“Perhaps. I like to think so. Would you like to hear something special? The repertoire of the forest is still limited, but there’s the chance that—”
“I don’t know,” he answered. “I don’t know much about music. But I’d like to learn, I think.”
“All right then, John Caitland. You sit yourself
down and relax.”
She adjusted some switches in the console cabinet, then leaned back against her tree. “It was observing the way the slight movements caused by the vibrations seemed to complement each other that first gave me the clue to their reproductive system, John. We have a few hours left before supper.” She touched the last
switch.
“Now this was by another old Terran composer.” Olympian strains rolled from the trees around them as the forest started the song of another world’s singer.
“His name was Beethoven,” she began.
Caitland listened to the forest and to her for many days. Exactly how many he never knew because he didn’t keep track. He forgot a lot of things while he was listening to the music and didn’t miss them.
He would have been happy to forget them forever, only they refused to be forgotten. They were waiting for him in—the form of three men—one day. He recognized them all, shut the cabin door slowly behind
him.
“Hello, John,” said Morris softly. Wise, easygoing,
ice-hard Morris,
Three of them, his employer and two associates. Associates of his, too,
226
Ye Who Would Sing
“We’d given you up for lost,” Morris continued. “I was more than just pleased when the old lady here told us you were all right. That was a fine job you did, John, a fine job. We know because the gentleman in ‘question never made his intended appointment.”