This old woman was no threat. She obviously knew nothing about him and wouldn’t have been much of a threat if she had. His friends might not find him for some time, if ever, depending on the condition of the
214
Ye Who Would Sing
radiocom broadcaster. And just now there was the distinct possibility that representatives from the other side of the law would be desirous of his company. He could just as soon do without that. Lawyers and cops had a way of tangling your explanations about things like self-defense.
So hi many respects this looked like a fine place to stay and relax. No one would find him in the Silver Spars and there was nowhere to walk to. He leaned back into the pillow.
Then he heard the singing.
The melody was incredibly complex, the rhythm haunting. It was made of organ pipes and flutes and maudlin bassoons, mournful oboes and a steadying backbeat, all interwoven to produce an alien serenity of sound no human orchestra could duplicate. Scattered through and around was a counterpoint of oddly ; metallic, yet not metal bells, a quicksilver tinkling like little girl-boy laughter.
Caitland knew that sound. Everyone knew that sound. The chimer tree produced it. The chimer tree, a mature specimen of which would fetch perhaps a hundred thousand credits.
But the music that sounded around the house was wilder, stronger, far more beautiful than anything Caitland in his prosaic, uncomplicated existence had ever imagined. He’d heard recordings taken from the famed chimer quartet in Geneva Garden. And he knew that only one thing could produce such an over-, powering wealth of sound—a chimer tree forest.