Chapter 7: Sound Affect

It was with some relief I arrived at the McCall Auditorium on Wednesday. The hero worship had subsided a bit, but the police wanted to talk to me again. They wanted to know what I used to hit the knife guy in the chest. The doctors found heavy bruises in the shape of hands on his chest, and cracked ribs underneath.

"I am sorry, detective, as I told you, I don't remember any details of the fight."

"Professor, have you ever studied Kung Fu? Any other martial art?"

"No, nothing like that. The only sport I practiced was swimming. I never got good enough for varsity, but I still swim a few times a week."

"Can you explain the injuries on his chest?"

"I am afraid not, detective. I am sorry, but I have a class in twenty minutes. If there are no other questions?"

He wasn't happy, but presumably wasn't willing to harass the "hero". I didn't make any threats, but decided if they continued to press I would get Clara involved. The publicity would look pretty ugly: the police who couldn't catch the rapists was now harassing the hero who did and got injured for it.

As it happened, I didn't need to get lawyers and reporters involved, as the police gave up on digging into the fight.

It looked like the auditorium was going to be full. I was glad Brenda got the tickets. I grabbed a program, and started reading it while waiting for Brenda.

As we were sitting and chatting I noticed a number of familiar faces. Laksh Gupta was sitting in the same row. Ahead of me and to the right I saw Jenny Sanders with several girlfriends. I was glad she couldn't see me — I was embarrassed by her penitent attitude when she saw me, and would prefer to avoid more encounters for the nonce.

The concert started almost on time. The announcer spent a few minutes hyping up the upcoming performance, but it didn't mean much to me. I had nothing against classical music, but it wasn't really my preferred genre.

The musicians were two women from Arizona. A pretty, plump woman in her mid-twenties held a beautiful, shiny violin. The other was a tall, skinny girl with glasses. Her cello looked old, with spots and cracks, although she handled it with no less gentleness than the violinist.

As I said, classical music, especially chamber music, is not something I prefer to listen to. Thus my expectations for this concert were pretty modest. But even chamber music aficionados like Laksh were overwhelmed.

Both musicians were extraordinarily skillful. Even I could hear the technical brilliance performed seemingly without effort. But the emotional impact was beyond mere skill.

The two instruments alternated leads. When the violinist played, the cello formed a lovely companion. Sometimes almost blending into a background, sometimes playfully paralleling the violin line, and at other times supporting it so the violin sounded richer and louder. It was very very pretty.

But when the cello came to the front, it stopped being music and became magic. Yes, this was true magic! There were no spells, no direct plasm manipulation. And yet I could hear the audience's breathing, heartbeat, even their generation of plasm synchronize around the sound. The old distressed cello had a sound that dragged you in and made you part of the music.

I could hear the vibration of the wood, the harmonics in the strings, the friction of the bow. I could hear the suppressed breathing of four hundred people around me. I was impressed how closely tuned were the notes — lately I've realized how far off the scale most musicians played.

I could not name all the emotions that the young cellist invoked in us, but there was sadness and lust, courage and excitement, awe and laughter. Amazingly, I was convinced that the entire hall felt those emotions at the same time.

I had never heard music like at that concert. My eyes burned with tears, and at the end of the 90-minute program, my throat ached because they weren't playing any more. I had to wait a couple of minutes for before I could say a quiet "wow".

I tried to get close to the musicians to express a fraction of what I felt. However, they were mobbed by the students in front of me. After standing for a few minutes I decided to give up — I'd need to wait for hours before the ones in front let them go, and I doubt I could express my sentiments any differently. Surely this was not the first time they were accosted by a throng of admirers.

I stood for a few minutes trying to catch the sight of the two musicians in front me, especially the tall skinny cellist.

"Hi, Professor. Admiring the talent?"

That was Jenny. Among all the milling she ended up near me. I was happy not to hear the guilt in her voice.

"I know she is very good, but I think she's too young for you."

"I know. The program says she is only thirteen. No, I am admiring the violinist, she looks about my age and very pretty."

