It is night, and a low-lying, yellow mist has descended. This world is perpetually covered with thin shifting clouds and sickly fog. As we step into the dark street I turn to look at our working place, a two-room two-floor silo capped with a black dome. The part above the fog resembles an ugly, rimless derby. Other derbys rest on the fog on this street and the streets adjacent—this is the area where most artists live. Bates motions impatiently and we move along.
It is dark and smoky in the drinking place. Bates orders two drinks—tall, slender goblets filled with roiling liquid as yellow as the fog outside—and steers me away from the somber bar to the back room. We find a booth and sit down facing one another.
Bates looks at me queerly across the table. “You’ve never done what you did today before,” he says. “I didn’t know you could.” His eyes are two white questioning orbs in the darkness.
“I was tired,” I respond quietly; “I thought you could finish the work faster if you increased the setting. But you set it too high.”
“But do you know what you did?” he says, raising his voice. “Do you know what I composed?” He pulls a recording chip from his pocket and pushes it across the table at me. “Listen.”
“No,” I say tiredly, pushing it back at him, but he says again, “Listen.”
I bring the chip up to my ear and it activates. It is set near the end of the composition. At first there are only the standard, bland sounds that characterize most of Bates’s work. Then suddenly I detect a change, and the music becomes more stately. A theme, low, insistent, tragic, begins to weave itself around and through the blandness, enfolding it and gradually overcoming it. Now the theme begins to fold around itself, the high notes beginning to fight the basses head-on, building in intensity, crashing against itself and climbing—
I pull the chip from my ear and place it before Bates. My stomach has tightened itself into a small knot. “I won’t do that again.”
He gives me a measuring look. “I…don’t know,” he says. “You’ve been contracted to me for three months now, and I never realized you could do this sort of thing. I’m going to have to think about this.”
“Let me remind you,” I say firmly, “that the contract you have with me states that you will compose only popular forms of music. There’s no provision in it for other forms of work.”
He looks hard into my eyes. “I’m aware of that,” he says, “but don’t forget that it was you who deviated from the contract today. I didn’t expect to have the end of that piece turned into…well, serious music. There was something there that I may want to explore. If you read the contract carefully, there isn’t really any provision restricting me on what type of music I can compose. There’s no clear restriction on what I can do.”
I look at him coldly. “I wouldn’t tamper with the contract. And besides, you know that money lies in what you’re doing now.”
“I know that,” he says, “but there are a few people willing to pay for this sort of thing. There might be money in it. I couldn’t afford to abandon the other composing, but it just might be worth my while to make use of your other talents.” He smiles across the table; it is an empty smile. “And remember,” he says, “I still control the cables and you’re still my Muse.” His smile widens into a sharp, white grin. “For ten years.”
We finish our liquor and leave the drinking place in silence.
III
He is right; I am his Muse. I was brought here from my home planet and, like many of my fellow beings, I contracted myself to an artist. The artists on this world are little more than machines. These creatures have somehow lost the ability to transfer their feelings and experiences. It is as if their fingers have somehow been disconnected from their souls. They seem the most selfish of beings: they possess emotions, but those emotions are land-locked. Each being of this world is an island, a world unto himself, and it is nearly impossible for one of them to even touch another. The only social contact they effect takes place on a formal, businesslike plane; even their meeting places are cheerless, murky and cold. But though these people are alienated they are not dead; each lone mind craves nourishment and pleasure. That is where we, the so-called Muses, come in. We supply the machine-like artisans to which we are contracted with transmutable creative energy for their work. In return we are supported by the writers. There are Muses contracted to painters, writers, sculptors, as well as musicians and other artists. Our contracts range from one to twenty years and can be renewed.
On my home planet things are very bad—there is severe overpopulation and the governments are harsh and restrictive. If I had not become a Muse I would have been judged unnecessary and eventually eliminated. There is a trade pact between this world and my own and Muses are valuable commodities.
Something in me, of me, is being tapped, siphoned out by the cables and utilized. My emotions are being sucked dry, for a price. I have thought of running away but I have seen the crucifixion poles jutting through the yellow fog. I’ve seen what is done to Muses who run away. If anything, the governments of this world are even more ruthless than those on my home planet. If I did escape, where would I run to? There is, in fact, no escape.
There is much pain within me, but at least I am alive and can express myself, unlike the lonely monsters of this world.
Unlike Bates.
IV
Days have passed; I sit in my gray cylindrical room in my chair and Bates composes above me. He has begun another piece; he has been working at his usual pace at the normal console setting.
Someone climbs the stairs and enters Bates’ room and suddenly he stops. I can hear muffled voices through the ceiling. Perhaps it is Trevor, Bates’ business contact. The day, as usual, is bleak; sickly yellow mist drifts by the small window.
There are shuffling sounds above me; the visitor departs. Bates leaves his room and hurriedly descends the stairs.
I swivel around in my chair to face him as he enters the room. His silent eyes are bright.
“Trevor was here,” he says, holding out something in his hand. “He gave me this—a check for five thousand credits. He listened to the composition and wants me to write more, immediately. He especially liked the ending.”
“Bates—” I begin.
“He says that if I write a piece that’s like the ending of the other one all the way through he’ll double the number of credits I got for this one. He says there’s an audience for this type of music at the moment. We must start immediately.” His eyes stare through me.
“Bates,” I say, “I told you the other night it can’t be done. The contract doesn’t call for it. It’s a terrible strain on me.”
“I don’t care. If you could do it once you can do it now. I’ll make you do it. We’ll begin immediately.”
“Bates—” I say, but he closes the door behind him.
I swing around in my chair as he reaches the console upstairs. His stool grunts as he settles himself on to it, and I can hear him strapping the wires from the console to his arms and legs. The cable pads are hot on my temples. He has obviously turned the console to a high setting. He replaces the chip from the composition he was working on with a new one, and begins to urge me through the cables.
I try to hold it down but the console setting is strong. I begin to sweat. The urge increases to a forcible level.
Suddenly the dam breaks and a tide of feeling rushes out of me. The tones of the console above form a harmonic boom and then settle, after a moment of silence, into a slow, ominous crescendo. A theme forms, then another and another, and they begin to grind against one another, each building in intensity and each fighting against the others. I grit my teeth; the strain is unbearable. Tears burn my eyes. The room around me begins to tremble as the music builds to a feverish pitch. The three themes converge into a monstrous, tortured strain as my soul tries to tear loose from my body…