smiled, and his head tipped back a little so that now he seemed to be addressing a point somewhere above the other man’s head. “For somebody who spends a large part of his working day as a blind man, I am remarkably bad with voices, sir.” He shrugged. “It is a blessing in some ways.”
“I’m sure.”
“Please, sir; sit.”
“Thank you.” Banstegeyn sat down. The captain went through the controls for the system. They were simple enough.
“Any item below a certain size, such as would fit into this drawer…” the fellow pulled out a very long and heavy-seeming drawer in the console “… will be delivered into it. Larger items will be delivered into the pull-out hopper behind you, sir.” He nodded at a section of the wall where there was a rectangular outline nearly two metres long with a substantial double handle.
“The screen should tell you how long it’ll take to physically retrieve any item, sir, should you find one that meets your requirements, but please do be aware it could take some minutes; up to ten in some instances, and certain items require some assembly and… well, loading, frankly. A little patience may be required, sir, and possibly a little familiarity with whatever item is to be called for. I’ll leave it to your own good judgement and that of the officer who accompanied you here whether any selected item is suitable.” The blindfolded captain sighed regretfully. “I trust you’ve already been so informed, sir, but I’m duty-bound to inform you that any and all responsibility for the use of any items found herein rests entirely with your good self, sir, and once an item leaves these premises it becomes fully your property, to the extent that all record of it even having been stored here will be irrevocably wiped and deleted from the database held herein.”
“I understand,” Banstegeyn said. “Do I have to sign anything, or speak a form of words?”
The captain’s smile was broad, tolerant. “Oh, absolutely not, sir. Officially you aren’t even here.”
“I see. Well, thank you. Sorry to put you to so much trouble.”
“Not at all, sir. There’s been very little demand lately; it’s been terribly slow. Nice to have somebody requiring our services again. I’ll leave you now, sir; press the blue button on the left of the console if you need any help.”
Banstegeyn waited until the heavy doors had fully closed behind the captain before turning back to the screen. He took in a breath to tell it to wake up, then felt foolish. Of course; entirely manual, without the least semblance of voice-recognition, let alone even crude AI. He found the On button, thumbed it.
A simple in-holo screen, with a keyboard, or a stylus and writing tablet, if so desired.
He sighed. This might take some time.
T. C. Vilabier’s 26th String-Specific Sonata For An Instrument Yet To Be Invented, MW 1211 — The Hydrogen Sonata — started with a single sustained note, right at the top of the range of the instrument which had had to be invented to play it properly, the bodily acoustic Antagonistic Undecagonstring for four hands. That single note was then joined by a faint, uncertain chord of slowly shifting harmonics, which was another way of saying that it started to sound out of tune after it got more than one note in. Fans and detractors alike agreed that this was a remarkable achievement, and also that the work as a whole was something of an acquired taste.
The single high note at the start of the work was meant to signify a solitary proton, specifically a hydrogen nucleus, while the following wavering pseudo-chord was supposed to embody the concept of a sole electron’s probability cloud, so that together the first note and the first chord represented the element hydrogen.
Vilabier was thought to have been joking when he had claimed that the work was itself merely the first note in a vast and incrementally more complicated cycle that would grow to encompass the entirety of the periodic table.
Regardless; after this simple beginning the work became furiously complicated and — initially at least, until playing techniques and prosthetic technology had sufficiently improved — almost unplayable. Initially, in this case, meant for several centuries. Many held that whether it was unplayable or not didn’t particularly matter; what did was that it was completely unlistenable.
But that was, arguably, to take a somewhat doctrinaire attitude to what the word “listenable” meant.
“I like it,” the ship said, through Berdle.
“
“Yes,” Pyan said, “
Pyan had been perfectly indifferent to the Hydrogen Sonata — as it was to all music — until it had realised that most people hated the piece, when it had decided to join in the chorus of disdain.
“I can see what it’s trying to do, and it has a mathematical elegance to it that I appreciate,” Berdle said. “Also, I’ve invented a form of musical notation that I think enhances its appreciation in the abstract, as a visual and intellectual internalised experience, without one actually having to listen to it.”
Cossont nodded. “I can certainly see the point of that.” She stopped, frowned. “You’ve invented a…?” She shook her head. “No, never mind.”
“I agree with Mr Berdle,” Eglyle Parinherm said. “However, I do detect a degree of discordant tonality.”
The android had been activated hours earlier, waking instantaneously on the bed platform where he’d been stored. He’d stared straight up and, in a deep, controlled voice said, “Unit Y988, Parinherm, Eglyle, systems checked, all enabled. Sim status ready, engaged, chron scale subjective one-to-one.”
“Hmm,” Berdle had said. It had tried turning the android off and on again a few times since, but to no avail.
Cossont flexed her fingers, stowed the instrument’s two bows in its case. “Discordant tonality about covers it,” she said.
“While you were playing,” Berdle said, “I found some screen of your mother.”
“Oh, shit.”
“Shall I…?”
“Yeah, I suppose.”
Two days after they’d left the Izenion system, Cossont had suddenly realised she ought to let her mother know she was okay. She’d asked the ship to get a message to Warib telling her that she was alive and well but couldn’t communicate directly.
“But I could arrange a direct communication quite easily,” the ship had told her.
“Could you really?” she’d said, eyes wide. “Anyway, as I was saying: alive and well but not able to communicate directly… um, don’t tell anybody I’ve been in touch, obviously, ah… hope you’re well… should see you before the Instigation.” She’d smiled at the very handsome Gzilt male that the avatar had become. “And tell her I’ve met an extremely good-looking and very powerful man, if you like. That’ll keep her happy.”
“Any customary sign-off?” Berdle had asked.
“Well, hers to me is usually, ‘Well, if you’re going to be like
“Hmm,” the avatar had said. “Also, it’s a little un-personalised. As it stands, anybody could be sending her this, and she might suspect she is being lied to by a third party.”
Cossont had sighed. “I suppose. Well… tell her Pyan says hi, and… I’m keeping my natural hair colour.”
And now the ship had found some screen of Warib.
“This is from yesterday afternoon, on one of the channels on the cruise sea ship your mother inhabits,” Berdle told her, as a screen appeared in mid-air, level with where Cossont stood. She threw herself down into a chair. The virtual screen dipped, following her. Pyan flapped and flopped over to arrange itself on the lounger next to Cossont. Even Parinherm leaned over to get a better view. Cossont thought of requesting some privacy, then decided she didn’t care.
The screen came to life with a roaming shot of her mother’s apartment on the sea ship and a female voice- over saying, “We spoke to Madame Warib Cossont, of deck twenty-five, who believes her daughter may have been
