“Emotional response. No. Use you. Painless, utterly.”
Harry, out of a lifetime’s experience in dealing with booking agents and night club managers, began talking. “Look, it’s the brain controls the fingers and the lips. By themselves they aren’t any good.”
“Fallacy. Muscles have memory independent of nerve impulse. Proven.”
Harry worked his right hand in the movements of fingering the valves on a trumpet. “I don’t get it, friend.”
The man said, “Look.”
He reached out a surplus hand that Harry hadn’t noticed. Harry swallowed hard. The hand pressed a key pattern on the edge of the meat-colored desk. The wall behind the man came to life. Harry had seen pictures of the Indian goddess, Vishna or something, the one with all the arms. The thing was probably a woman. She sat behind an enormous U-shaped instrument board. Six arms flickered across the board, pulling plugs, depressing switches, replacing plugs.
“Surgical engineering coordinates with industrial engineering for peak efficiency. Engineered woman handles work of four normals in smaller space. Space important.”
“Now wait.”
The voice went on. Clipped, imperturbable. “Earth mechanistic center. Since establishment surgical engineering efficiency doubled. Earth supplies small electrical, mechanical devices all planets. Too small mechanize assembly.”
“You’d fasten my arms on one of those... those...”
“Natch.”
Two thousand years before, Harry Harris was known to the trade as a man who could land on his feet.
He said, with an air of confidence, “What you guys need is somebody to interview the sleepers you’ve got in those crypts you told me about and find out what they can do good.”
“No need. Mechanical analysis faster, better.”
Harry absently reached for nonexistent cigarettes in an absent pocket.
“Now time detach parts.”
“Not so fast, friend. I’ve got an ability your fancy machine didn’t find out about.”
“Impossible.”
“That shows how much you know. Ever hear of the Harry Harris Industrial Efficiency Program? I didn’t think so.”
“Past ages uninformed on industrial efficiency. Used normals. Waste of space.”
“They knew one thing. They knew, friend, that music in a good fast tempo makes people work better, turn out more.”
“Music? Rhythmic noise? Why?”
Harry took a deep breath. “It takes the frannis quotient of the brain waves, instarates the fatigue acids and guarantees a better slattis relationship to product.”
“Hmmm.”
“Okay, wise guy. Go ahead and turn me into parts.”
“Many ancient procedures lost.” Harry jumped on the faint tone of doubt. “Sure they were lost. You people can’t keep up with everything. Now with a little cooperation I could reely make a contribution...”
Harry Harris, months later, sat on a raised dais. He swallowed nervously. Got to give them one thing, they could sure follow orders when it came to turning out musical instruments they’d never heard of.
The big lenses and mikes were ready to pick it up and flash it to four hundred thousand fabrication and assembly points.
He gave himself the beat on the piano, picked it up on the string bass, brought the drums into play, stroking gently with the wire brushes, lifted the trumpet to his lips and blasted, lifted the tram to the second set of lips, lifted the clarinet to the third set, and, with a solid rhythm background, stamping the extra foot he had insisted on, he started to give Muskrat Ramble a high, wild, hard ride.
In four hundred thousand fabrication and assembly points the tempo of work quickened.
He gave the trumpet the lead, then switched it to the clarinet. He played with most of his eyes half shut, grinning inside as he wondered just what the hell Petrillo would have made of this.