may he felt there creeping into his own consciousness, his segment of the viewpoint, a simple little flicker of a theme in C Major. He was conscious of a gnat's-wing-beat of disapproval in response to his untoward disturbance. The viewpoint continued its drift toward the darkened apse.
It lovingly picked out the inhabitant of the lightless space and greeted it, even Colt, even though it was a monster of five legs and incredible teeth which opened wide. Damnably, irritatingly, the little C Major motif persisted; he tried to drive it from his mind, then, in a fatal moment, recognized it as one Oliver's "Flower Song," a sweet little thing suitable for small hands on the pianoforte.
"—lilies, roses, flowers of every hue—" He couldn't lose it after having recognized it that far; the theme spread and orchestrated through the viewpoint. The whole polysensual off-pleasure matrix broke up, tore wide open, as it was about to pass down the gullet of the monster in the apse.
"I'm sorry," he said, rising. "I simply couldn't help—"
"I know," said the caravan master sadly. "I know what it was. But you wrecked a full communion all the same. Go in torment, my son of abomination. May your ways be woeful."
Colt thanked him and left with Valeska.
"How was it?" she asked.
"Indescribable," he exploded. "Loathesome—glorious, terrible. I found myself gloating over—" He went into details.
"So did I," she said absently. "I went through it too. It has a gorgeous kick to it, no doubt. But it isn't right for us. Me, I broke up their communion with a line from Pushkin: "The aged sorcerer in anger said, This queen is evil straight from toe to head." You know it?"
The sound of singing came from over the ridge, blurred by the megatherial voices. Colt stared abstractedly at the sky as the words scribbled again in light. "Their turn." he said. "The Good boys."
Chapter IV.
They stepped over ridges of snowy rock and stood for a moment surveying the other caravan. There was a semicircle of faces, gleaming benevolently in the firelight, handsome smiling faces. They were singing, under the pleasant aspect of the blue-eyed idol, a lusty slab from the great Bach's great Mass in B Minor. While Valeska smiled a little cynically, Colt side-stepped into the baritone choir and sounded back tentatively for the words and music. They came easily; he was experiencing again, for the first time in many years, the delights of close harmony that move men to form barber-shop quartets and Philharmonic Societies.
He sang the hearty, solid language, the crashing chords, from his chest, standing straight, bouncing the tones from his palate like the old glee-clubber that he was. Beside him he saw Lodz, a beatific smile on his face, chanting sonorously. Why were so many small men bassos?
Colt forgot himself and sang, let his voice swim out into the pool of sound and melt into harmony; when need was he sang up, playing off against Mme. Lodz's mezzo and McNaughton's ringing tenor. And then he sang a sinister quarter-tone. It ended the bar on a gorgeously askew chord and got him very severly looked at. Raisuli Batar, baton in hand, frowned. Colt signalled wildly back that he couldn't help it.
It might have been lack of control, but it wasn't. It seemed that musical virtuosity was a gift to the dead. He had no choice in the matter—it was his nature that had dictated the quarter-tone. Raisuli Batar tapped a rock twice with the baton, then swept down, his left hand signalling volume, cuing in with his eyes the bassos.
The brilliant, crashing unison passage rang out. Damn! As though he had no control over his own voice Colt sang, not in unison but in sinister sharps and flats, botching the grand melody completely.
He strode angrily from the semicircle of singers, back to Valeska. She passed the bottle with a twisted smile on her face.
"You tried to compromise," she said. "It can't be done. They didn't thank you for Stravinsky-ing their Bach."
"Right," he said. "But what do we do?"
"It doesn't seem right," she brooded. "We shouldn't be the only in-betweeners. Five thousand years—more—they must appear more often. Then something happens to them. And they go away somewhere."
"Right," crowed Grandfather T'ang, drunker than ever. "Right, m'lass. And I know what happens to them. And I'll tell you what to do."
"Why?" asked Colt practically.
"Because I'm not as far outside as you think, children. Once I was as far in-between as you. I had my chance and I missed it—passed it up for the suntori and the dice-games around the fires. Grandather was a fool. I can't tell you any more than this: get into the battle and observe rather closely. When you discover a very important secret you will ascend to the Eighteenth Orbit and dwell forever, dancing and singing on the rings of Saturn. Or, to discard the gibberish, your psychic tissues so alter that your recognize a plane of existance more tenuous than ours; a plane, one suspects, more delectable. The mythological name for it is Heaven." He hugged his bottle and crooned affectionately to it:
"Superiority in a person should better not nor should it—"
"Does he know?" asked Colt, looking out into the long night.
"He wasn't lying this time. Shall we do it?"
