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Updated: May 24, 2025
When Orpheus Crisodd's Devilgrass Symphony was first played in Carnegie Hall an audience three times as great as that admitted had to be accommodated outside with loudspeakers and when the awesome crescendo of horns, drums, and broken crockery rubbed over slate surfaces announced the climax of the sixth movement, the crowds wept. Even for Mozart the hall was full, or practically full.
Joe Kivelson's voice, out of the loudspeakers all around, was yelling: "Everybody away from the front! Get the blowers in; start in on the other side!" I wanted to find out who had been splashed, but Joe Kivelson was too busy directing the new phase of the fight to hand out casualty reports to the press, and besides, there were too many things happening all at once that I had to get.
Some were clumped around street loudspeakers. There was a hum overhead. Thane spun around and looked up. A police patrol was just overhead. As it settled Thane threw himself flat on the icy tile. There was an immediate shrieking pain from his injured right arm. He gritted his teeth and aimed as the door of the anti-grav opened. The flash of his blaster was a bright orange in the night air.
He had pressed the alarm bell, then sought to delay them with the righteous indignation suitable to the administrative head of a barber college which is invaded by government officials. The bells stopped suddenly, and the scattered shouting sounded strange and thin in the comparative silence. Then the piping voice of the Chief came over the loudspeakers spread throughout the building.
"Co-o-ntact!" said a voice through many speakers placed throughout the fighting ship's hull. There was the rushing sound of compartment doors closing. Then a cushioned silence everywhere, save for the faint, standby scratching sounds that loudspeakers always emit. Screens lighted. A speck moved among the stars. "Prepare counter-missiles," said the voice. "Proximity and track.
There were a hundred blasters which would fire upon him at the same instant. He would not only be killed; he would be destroyed. He would be vaporized by the blue-white flames poured upon him. His death was remarkably close. Nothing remained but the order to fire, when loudspeakers from the landing-grid office froze everything.
There were voices from loudspeakers imperious and hopeless, angry and feeble, impassioned and monotonous, arrogant and anguished in a synthetic language made up of odd phonemes long since discarded from a thousand other languages. When he looked up he saw no door but only a rectangle of darkness with erratic flashes of colored light. Having no choice, he entered on his hands and knees.
There were a hundred blasters which would fire upon him at the same instant. He would not only be killed; he would be destroyed. He would be vaporized by the blue-white flames poured upon him. His death was remarkably close, nothing remaining but the order to fire, when loudspeakers from the landing-grid office froze everything.
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