He reconsidered swiftly. She wouldn't know about Paganini since he had played before recorded music. "Some old virtuoso," he said offhandedly. "I read about him. He was supposed to be good." "But as long as we haven't heard him we can't miss him," she said cheerfully. It was too pat. "Not only that," he said. "You said masters of all ages. What about the masters of today? Have you heard them? Where are they?" "Why here," she said puzzledly. "At any synthony." "They're not," he said positively. "We're living with borrowed music. Those composers knew nothing of the things that are familiar to us. They never heard rockets coming in from Mars. Nor the hum of hundred story farms. How could they compose the music that we need to hear?" The girl looked at him queerly, as if seeing him for the first time. "You're very young," she said finally. "Most of us feel that way when we're young." She touched him lightly. "You may be right, but keep your views to yourself." She made her way back to the auditorium. Fortunately the synthony had begun. The audience had left the lobby; none but the girl had heard him. Danny had said it, though, and having done so, couldn't listen to the music. Casals, Menuhin, Heifetz, Sidney Bechet, Szigetti, Segovia, and others were in the orchestra, but the harmonies were meaningless and the melody, or rather the fusion of a dozen older ones, was thin and hackneyed. The only composer of the twenty-third century sat in the body of a fourteen year old boy and had nothing to compose on or for. * * * * * He went home, confused. What he had said was true, though this was the first time he had recognized it. For several days he did not practice. In the end he went back to the piano and played more fiercely. Much of his time he now spent in the experimental lab. He puttered with sound and electronics in a seemingly aimless fashion. Outwardly nothing came of this; in six months his interest waned. But in that period he had built, secretly, a small device. It was not altogether new; it was a combination of several existing sound systems, adapted to his purpose. But the application of the device, that was new. It did not exist by and for itself; it was a supplement to an existing musical instrument, the piano. It changed the range of the familiar instrument, extended it, developed it. Danny concealed the electronic device in his room. Piece by piece he took it to the Music Hall and installed it in the piano. When he finished, to all outward appearances, the piano was unchanged. Hidden in the legs, concealed in the lid, disposed of in various places, his attachment was safe from all but x-ray inspection. And on such a time honored instrument that kind of an examination wasn't likely. The switch had posed a problem. It couldn't be a mechanical type; that was too difficult to hide. And even the best hidden switch might accidentally be turned on.