There were universal sounds of approval and encouragement.
“All right, then: here goes.”
She took her boomerang from her pocket, slapped it rhythmically against her other palm for ten counts, and began to sing.
I cannot supply a translation of the words, and will not reproduce them as she sang them, because they were in Padhu-Padhu, a secret ritual language known only to Aboriginals, so secret (she explained to me later) that its very existence was unsuspected by Caucasian scholars until the late twentieth century.
And it doesn’t matter, because there were very few words in what she sang. Very little of her song’s information content was verbal. It was the melody itself that was important.
How can I describe that melody to you? I doubt that there is anything in your experience to compare it to. In fact, I doubt that there would have been much in another Aboriginal’s experience to compare it to; I’d heard a number of their Songs from Kirra and this was unlike them in ways I’m not equipped to explain even if you were equipped to understand me. It did not behave like any other melody I’d ever heard, yet somehow without thereby becoming unpleasing to the ear.
It began at the very bottom of her alto register, and arced up in a smooth steady climb that suggested the shuttle flight from Earth. It opened out into a repeated five-tone motif whose majesty and regularity seemed to represent Top Step in its great slow orbit. Then the song changed, became busier. It behaved much like a jaunting Postulant, actually, gliding lazily, then putting itself into tumbles, then straightening out, bouncing off imaginary walls, coming to a halt and then kicking off again. Like a jaunter’s progress, her melody never really stopped, for she had mastered the didgeridu player’s trick of breathing in and out at the same time so that she never had to pause for breath. I closed my eyes as I listened, and the twists and turns her voice took evoked specific places in Top Step powerfully for me. The Great Hall, Solarium Three, a merry little flurry that was unmistakably Le Puis, a slow solemn ululation that was Harry Stein at the window of Solarium One. Somewhere in the middle was a frankly sensual movement that expressed zero gravity lovemaking, explicitly and movingly. Ben’s humour was in it, and Kirra’s mischievousness, and the richness of their love for each other. At the end, the five-tone theme returned, first with little trills of embellishment and then at last in its pure form, slower and slower until she drew out its last note into a drone, and fell silent.
I don’t know how long we all drifted, silent, motionless, like so many sea lions. Reb was the first to shake off stasis and put his hands together, then Ben joined and then me and then the whole room exploded in applause and cheers that lasted for a long time. One of the loudest was Jacques LeClaire, the other musician in the room. She accepted our applause without smiling, as her due—or so I thought.
“It’s called ‘Taruru,’ ” she said when the noise had died down. “That means a lot o’ things, really. ‘Last glow of evening,’ and ‘dying embers,’ and ‘peace o’ mind,’ kinda rolled into one.”
“Teena,” Reb said, “save the Song Kirra just sang to her personal files as ‘Taruru.’ ”
“Yes, Reb.”
“Kirra,” Reb went on, “I think you should send that recording, as is, to your tribe.”
“You think? I can do it again any time, just like that: that’s the point of a Songline Song.”
“I understand. But send that copy. Please. I would be honoured.” Ben and I and others made sounds of vigorous agreement. Jacques called, “Oui! That is a take.”
She nodded. “Right, then. Teena, transmit ‘Taruru’ to my Earthside number, would you?”
“It’s done. Receipt has…just been acknowledged by your phone.”
“What time is it in Queensland now?”
“Five-fourteen PM.”
“Bonzer. Yarra can play it for the Yirlandji Elders tonight after supper. Teena, everybody here can have a copy if they want.”
There were more cheers. Kirra was well liked.
“You’ll void your copyright,” Glenn warned.
Kirra blinked at her. “What copyright? I didn’t make up the bloody thing, mate, I just sang it. It’s the Song of this place, see? It was here before I got here. You can’t copyright the wind.”
Now I understood why she’d heard our applause without smiling. She’d assumed we were applauding the Song, not here performance.
“One suggestion,” Reb said.
“Yes, Reb?”
“Transmit a copy to Raoul Brindle.”
There was a murmur. Brindle had been the most famous living composer for over thirty years. “Oui,” Jacques called again, and several others echoed him. “Da!” “Sí!” “Hai!”
Kirra looked thoughtful. “Be a bloody expensive phonecall, but. He an’ the Harvest Crew aren’t more than halfway back from Titan, it’d have to go by laser.”
“If it did,” Reb said, “Top Step would pay the cost; Raoul has left specific orders that he wants to hear anything you want to send him. But a laser is not necessary. Since you are willing to release the Song to the public domain, just phone any nearby Stardancer and sing it. Raoul will hear it instantly.”
“Why, sure! I’ll never get used to this telepathy business. Hey, Teena, send that Song to the nearest Stardancer that ain’t busy, addressed to Raoul Brindle, would ya?”
“Transmission in progress,” Teena said. “Routing through Harry Stein, in realtime. Transmission ends in a little over five minutes.”
There was one more round of applause, and then Kirra joined the rest of us and Reb began regular class. But five minutes later, Reb paused in the middle of a sentence.
“Excuse me, friends. Teena has just informed me that there is a phonecall for Kirra from Raoul Brindle. Kirra?”
“Open line, Teena.”
Raoul Brindle said, “Hello, Kirra.”
“G’day, mate,” she said, as though living legends phoned her up all the time.
“I don’t want to interrupt your class. I just wanted to say that your Song has been heard by all members of the Starmind presently in circuit, from the orbit of Venus to that of Uranus. Our response condenses down to: hurry, sister. We await your Graduation. I’d be honoured if you’d sail on out here and meet me once you’re Symbiotic. Oh, and there’s a waiting list of one hundred and eighty-seven Stardancers who’d like to have a child with you if you’re willing. Uh, I’m one of ’em.”
Kirra blinked. “Well, if I’m gonna live forever I suppose I got to do somethin’ with my time. I’m willin’ to discuss it with the lot of you bastards—but the line forms behind me Benjamin here. I think he’s got dibs on the first half dozen or so.”
“No hurry,” Raoul agreed. “I would like to score your Song for didgeridu, mirrimba and walbarra, if you don’t mind.”
“Oh please!” she said. “And send it me, will you? I hated havin’ to leave me instruments behind. Have you really got ’em all out there with you?”
“In my head,” he said. “Once you’re Symbiotic, you’ll find that’s all you really need. But I can reprogram my simulator to make a recording you can hear now.”
“That’d be smashin’. About this comin’ out there to meet you, though…what’s the point? I mean, I’ll be just as near to you if my body’s right here, won’t I?”
“Even for telepaths, touch has special meaning,” he said. “In one sense you’re right…but I’d like to shake your hand sooner, rather than later. It shouldn’t take you more than a few weeks.”
“It would make a lovely honeymoon trip, love,” Ben said. Under her influence he had lately been developing the ability to speak short sentences, and then stop. It was some of the strongest evidence I’d seen yet that Top Step could radically alter character.