Intermission Time

He told Papa Sosnic all about it with his music. He told him what it meant to be lonely and what it meant to find an end to loneliness, if only for a moment.

When he was through, there were tears in the old man’s eyes. He sat down and clapped John on the shoulders and kissed him on the cheek.

“You can play, John,” he exclaimed. “You can play.”

They sat at the piano until it grew dark outside. And then, because he could keep it within him no longer, John told Papa Sosnic the real story of Lora, how they had met aboard the ship and separated again without hope of ever seeing each other again.

The old man groaned. “You mean you let her go?” he said. “That you have done absolutely nothing?”

“What could I do? I haven’t given up. I’ll find a way to make them send us back to Earth. But that seems so far away now and so completely hopeless.”

“Why did you let her get away? You could have gone with her. Didn’t you know that? You could have changed your membership from experimental to Control-colony. That’s always the privilege of any who get tired of conditions here; didn’t they tell you?”

John nodded through a numbing haze. “I guess they did,” he said slowly. “I guess it was somewhere in the contract. But you can’t mean that we should have given up and both lived in primitive savagery the rest of our lives! That’s ridiculous!”

“Ah,” said Papa Sosnic, “is love ridiculous? And is there anything else that matters? Even your music — that would not matter because it would be with you always in your heart.”

“No,” whispered John. “It wouldn’t work; it would never work. It would destroy us both.”

“So far to go,” murmured Papa Sosnic sadly. “You have so far to go, Johnny, before you get out of the shadow. Play for me again, Johnny; let me hear you play again.”

6

John and Doris selected living-quarters near Papa Sosnic’s apartment, from the possible assignments offered them. Doris liked the old musician immediately, and John was pleased. Somehow it seemed very important that she should like him.

John’s quarters were a green-and-gold luxury, in which he was served with robotic precision. Gadgetry in profusion that he had never imagined served his every need. Meal panels served his every taste whim. Silently, and during his absence the place was kept in order and his clothing refreshed. He never saw a single human servant.

It was something of a novelty at first, but it became breathtaking after a few days to realize that this was his for the rest of his life. It was like going to the carnival every day.

He tried to work; he tried to think; he tried to fight his own emotions and plan their solution. And he tried to smother any consideration of the terrible answer that Papa Sosnic had proposed.

To accept that proposal would be to abandon hope forever. The Colonies existed for the fine, high purpose of developing a Man who could survive his own ingenuity. John liked to think that he was beginning to sense that purpose. But the Controls were no more than mere animal standards, by which to measure the progress of Man.

They were necessary to the experiment, perhaps, but there was no escaping the fact that no single Control could think of himself as anything but a blind and obedient sacrifice — his life an utter waste with respect to creation and fulfillment.

He would accuse himself every day of his life, John thought, if he gave up in order to live with Lora in the jungle, only to watch her dwindle and fade, to watch that light in her eyes die away.

Through the years of incessant struggle against the wet and the mold and the night-terrors their love would diminish; it would be replaced by indifference and then by hate. He would rather never see her again than experience that.

He had time now for composition, which had been denied him almost completely by the rigorous concert-schedules on Earth. With whirlwind energy he hovered over the keyboard and writing table, but his mind never forgot the problem of escape. He studied the colony, the administration of it, the schedule of incomings and outgoings. And at last he knew what he could do.

His first composition left him exhausted emotionally and physically. In it he said some of the things he had yearned all his life to say, and now he didn’t know whether he had said them or merely made a fool of himself.

He invited Papa Sosnic over to hear the work when it was finished. The old man was delighted. “I hadn’t supposed you would finish anything so quickly,” he said. “Perhaps it will do for the Fall concert. Let me hear the piece, Johnny.”

It was dusk again, but he scarcely needed to see the keyboard. His hands moved as if with them he was saying what he had wanted to say all his life.

He started with somber tones of bewilderment and loss. Then the music grew wild with fear and shot through with terror. Suddenly, in the midst of it he felt a thrust of panic. He knew it was bad; he stopped, his hands collapsed on his thighs.

Out of the darkness the voice of Papa Sosnic carne softly. “Go on, Johnny —”