Halloween and Other Seasons

IV

Days have passed; I sit in my gray cylindrical room in my chair and Bates composes above me. He has begun another piece; he has been working at his usual pace at the normal console setting.

Someone climbs the stairs and enters Bates’ room and suddenly he stops. I can hear muffled voices through the ceiling. Perhaps it is Trevor, Bates’ business contact. The day, as usual, is bleak; sickly yellow mist drifts by the small window.

There are shuffling sounds above me; the visitor departs. Bates leaves his room and hurriedly descends the stairs.

I swivel around in my chair to face him as he enters the room. His silent eyes are bright.

“Trevor was here,” he says, holding out something in his hand. “He gave me this—a check for five thousand credits. He listened to the composition and wants me to write more, immediately. He especially liked the ending.”

“Bates—” I begin.

“He says that if I write a piece that’s like the ending of the other one all the way through he’ll double the number of credits I got for this one. He says there’s an audience for this type of music at the moment. We must start immediately.” His eyes stare through me.

“Bates,” I say, “I told you the other night it can’t be done. The contract doesn’t call for it. It’s a terrible strain on me.”

“I don’t care. If you could do it once you can do it now. I’ll make you do it. We’ll begin immediately.”

“Bates—” I say, but he closes the door behind him.

I swing around in my chair as he reaches the console upstairs. His stool grunts as he settles himself on to it, and I can hear him strapping the wires from the console to his arms and legs. The cable pads are hot on my temples. He has obviously turned the console to a high setting. He replaces the chip from the composition he was working on with a new one, and begins to urge me through the cables.

I try to hold it down but the console setting is strong. I begin to sweat. The urge increases to a forcible level.

Suddenly the dam breaks and a tide of feeling rushes out of me. The tones of the console above form a harmonic boom and then settle, after a moment of silence, into a slow, ominous crescendo. A theme forms, then another and another, and they begin to grind against one another, each building in intensity and each fighting against the others. I grit my teeth; the strain is unbearable. Tears burn my eyes. The room around me begins to tremble as the music builds to a feverish pitch. The three themes converge into a monstrous, tortured strain as my soul tries to tear loose from my body…

Hours later it is over. The ceiling above me rumbles quietly and I can hear Bates struggling for breath. The cable pads have burned my flesh and my arms and legs are very weak.

Just as I begin to calm down the pain comes again. Bates has put a new chip in. I hear him shout through the ceiling, to himself, “More!” The ceiling shakes; my arms fly about madly, uncontrollably. My head is thrown violently about.

He composes continuously for the next two days. I can barely catch a gasp of breath between cries of pain.

Finally he shuts down the console. I can dimly hear it wind down as the power decreases. I can hear Bates pull the wires from his arms and legs and stumble from his stool to the bed.

The room above me is silent.