I glanced at Jenny, and saw a brief frown on her face. I grinned at her.

It took a few seconds, but she started grinning with me. Suddenly she laughed.

"Yes, I was jealous! You are teasing me!" She seemed extraordinarily happy at being teased. I raised my eyebrows.

"If you are teasing me, you really have forgiven me."

I lowered my voice a bit. "Look, you were a bit over the top with your flirting, but it's not the end of the world. I really wasn't comfortable with your sackcloth and ashes approach, so I am glad that's over."

She nodded, still looking pleased.

I couldn't think analytically while the music was playing, but once home I contemplated what I saw during the concert. The tints were, well, pulsing with the music. By this time I knew that all living organisms generated plasm. Humans generated more than animals, and animals more than plants. The plasm generation wasn't consciously controlled, except by the Nalu, and presumably rare gifted individuals like F. Pitt Colt and myself. But music caused this process to synchronize. I didn't know why music had this effect, but I was now curious about the pulsing of plasm itself.

Previously I focused on shaping and moving plasm. Now, as I thought about vibration, I realized that it was an essential component of making it affect the real world. When I first pushed against my finger using plasm I had to constrain its vibration in one dimension. In its "natural", unconstrained polarization, plasm passed through matter without any interaction.

I spent hours experimenting and trying to build a conceptual model of vibrating plasm. The vibration could happen in all four dimensions. The frequencies of vibration made a difference to how it looked, but my attempts to control it were weak. I tried rubbing one strand against another. That worked, but only for some frequencies. I also had a very limited perception of plasm harmonics.

I went back to the Grimoire. Of course plasm vibration was mentioned there, but almost as an aside. One had to control the vibration in frequency and dimension, to achieve repeatable results. The spell manipulations, when executed precisely, achieved that control, but there were no instructions on how to vary these vibrations. I could only conclude that like higher-level spells, this was taught in a different grimoire.

The next day started well. The hero worship was dying down, although more students now greeted me by name. It may have been an illusion, but I thought some of my weaker pupils were more diligent in taking notes and asking questions. It was almost like now that I was worthy of respect, those students were no longer content to do just the minimum work to pass the class.

I was willing to take any explanation. I enjoyed my chosen discipline, and wanted to share the love of languages and the fascination with ancient cultures with anybody who was willing to sit and listen. I wondered if some day I could teach a course on Nalu. I certainly had enough materials for the language part of it. My view of their culture was very skewed, however. An ancient civilization with advanced knowledge of human and animal physiology and genetics; one that could manufacture a book that remained intact for two thousand years. And let's not forget the minor matter of a magical theory and practice. Magic which actually worked.

It was later in the afternoon that the day deteriorated. I was editing my next article for Modern Epigraphy, when Professor Dreenk asked me to come to his office.

"Mitch, thanks for coming so promptly. Would you close the door, please, and have a seat here."

Uh-oh. This didn't look good.

"Mitch, we have been very pleased with your teaching. The student surveys have been very positive. You've been able to publish a surprising number of articles, considering how recently you completed your PhD. In many ways, you are a valuable contributor to our department. However, we view fieldwork as the most critical foundation of primary research. I have certainly made my views clear on this matter." He paused, possibly waiting for me to say something.

I was irritated with his pompous use of first person plural, like royalty. However, perhaps he retreated to pomposity from discomfort. I nodded, and he continued after clearing his throat.

"On your part, you've also made your reluctance clear. I must say that while I can understand some of your reasoning, your conclusions are not aligned with the fundamental approach in this department. Unless we can break this impasse, I am afraid we can no longer support a tenure track for you. While your scholarship is impressive, with the very limited tenured positions we can offer, we need to concentrate on the faculty who bring the most benefit to the department. Your current position is under no risk..."

I largely tuned him out. I knew we had a difference in opinions on this, but I didn't expect him to kick me out, considering how reasonable my arguments were. Or how many grants I've gotten in the last two years.