voice . . .
It was not only the rich solidity of its lower notes, its ease in the upper register, the unbroken transition over what must be damned near two and a half octaves, but the absolute clarity and facility with which it handled every trick in the conceivable repertory of the voice. It was cold; you might even say it was mechanical; but it was, Jon Arthur realized, the first time in his life that he had heard absolutely perfect singing.
He looked at the faces of the other critics. Good, there’d be no time wasted in balloting. The audition was settled, and he could stop being a music critic and take up the more important (and, his observing mind could not help commenting, somewhat more absurd) task of striving single-handed to save man and his system.
He always thought of the penthouse in the Eighties, complete with view of the Hudson, as “Headquarters.” It was another of the small touches of melodrama that he liked to insert to keep himself sane.
Steele Morrison maneuvered his pulleys and the outsize boatswain’s chair swung across the room to greet him. “Sure,” Morrison always answered the frequent protests, “I know with modern prosthetics I could walk as good as anybody. But then I’d get exercise and I’d lose weight; and every time I weighed in for spaceflight, I swore once I retired I’d be the fattest man in New York.”
Jon Arthur shook the vast hand and marveled, as always, at the unflabbiness of its grip. “Somebody’s tracked him down,” he said without preamble. “He’s at Venusberg.”
“We do get some breaks, baby, don’t we?” Morrison zoomed the boatswain’s chair across its network to the bar. “Straight?”
“As usual.”
“How soon you going?”
“This damned audition deal ties in like a dream. Since I was on the committee, it’ll be a natural to sell the paper on a follow-up story on Mme. Storm’s colony at Venusberg.”
Morrison nodded as he traveled back with the drinks. You never went to the part of the room where Steele Morrison was; it hurt his feelings not to be able to zoom back at you. “Don’t know why—had a hunch and did a little reading on Mme. Storm. Rumors of something nice and tender back in her great days between her and Kleinbach. Use it for what it’s worth.”
“She was a great singer. I’ve heard her tapes.”
Morrison shrugged. “Something else too, I guess. Can a man fall in love with a voice, baby?”
Jon Arthur gave a little silent and serious consideration to his drink and (surprising himself) to the question.
“Matter? Did I say something?”
“No, just thinking. Making plans. The audition winner,” Arthur carefully sounded as indifferent as though it had been the baritone, “leaves next Monday. I can set up the deal by then. Think it’s worth one last crack at Weddergren in the meantime?” Steele Morrison zoomed for a corner and traveled back with an election pamphlet in the familiar aseptic blue and white of the Academy. “Here’s his latest, baby. It’s out in the open now: no more elections, that’s for sure. Antiquated and unscientific, seems as how. The system is Man’s laboratory, ” he read, “in which he conducts
