“What about the sound-sweeping?” Merrill asked. “Will you give it up?”
Mangon shrugged. “It’s my talent, but living at the stockade, let in at back doors, cleaning up the verbal garbage— it’s a degraded job. I want to help Madame Gioconda. She will need a secretary when she starts to go on tour.”
Merrill shook his head warily. “You’re awfully sure there’s going to be a sonic revival, Mangon. Every sign is against it.”
“They have not heard Madame Gioconda sing. Believe me, I know the power and wonder of the human voice. Ultrasonic music is great for atmosphere, but it has no content. It can’t express ideas, only emotions.”
“What happened to that closed circuit program you and Ray were going to put on for her?”
“It—fell through,” Mangon lied. The circuits Madame Gioconda would perform on would be open to the world. He had told them nothing of the visits to the stockade, of his power to read the baffles, of the accumulating file on LeGrande. Soon Madame Gioconda would strike.
Above them in the hallway a door slammed, someone stormed through into the apartment in a tempest, kicking a chair against a wall. It was Alto. He raced down the staircase into the lounge, jaw tense, fingers flexing angrily.
“Paul, don’t interrupt me until I’ve finished,” he snapped, racing past without looking at them. “You’ll be out of a job, but I warn you, if you don’t back me up one hundred per cent I’ll shoot you. That goes for you too, Mangon, I need you in on this.” He whirled over to the window, bolted out the traffic noises below, then swung back and watched them steadily, feet planted firmly in the carpet. For the first time in the three years Mangon had known him he looked aggressive and confident.
“Headline,” he announced. “The Gioconda is to sing again! Incredible and terrifying though the prospect may seem, exactly two weeks from now the live uncensored voice of the Gioconda will go out coast-to-coast on all three V.C. radio channels. Surprised, Mangon? It’s no secret, they’re printing the bills right now. Eight-thirty to nine-thirty, right up on the peak, even if they have to give the time away.”
Merrill cat forward. “Bully for her. If LeGrande wants to drive the whole ship into the ground, why worry?”
Alto punched the sofa viciously. “Because you and I are going to be on board! Didn’t you hear me? Eight-thirty, a fortnight today! We have a program on then. Well, guess who our guest star is?”
Merrill struggled to make sense of this. “Wait a minute, Ray. You mean she’s actually going to appear—she’s going to sing—in the middle of Opus Zero?” Alto nodded grimly. Merrill threw up his hands and slumped back. “It’s crazy, she can’t. Who says she will?”
“Who do you think? The great LeGrande.” Alto turned to Mangon. “She must have raked up some real dirt to frighten him into this. I can hardly believe it.”
“But why on Opus Zero?” Merrill pressed. “Let’s switch the première to the week after.”
“Paul, you’re missing the point. Let me fill you in. Sometime yesterday Madame Gioconda paid a private call on LeGrande. Something she told him persuaded him that it would be absolutely wonderful for her to have a whole hour to herself on one of the feature music programs, singing a few old-fashioned songs from the old-fashioned shows, with a full-scale ultrasonic backing. Eager to give her a completely free hand he even asked her which of the regular programs she’d like. Well, as the last show she appeared on ten years ago was canceled to make way for Ray Alto’s Total Symphony you can guess which one she picked.”
Merrill nodded. “It all fits together. We’re broadcasting from the concert studio. A single ultrasonic symphony, no station breaks, not even a commentary. Your first world première in three years. There’ll be a big invited audience. White tie, something like the old days. Revenge is sweet.” He shook his head sadly. “Hell, all that work.”
Alto snapped, “Don’t worry, it won’t be wasted. Why should we pay the bill for LeGrande? This symphony is the one piece of serious music I’ve written since I joined V.C. and it isn’t going to be ruined.” He went over to Mangon, sat down next to him. “This afternoon I went down to the rehearsal studios. They’d found an ancient sonic grand somewhere and one of the old-timers was accompanying her. Mangon, it’s ten years since she sang last. If she’d practiced for two or three hours a day she might have preserved her voice, but you sweep her radio station, you know she hasn’t sung a note. She’s an old woman now. What time alone hasn’t done to her, cocaine and self-pity have.” He paused, watching Mangon searchingly. “I hate to say it, Mangon, but it sounded like a cat being strangled.”
You lie, Mangon thought icily. You are simply so ignorant, your taste in music is so debased, that you are unable to recognise real genius when you see it. He looked at Alto with contempt, sorry for the man, with his absurd silent symphonies. He felt like shouting: I know what silence is! The voice of the Gioconda is a stream of gold, molten and pure, she will find it again as I found mine. However, something about Alto’s manner warned him to wait.
He said, “I understand.” Then, “What do you want me to do?”
Alto patted him on the shoulder. “Good boy. Believe me, you’ll be helping her in the long run. What I propose will save all of us from looking foolish. We’ve got to stand up to LeGrande, even if it means a one-way ticket out of V.C. Okay, Paul?” Merrill nodded firmly and he went on, “Orchestra will continue as scheduled. According to the program Madame Gioconda will be singing to an accompaniment by Opus Zero, but that means nothing and there’ll be no connection at any point. In fact she won’t turn up until the night itself. She’ll stand well down-stage on a special platform, and the only microphone will be an aerial about twenty feet diagonally above her. It will be live—but her voice will never reach it. Because you, Mangon, will be in the cue-box directly in front of her, with the most powerful sonovac we can lay our hands on. As soon as she opens her mouth you’ll let her have it. She’ll be at least ten feet away from you so she’ll hear herself and won’t suspect what is happening.”
“What about the audience?” Merrill asked.
“They’ll be listening to my symphony, enjoying a neurophonic experience of sufficient beauty and power, I hope, to distract them from the sight of a blowzy prima donna gesturing to herself in a cocaine fog. They’ll probably think she’s conducting. Remember, they may be expecting her to sing but how many people still know what the word really means? Most of them will assume its ultrasonic.”
“And LeGrande?”
“He’ll be in Bermuda. Business conference.”