with the modified Slaver disintegrator.
From a thousand feet over their heads, he heard their reverent silence become a murmur of astonishment; and he knew that they had seen him, a bright speck separating from the castle window. He sank toward them.
The murmur did not die. It was suppressed. He could hear the difference.
Then the singing began.
“It drags,” Teela had said, and, “They don’t keep in step,” and, “It all sounds flat.” Louis’s imagination had gone on from there. As a result the singing took him by surprise. It was much better than he had expected.
He guessed they were singing a twelve-tone scale. The “octave” scale of most of the human worlds was also a twelve-tone scale, but with differences. Small wonder it had sounded flat to Teela.
Yes, it dragged. It was church music, slow and solemn and repetitive, without harmony. But it had grandeur.
The square was immense. A thousand people were a vast throng after the weeks of loneliness; but the square could have held ten times that number. Loudspeakers could have kept them singing in step, but there were no loudspeakers. A lone man waved his arms from a pedestal in the center of the square. But they would not look at him. They were all looking up at Louis Wu.
For all that, the music was beautiful.
Teela could not hear that beauty. The music of her experience had come from recordings and tridee sets, always by way of a microphone system. Such music could be amplified, rectified, the voices multiplied or augmented, the bad takes thrown away. Teela Brown had never heard live music.
Louis Wu had. He slowed his ’cycle to give his nerve ends time to adapt to the rhythms of it. He remembered the great public sings on the cliffs above Crashlanding City, throngs which had boasted twice this number, sings which had sounded different for that and another reason; for Louis Wu had been singing too. Now, as he let the music vibrate in him, his ears began to adjust to the slightly sharp or flat notes, to the blurring of voices, to the repetition, to the slow majesty of the hymn.
He caught himself as he was about to join in the singing. That’s not a good idea, he thought, and let his ’cycle settle toward the square.
The pedestal in the center of the square had once held a statue. Louis identified the humanlike footprints, each four feet long, that marked where the statue had stood. Now the pedestal housed a kind of triangular altar, and a man stood with his back to the altar waving his arms as the people sang.
Flash of pink above gray robe…Louis assumed that the man was wearing a headpiece, perhaps of pink silk.
He chose to land on the pedestal itself. He was just touching down when the conductor turned to face him. As a result he almost wrecked the ’cycle.
It was pink scalp Louis had seen. Unique in this crowd of heads like golden flowers, faces of blond hair with eyes peeping through, this man’s face was as naked as Louis Wu’s own.
With a straight-armed gesture, palms down, the man held the last note of the singing…held it for seconds…then cut it. A fragment of a second later the tail of it drifted in from the edges of the square. The—priest?—faced Louis Wu in a sudden silence.
He was as tall as Louis Wu, tall for a native. The skin of his face and scalp were so pale as to be nearly translucent, like a We Made It albino. He must have shaved many hours ago with a razor that was not sharp enough, and now the stubble was emerging, adding its touch of gray everywhere but for the two circles around his eyes.
He spoke with a note of reproof, or so it seemed. The translator disc instantly said, “So you have come at last.”
“We didn’t know we were expected,” Louis said truthfully. He was not confident enough to try a God Gambit based on himself. In a long lifetime he had learned that telling a consistent set of lies could get hellishly complicated.
“You grow hair on your head,” said the priest. “One presumes that your blood is less than pure, O Engineer.”
So that was it! The race of the Engineers must have been totally bald; so that this priest must imitate them by using a blunt razor on his tender skin. Or…had the Engineers used depil cream or something just as easy, for no reason more pressing than fashion? The