“A good harmonica is hardly a toy,” Clef said. “Properly played, it can match any instrument in the orchestra. Are you certain—I am trying to be fair, since you are so generously offering me the category—“
“I’m certain,” Stile said, though Clef’s confidence disturbed him. Exactly how good could this man be on the harmonica?
“Then so shall it be,” Clef agreed, and offered his hand.
“A handshake agreement is not worth the paper it’s printed on,” Stile reminded him.
“But it is also said that the man who trusts men will make fewer mistakes than he who distrusts them.”
“I have found it so.” Stile took the proffered hand, and so they sealed the agreement.
Their turn at the grid came. They played as agreed.
They would contest for this Round with the harmonica. Sheen was ready with Stile’s harmonica; she was able to carry objects unobtrusively in her body compartments, and she was the only one in this frame he trusted with such things. It had to be this familiar instrument, the one he had played so often in Phaze, rather than some strange one issued by the Game Computer. It was not the Flute, but there seemed to be a certain magic about it. On this, he could play well enough to defeat a musician—he hoped. For Stile thought it likely that a man who played the flute habitually would not be able to do much on short notice with the harmonica. Not as much as Stile could. Stile was by no means a bad musician himself, and he well under-stood the nature of the Game. There were tricks of victory apart from straight skill. And Stile had practiced with a unicorn.
Sheen, however, was alarmed. She had only a moment to speak to him during the transfer. “Stile, I spot-researched this man Clef. He’s no dabbler in music—he’s expert! He may be the finest musician on the planet—the one Citizens borrow for their social functions. He can play anything!”
Oh-oh. Had he walked into the lion’s den—again? It was the penalty he paid for spending his free time chasing down magicians in the fantasy frame, instead of doing his homework here. When would he learn better? Part of being in the Game was doing one’s research, ascertaining the strengths and weaknesses of one’s likely opponents, devising grid-strategies to exploit whatever situation arose. He would be much better off to remain in Proton for the duration of the Tourney, settling it one way or the other. But he could not; the lure of magic, of Adept status, of free and open land and of his ideal woman—maybe that last told it all!—were too great. He had discounted Clef’s confidence as bravado, at least in part, and that might have been a bad error. “I’ll do my best,” he told Sheen.
“You’ll have to do better than that,” she grumped as they separated. Sometimes she was so human it was painful.
Clef met him in a concert hall. Spectators were permitted here; there were seats for about a hundred. The chamber was already full. “Some interest generated here,” Clef noted. “You appear to be well known.”
“Maybe they are music fans,” Stile said. Often he did attract audiences for his Games, but this was a greater response than he could account for. But of course he had never been in the Tourney before this year; only slightly over one in ten of the original entrants remained, which allowed the audience to concentrate much more heavily on the remaining games.
They took their places on the small stage. There were seats there, and music stands; the archaic paraphernalia of the artistic medium. Clef had obtained a harmonica similar to Stile’s own, from the Game supplies. “The rules of this competition,” the voice of the Game Computer came. “Each contestant will play a solo piece randomly selected. The Computer will judge the level of technical expertise. The human audience will judge the social aspect. Both judgments will be tallied for the decision. Proceed.” And a printed sheet of music appeared on a vision screen in front of Clef.
The musician lifted his harmonica and played. Stile’s hope sank.
Clef was not merely good and not merely expert. He was outstanding. He was conversant with every technique of the harmonica, and played the music absolutely true. He tongued notes, he employed the vibrato, he trilled, he shifted modes without slip or hesitation. If the harmonica were not his chosen instrument, that was not apparent now.
The man’s long, tapering fingers enclosed his harmonica lovingly, his right forefinger resting on the chromatic lever, his hands opening to modify the tonal quality. Each note was pure and clear and perfectly timed; a machine could hardly have been more technically accurate. Stile certainly could not improve on that performance.
