THE MUSIC MASTER By F. L. Wallace Robots could play an instrument, but they could not write music--and Danny wanted to do both--even if it meant facing the psych squad! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy December 1952 Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] After the performers filed off stage the audience chattered politely and drifted toward the exits. Danny Tocar looked up at his mother, and, on impulse, detached his hand from hers and lingered behind. As long as she was busy culturizing he wouldn't be missed. When the auditorium was empty Danny made his way to the stage and stood among the instruments. He stroked a violin, dark and shining. It was very heavy, as if it were solid. It was solid. He touched the metallic ridges on it. Funny. When he had sat in the audience those ridges had looked like strings and had given out a pleasant sound. It made no sound for him though, even when he drew the bow across it as the musician had done. It was the same with the drum when he pounded it. It too was silent. He frowned and tried the trumpet. He lifted the instrument to his lips and puffed his cheeks and blew. Nothing happened at all. He examined it intently and then sadly laid it down. It was fake. All the instruments were toys, imitations of something that had once been real. The music had not been phony, though. He visualized the performance, a harmony of motions as well as sound: bowing, plucking, striking, blowing. Where had the music come from if not from the instruments? He still remembered the synthony. There was one instrument much larger than the others. It was set on a raised platform and looked different. He wandered toward it, and discovered the enclosure. From the audience he hadn't noticed this; the enclosure was hardly visible though he was leaning against it. He had experience with this sort of thing. A museum case; a guarantee that whatever was inside was real. With practiced fingers he felt for an invisible crevice in the transparent enclosure. A fingernail split, but something swung open, and Danny was inside. He looked curiously at it. A large wooden instrument with white markings along the front of it. Danny remembered how these had been touched during the performance. He was good at imitation; Danny brought his fingers down the way he had seen it done. The white things weren't markings: they were keys. The sound rolled out into the empty auditorium. Startled, Danny jerked his hands away. He didn't know it, but with those few notes he qualified as the musical genius of a hundred years. The only human who, in that time, had produced anything resembling music.