Baque, looking past Denton to avoid his eyes, said nothing.
Denton leaned forward. His smile did not waver, but his eyes narrowed and his voice was suddenly icy. “Do I make myself clear, Baque?”
“Yes,” Baque muttered weakly.
Denton jerked a thumb toward the door, and half of those present, including Hulsey, solemnly filed out. The others waited, talking in whispers, while Denton puffed steadily on his cigar. Finally an intercom rasped a single word. “Ready!”
Denton pointed at the multichord. “We crave a demonstration of your skill, Mr. Baque. And take care that it's a good demonstration. Hulsey is listening, and he can tell us if you try to stall.”
Baque nodded and took his place at the multichord. He sat with fingers poised, timidly looking up at a circle of staring faces. Overlords of business, they were, and of science and industry, and never in their lives had they heard real music. As for Hulsey—yes, Hulsey would be listening, but over Denton's intercom, over a communication system designed to carry voices.
And Hulsey had a terrible ear for music.
Baque grinned contemptuously, touched the violin filter, touched it again, and faltered.
Denton chuckled dryly. “I neglected to inform you, Mr. Baque. On Hulsey's advice, we've had the filters disconnected.”
Anger surged within Baque. He jammed his foot down hard on the volume control, insolently tapped out a visiscope fanfare, and started to play his Tamper Cheese Com. Denton, his own anger evident in his flushed face, leaned forward and snarled something. The men around him stirred uneasily. Baque shifted to another Com, improvised some variations, and began to watch the circle of faces. Overlords of industry, science and business. It would be amusing, he thought, to make them stomp their feet. His fingers shaped a compelling rhythm, and they began to sway restlessly.
He forgot his resolution to play cautiously. Laughing silently to himself, he released an overpowering torrent of sound that set the men dancing and brought Denton to his feet. He froze them in ridiculous postures with an outburst of surging emotion. He made them stomp recklessly, he brought tears to their eyes, and he finished off with the pounding force that Lankey called, “Sex Music.”
Then he slumped over the keyboard, terrified at what he had done.
Denton stood behind his desk, face pale, hands clenching and unclenching. “Good God!” he muttered.
He snarled a word at his intercom. “Reaction?”
“Negative,” came the prompt answer.
“Let's wind it up.”
Denton sat down, passed his hands across his face, and turned to Baque with a bland smile. “An impressive performance, Mr. Baque. We'll know in a few minutes—ah, here they are.”
Those who had left earlier filed back into the room, and several men huddled together in a whispered conference. Denton left his desk and paced the floor meditatively. The other men in the room, including Hulsey, gravitated toward the bar.
Baque kept his place at the multichord and watched the conference uneasily. Once he accidentally touched a key, and the single tone shattered the poise of the conferees, halted Denton in midstride, and startled Hulsey into spilling his drink.
“Mr. Baque is getting impatient,” Denton called. “Can't we finish this?”
“One moment, sir.”
Finally they filed toward Denton's desk. The spokesman, a white-haired, scholarly-looking man with a delicate pink complexion, cleared his throat self-consciously and waited until Denton had returned to his chair.
“It is established,” he said, “that those in this room were powerfully affected by the music. Those listening on the intercom experienced no reaction except a mild boredom.”
“I didn't call you in here to state the obvious,” Denton snapped. “How does he do it?”
“We can only offer a working hypothesis.”
“So you're guessing. Let's have it.”
“Erlin Baque has the ability to telepathically project his emotional experience. When the projection is subtly reinforced by his multichord playing, those in his immediate presence share that experience intensely. The projection has no effect upon those listening to his music at a distance.”
“And—visiscope?”
“He could not project his emotions by way of visiscope.”
“I see,” Denton said. A meditative scowl twisted his face. “What about his long-term effectiveness?”
“It's difficult to predict—”
“Predict, damn it!”
“The novelty of his playing would attract attention, at first. While the novelty lasted he might become a kind of fad. By the time his public lost interest he would probably have a small group of followers who would use the emotional experience of his playing as… a narcotic.”
“Thank you, gentlemen. That will be all.”
The room emptied quickly. Hulsey paused in the doorway, glared hatefully at Baque, and then walked out meekly.
“Obviously you're no nonentity,” Denton said, “but whatever it is you have is of no use to me. Unfortunately. If you could project on visiscope, you'd be worth a billion an hour in advertising revenue. Fortunately for you, your nuisance rating is fairly low. I know what you and Lankey are up to. If I say the word, you'll never in this lifetime find a place for your new restaurant. I could have the Lankey-Pank Out closed down within an hour, but it would hardly be worth the trouble. If you can develop a cult for yourself, why—perhaps it will keep the members out of worse mischief. I'm feeling so generous this morning that I won't even insist on a visiscope screen in your new restaurant. Now you'd better leave, Baque, before I change my mind.”
Baque got to his feet. At that moment Marigold Manning swept into the room, radiantly lovely, exotically perfumed, her glistening blonde hair swept up into a new and tantalizing hair style.
“Jimmy, darling—oh!” She stared at Baque, stared at the multichord, and stammered, “Why, you're—you're—Erlin Baque! Jimmy, why didn't you tell me?”
“Mr. Baque has been favoring me with a private performance,” Denton said brusquely. “I think we understand each other, Baque. Good morning.”
“You're going to put him on visiscope!” Marigold exclaimed. “Jimmy, that's wonderful. May I have him first? I can work him in this morning.”
Denton shook his head. “Sorry, darling. We've decided that Mr. Baque's talent is not quite suitable for visiscope.”
“At least I can have him for a guest. You'll be my guest, won't you, Mr. Baque? There's nothing wrong with giving him a guest spot, is there, Jimmy?”
Denton chuckled. “No. After all the fuss you stirred up, it might be a good idea for you to guest him. It'll serve you right when he bombs.”
“He won't bomb. He'll be wonderful on visiscope. Will you come in this morning, Mr. Baque?”
“Well—” Baque began. Denton was nodding at him emphatically. “We'll be opening a new restaurant soon. I wouldn't mind being your guest on opening day.”
“A new restaurant? That's wonderful. Does anyone know? I'll give it out this morning as an exclusive!”
“It isn't exactly settled, yet,” Baque said apologetically. “We haven't found a place yet.”
“Lankey found a place yesterday,” Denton said. “He's having a contractor check it over this morning, and if no snags develop he'll sign a lease. Just let Miss Manning know your opening date, Baque, and she'll arrange a spot for you. Now if you don't mind—”
It took Baque half an hour to find his way out of the building, but he plodded aimlessly along the corridors and disdained asking directions. He hummed happily to himself, and now and then he broke into a laugh.