Laurence Janifer - The Dead Beat

“Killing them softly with his song,” I said, one day long after Josh had been quietly put away. (No trial, no publicity—the Williamson would not have done well—just a hearing before a judge and a couple of psychiatrists. And a new home for Josh, where he could listen to music all day long, though only through machinery, and even play some on a ward piano, but would not have the chance to build any new machines of his own.)

Marietta said: “What?”

“An old song,” I said. “PreSpace, I think, or nearly. What Josh was doing.”

“Well, at least it’s over,” Marietta said. “And the Williamson can go on playing.”

“The Berlioz Requiem next month?” I said, and she nodded. “I’ll have to stay around for that.”

Marietta grinned. “You have a lifetime season pass, you know that,” she said. “But seriously, Knave, don’t you have other places to go?”

“Not,” I said, “immediately.” And then I said: “We’d better be going back to the AHD now, though—it is getting late, and you know how I need my sleep.”

And we got up, and left Marietta grinning there.

I did say cellists ran to lovely, didn’t I? And I did say—didn’t I?—that this one ran in a class all her own.