“Of course. But—“
“A man who plays well alone, can play better in company—if he has proper support. Harmony and counter-point enable a new dimension of effect.”
“Yes, I played better, because I knew you would make no error. Still—you played better yet. I think you improved more than I did.”
“I am sure this is the case. Because you provided more support to me than I provided to you,” Clef said. “I gave you merely good technical performance, at the outset; you gave me the essence of feeling. You showed me how. I was never able to accomplish it on my own, but in tandem with you I felt the living essence at last, the heart and spirit of music. I was infused by it, I merged with its potent pulse, and for the first time in my life—I flew.”
“And you won!” Stile cried. “I agree with everything you said. You and I both know you profited greatly, and played my way better than I ever played in my life. You went from student to master in one phenomenal leap! Surely the panel of judges saw that!”
“Of course they did. I have known all of the members of that panel for years, and they know me. We have played together often.”
And this panel of friends had given the match—to Stile?
Was it overcompensation?
The capsule stopped. Sheen took each man by the arm and guided him on toward the apartment. “Therefore you won,” Stile said. “That’s obvious.”
“Let me approach this from another angle, lest you be as obtuse as I was. If you play solo on one instrument and it is good, then play the same piece on another instrument of the same type and it is better, wherein lies the source of the improvement?”
“In the instrument,” Stile said. “My skill on similar instruments is presumed to be constant.”
“Precisely. Now if you play a duet with one person, then with another, and your performance stands improved on the second—?”
“Then probably the other player is superior, enabling me to—“ Stile paused. It was beginning to penetrate. “If I improve because of the other player, it’s him that really makes the difference!”
“When we played together, I improved more than you did,” Clef said. “Who, then, contributed more to the joint effort? The one who flew the heights—or the one who lifted him there?”
“That duet—it was not to show individual expertise,” Stile said, working it out. “It was to show cooperative expertise. How each person fit in as part of a team. Yet surely the Computer did not see it that way; the machine lacks the imagination. So it shouldn’t have—“
“The machine was not the final arbiter. The musicians saw it that way, and their vote was decisive.” The human mind remained more complex than the most sophisticated of machines! Of course the musicians had imposed their standard! “So I supported your effort—“
“More than I supported yours,” Clef finished. “You gave way to me; you made the sacrifice, for the benefit of the piece. You were the better team player. You contributed more significantly to the total production. Therefore you proved your overall participation to be better than mine. You would have made anyone shine. This is the subtle point the Computer and audience missed, but the musical experts understood. They knew it was from you I derived the ability that enabled me to make the best individual performance of my life. You are the sort of musician who belongs in a group; your talent facilitates that of others.”
Again Stile thought of his many playing sessions with Neysa, those happy hours riding. Their music had always been beautiful. “I—suppose so,” he said, still amazed.
Clef extended his hand. “Now permit me to congratulate you on your deserved victory. You are the better man, and I wish you well in the Tourney.”
“Victor, perhaps, thanks to an unusual judgment. Better man, no.” Stile took the hand. “But if you lost—you can no longer play here on Proton.”
“I do have one more year, thanks to the special award. We did incidentally render the finest harmonica recital in the Proton records. But this becomes irrelevant. I no longer need Proton. You have given the universe to me! With the skill you have shown me, I can play anywhere, for exorbitant fees. I can live like a Citizen. I have gained so much more than I have lost!”
“I suppose so,” Stile said, relieved. “A musician of your caliber—the best that any audience is likely to en-counter—“ He paused, another massive realization coming upon him. “Your preferred instrument is the flute?”
Clef raised that expressive eyebrow. “Of course. My Employer provides me with a silver flute, and rarely am I allowed to play on a gold one. One day I hope to be able to purchase such an instrument for myself. The tonal quality-“
“How about a platinum flute?”
“That would be best of all! But it would depend on who made it. The craftsmanship is really more important than the metal, though the best craftsmanship does make any given metal significantly superior. But why dream foolishly? The only craftsmen capable of doing justice to platinum are far away on Earth.”
“Sheen,” Stile murmured.
Sheen produced the Platinum Flute and handed it to Clef.
The man took it with infinite respect and awe. “Why it is, it actually is! A finely Grafted platinum instrument! I do not recognize this make, yet it seems excellently done. Who—have aliens gone into the business?”
“Elves,” Stile said.
Clef laughed. “No, really. I must know. This is of considerably more than incidental interest to me. This instrument has the feel of ultimate quality.”
“Mound Folk. Little People. Among them I am a giant. They use magic in their trade. This is an enchanted flute, on loan to me until I pass it along to one who has better use for it than I do. I should have recognized you as a prospect the moment I met you, but I suspect I did not want to part with this magic instrument, and suppressed my own awareness. But I made a commitment, and must honor it. At least I understand, now, how the elves felt about yielding the Flute to me. It is hard to give up.”
“I should think so!” Clef’s eyes were fixed on the Flute as his hands turned it about. Light gleamed from it as it moved. The man seemed mesmerized by it. Then he lifted it to his lips. “May I?”
“Please do. I want to hear you play it.” Clef played. The music poured out in its platinum stream, so pure and eloquent that Stile’s whole body shivered in rapture. It was the finest sound ever created by man, he believed. Even Sheen showed human wonder on her face—an emotion prohibitively rare for a machine. Stile had not played it this well.
Clef finished his piece and contemplated the Flute. “I must have this instrument.”
“The price is high,” Stile warned.
“Price is no object. My entire serf-retirement payment is available—“
“Not money. Life. You may have to give up both your tenure on Proton and your future as a professional musician in the galaxy. You would have to travel into a land of magic where your life would be threatened by monsters and spells, to return the Flute to its makers—and there is no guarantee they would allow you to keep it. They might require some significant and permanent service of you. There may be no escape from their control, once you enter that region. They do not like men, but they are questing 2 for a man they call the Foreordained, and exactly what he is expected to do I do not know, but it is surely difficult and significant.”
Clef’s eyes remained on the Platinum Flute. “Show me the way.”
“I can start you on that journey, but can not remain with you once you enter the Demesnes of the Platinum Elves. The Flute will protect you; at need it will become an excellent rapier. When you reach the Mound, you will be in their power. I warn you again—“
“I must go,” Clef said.