"E. C. Tubb - Dumarest 20 - Web of Sand" - читать интересную книгу автора (Tubb E. C)

which had to be tolerated. Only when he had finished the morsel
did he nod.

"Go ahead, my dear. It is time we had some entertainment
worthy of our station."

The musicians were assembled at the end of the chamber; a
small group but equipped with electronic devices which
extended their range. She conferred with them for a moment,
emphasized certain points and then took her position. A moment
then, as the lights began to dim and the soft sounds of controlled
vibrations welled from the musicians behind her, she began to
sing.

She had chosen to begin with Remsley's Banachata, a
relatively simple piece but one holding unsuspected difficulties
for the novice with its abrupt changes of key and tempo. Teen
Veroka had used it as a test piece and had been scathing in his
comments to those who failed to perform to his satisfaction. She
had not failed and it was a good choice to set the mood for the
songs to follow: Hezekiah's Passion of the Heart and Ecuilton's
Interlude. But now she needed to concentrate on the Banachata.

It began softly, slowly, suddenly rising to a shrill and almost
raucous scream, to fall undulatingly over octaves to throb like a
drum then to blur into a formless stream of incoherent words
which stimulated the imagination of those who listened, guiding
them to fit their own patterns, their own concepts. Tonal magic
enhanced by the sounding board of chest and throat, projected,
modulated by larynx and tongue, lips and teeth, rising from the
stomach as muscles, and training turned her entire body into a
living facsimile of the pipe of an organ, a flute, the wail of a fife,
the sonorous echo of a drum.

She held them, after the first few moments she knew it. The
gown, the display of flesh, all were unnecessary, her vocal magic
was enough. Khan Barrocca sat, a goblet half-raised to his lips,
his desire for wine forgotten in his appreciation of her art. Jashir
Yagnik brooded, his face betraying his envy, his eyes his need.
Chole Khalil, young, impressionable, stared at her body but saw
only the imagery of his dreams. Yunus, Keith, the others
assembled with their toys—all were in the hollow of her hand. An
audience to manipulate, to control. And, suddenly, she was a
child again sitting in the great auditorium of the Opera House,
looking, listening, knowing with every cell of her body what her
destiny must be. To sing. To create rapture. To deliver joy.

The Banachata drew toward its end, shrill, clear notes
wafting like birds, caught, amplified, engaged in a mesh of
grace-notes, the main theme rising to fall to rise again in a