candelabra, plaque and rug, after having paid a price which Hilyer later reckoned to be about double what she should have paid. Nevertheless, Althea was happy with her acquisitions.
On the next day they took the flitter aloft and flew high above Kouhou. The area was deserted; the mountain folk had trooped to Pol Pond for their ablution rite. The Faths hastily retrieved their recording devices, returned to Plaise spaceport and departed by the first appropriate packet. The results of their reckless mission were highly satisfactory; they had recorded an amazing sequence of sounds: surges of—what? Melody? Dynamic projection? Soulforce made audible? No one could find a proper place in the taxonomy of music where the Kouhou Chants—as they came to be known—could be filed.
“We’d never go off on such a hare-brained venture again,” Althea told Maihac. “Still, if nothing else, it started me collecting candelabra. But now—enough of me and my ridiculous hobby. Play us another tune on the froghorn.”
“Not tonight,” said Maihac. “I am snuffling around the noseflute. It is a matter of embouchure at the nose-piece. It takes years to develop a really good nasal embouchure. If I ever achieved it well and truly, I would have the look of a vampire bat.” Maihac packed the instrument away in its case.
“Next time you must bring your four-twanger,” said Althea. “That is a far gentler instrument.”
“True! I risk neither Suanez the devil, nor a sore nose.”
“Still, you should work up a repertory on the froghorn. If you played weekly concerts at the Centrum, you’d attract no end of attention and command quite a decent fee, or so I should think.”
Hilyer chuckled. “If you are yearning for fame and comporture, there is your chance. The Scythians would sign you into their membership before you could say ‘knife’; they love to flaunt eccentricity.”
“I’ll consider your suggestion,” said Maihac politely. “However, I no longer look to the froghorn as a solution to my financial problems. In fact I’ve taken on a part-time job, at the spaceport machine shop. It pays me rather well, but after classes at the Institute, I’ll find little time for froghorn practice.”
Noting Jaro’s enthusiasm, Hilyer and Althea were restrained in their congratulations. Like Dame Wirtz, they felt that Jaro’s fascination with space might distract him from the academic career which they hoped he would pursue.
A month passed. The term at Langolen School approached the spring recess. Jaro’s work, meanwhile, had suddenly deteriorated, as if Jaro had been afflicted by a fit of absentmindedness. Dame Wirtz suspected that Jaro had been allowing his imagination to rove too freely among the far worlds, and one morning, just after his first class period, took him into her private office.
Jaro admitted the shortcomings and undertook to do better.
Dame Wirtz said that was all very well—but not enough. “Your work has been excellent, and we have all been proud of you. So now—why this sudden lethargy? You just can’t drop everything and go off to chase butterflies! Surely you agree?”
“Yes, of course! But—”
Dame Wirtz refused to listen. “You must put aside your daydreams, and attend to your future.”
Jaro despairingly tried to deny the imputations of sloth. “Even if I explained, you still would not understand!”
“Try me!”
Jaro muttered: “I don’t care a fig for comporture. As soon as I can, I’ll be gone into space.”
Dame Wirtz began to wonder. “All very well, but why the frantic urgency?”
“I have a good reason.”
As soon as Jaro had spoken he knew that he had gone too far. Dame Wirtz pounced.
“Indeed. And what is this reason?”
Jaro spoke in a numb monotone: “There is something important I must do, to save my own sanity.”
“Indeed,” said Dame Wirtz again. “And what must be done?”
“I don’t know just yet.”
“I see. Where will you go to do what needs to be
On the next day they took the flitter aloft and flew high above Kouhou. The area was deserted; the mountain folk had trooped to Pol Pond for their ablution rite. The Faths hastily retrieved their recording devices, returned to Plaise spaceport and departed by the first appropriate packet. The results of their reckless mission were highly satisfactory; they had recorded an amazing sequence of sounds: surges of—what? Melody? Dynamic projection? Soulforce made audible? No one could find a proper place in the taxonomy of music where the Kouhou Chants—as they came to be known—could be filed.
“We’d never go off on such a hare-brained venture again,” Althea told Maihac. “Still, if nothing else, it started me collecting candelabra. But now—enough of me and my ridiculous hobby. Play us another tune on the froghorn.”
“Not tonight,” said Maihac. “I am snuffling around the noseflute. It is a matter of embouchure at the nose-piece. It takes years to develop a really good nasal embouchure. If I ever achieved it well and truly, I would have the look of a vampire bat.” Maihac packed the instrument away in its case.
“Next time you must bring your four-twanger,” said Althea. “That is a far gentler instrument.”
“True! I risk neither Suanez the devil, nor a sore nose.”
“Still, you should work up a repertory on the froghorn. If you played weekly concerts at the Centrum, you’d attract no end of attention and command quite a decent fee, or so I should think.”
Hilyer chuckled. “If you are yearning for fame and comporture, there is your chance. The Scythians would sign you into their membership before you could say ‘knife’; they love to flaunt eccentricity.”
“I’ll consider your suggestion,” said Maihac politely. “However, I no longer look to the froghorn as a solution to my financial problems. In fact I’ve taken on a part-time job, at the spaceport machine shop. It pays me rather well, but after classes at the Institute, I’ll find little time for froghorn practice.”
Noting Jaro’s enthusiasm, Hilyer and Althea were restrained in their congratulations. Like Dame Wirtz, they felt that Jaro’s fascination with space might distract him from the academic career which they hoped he would pursue.
A month passed. The term at Langolen School approached the spring recess. Jaro’s work, meanwhile, had suddenly deteriorated, as if Jaro had been afflicted by a fit of absentmindedness. Dame Wirtz suspected that Jaro had been allowing his imagination to rove too freely among the far worlds, and one morning, just after his first class period, took him into her private office.
Jaro admitted the shortcomings and undertook to do better.
Dame Wirtz said that was all very well—but not enough. “Your work has been excellent, and we have all been proud of you. So now—why this sudden lethargy? You just can’t drop everything and go off to chase butterflies! Surely you agree?”
“Yes, of course! But—”
Dame Wirtz refused to listen. “You must put aside your daydreams, and attend to your future.”
Jaro despairingly tried to deny the imputations of sloth. “Even if I explained, you still would not understand!”
“Try me!”
Jaro muttered: “I don’t care a fig for comporture. As soon as I can, I’ll be gone into space.”
Dame Wirtz began to wonder. “All very well, but why the frantic urgency?”
“I have a good reason.”
As soon as Jaro had spoken he knew that he had gone too far. Dame Wirtz pounced.
“Indeed. And what is this reason?”
Jaro spoke in a numb monotone: “There is something important I must do, to save my own sanity.”
“Indeed,” said Dame Wirtz again. “And what must be done?”
“I don’t know just yet.”
“I see. Where will you go to do what needs to be
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