The Complete Short Stories

‘Mangon, hold on to your dive breaks. I’m really on reheat this morning.’ He twirled the ultrasonic trumpet he was playing, a tangle of stops and valves from which half a dozen leads trailed off across the cushions to a cathode tube and tone generator at the other end of the sofa.

Mangon sat down quietly and Merrill clamped the mouthpiece to his lips. Watching the ray tube intently, where he could check the shape of the ultrasonic notes, he launched into a brisk allegretto sequence, then quickened and flicked out a series of brilliant arpeggios, stripping off high P and Q notes that danced across the cathode screen like frantic eels, fantastic glissandos that raced up twenty octaves in as many seconds, each note distinct and symmetrically exact, tripping off the tone generator in turn so that escalators of electronic chords interweaved the original scale, a multichannel melodic stream that crowded the cathode screen with exquisite, flickering patterns. The whole thing was inaudible, but the air around Mangon felt vibrant and accelerated, charged with gaiety and sparkle, and he applauded generously when Merrill threw off a final dashing riff.

‘Flight of the Bumble Bee,’ Merrill told him. He tossed the trumpet aside and switched off the cathode tube. He lay back and savoured the glistening air for a moment. ‘Well, how are things?’

Just then the door from one of the bedrooms opened and Ray Alto appeared, a tall, thoughtful man of about forty, with thinning blonde hair, wearing pale sunglasses over cool eyes.

‘Hello, Mangon,’ he said, running a hand over Mangon’s head. ‘You’re early today. Full programme?’ Mangon nodded. ‘Don’t let it get you down.’ Alto picked a dictaphone off one of the end tables, carried it over to an armchair. ‘Noise, noise, noise — the greatest single disease-vector of civilization. The whole world’s rotting with it, yet all they can afford is a few people like Mangon fooling around with sonovacs. It’s hard to believe that only a few years ago people completely failed to realize that sound left any residues.’

‘Are we any better?’ Merrill asked. ‘This month’s Transonics claims that eventually unswept sonic resonances will build up to a critical point where they’ll literally start shaking buildings apart. The entire city will come down like Jericho.’

‘Babel,’ Alto corrected. ‘Okay, now, let’s shut up. We’ll be gone soon, Mangon. Buy him a dnink, would you, Paul.’

Merrill brought Mangon a coke from the bar, then wandered off. Alto flipped on the dictaphone, began to speak steadily into it. ‘Memo 7: Betty, when does the copyright on Stravinsky lapse? Memo 8: Betty, file melody for projected nocturne: L, L sharp, BB, Y flat, Q, VT, L, L sharp. Memo 9: Paul, the bottom three octaves of the ultratuba are within the audible spectrum of the canine ear — congrats on that SP of the Anvil Chorus last night; about three million dogs thought the roof had fallen in on them. Memo 10: Betty — ‘ He broke off, put down the microphone. ‘Mangon, you look worried.’

Mangon, who had been lost in reverie, pulled himself together and shook his head.

‘Working too hard?’ Alto pressed. He scrutinized Mangon suspiciously. ‘Are you still sitting up all night with that Gioconda woman?’

Embarrassed, Mangon lowered his eyes. His relationship with Alto was, obliquely, almost as close as that with Madame Gioconda. Although Alto was brusque and often irritable with Mangon, he took a sincere interest in his welfare. Possibly Mangon’s muteness reminded him of the misanthropic motives behind his hatred of noise, made him feel indirectly responsible for the act of violence Mangon’s mother had committed. Also, one artist to another, he respected Mangon’s phenomenal auditory sensitivity.

‘She’ll exhaust you, Mangon, believe me.’ Alto knew how much the personal contact meant to Mangon and hesitated to be over-critical. ‘There’s nothing you can do for her. Offering her sympathy merely fans her hopes for a come-back. She hasn’t a chance.’

Mangon frowned, wrote quickly on his wrist-pad: She WILL sing again!

Alto read the note pensively. Then, in a harder voice, he said: ‘She’s using you for her own purposes, Mangon. At present you satisfy one whim of hers — the neurotic headaches and fantasy applause. God forbid what the next whim might be.’

She is a great artist.

‘She was,’ Alto pointed out. ‘No more, though, sad as it is. I’m afraid that the times change.’

Annoyed by this, Mangon gritted his teeth and tore off another sheet.

Entertainment, perhaps. Art, No!