Free Vienna Station by Robert Walton Page A

looks down. “You can file a formal complaint if you wish.”
    I consider this. I’m ten minutes into the most important job of my career, a job I underwent extensive auditions and screening to acquire. Should I embark on a sexual harassment proceeding?
    I should, but I say, “Tell me where my quarters are.”
    My quarters are about as bleak as I expected them to be. The personal cubicle is meter high, a meter wide and three meters long. It was designed for sleeping and electronic hibernation. Music videos, vid-games, movies, performance pieces—the entire range of vicarious entertainments is available to me along with appropriate drugs. I’m out of luck if I want to throw a cocktail party. I decide that I need to practice.
    Rehearsal room 440-2 is surprisingly pleasant. High cream-colored walls glow with pale, golden light. The simulated oak chairs and music stands pick up the gold and deepen it. A bronze statue of a young girl playing a violin breaks the light into graceful curves. She seems to float above the room’s entrance, held aloft by an impossibly narrow arc of clear crystal.
    So much for the good news. I look glumly down at the stark gray neck of an electronic cello. I have spent half an hour adjusting its specs to those of my real cello back on Earth. It’s very close now, almost exactly the same. Almost.
    There’s not a sliver of real wood in the beast. I can close my eyes and shut out the plastic and the dials, but it doesn’t vibrate through my shoulder, hum through my heart, as my real instrument does.
    I launch into Bach, the Courante from Suite No.6 in D. My fingers feel wooden at first. Then the flow of the notes takes me. The instrument, plastic and fiberglass though it is, takes life from the music. I reach the final notes and let my bow rest on the strings for just a moment after the sound fades.
    A voice behind me says, “Not too shabby, especially since you’re just off the boat.”
    I look over my shoulder. A cheerful young woman smiles “I’m Kelly. I work here too.” She holds out her hand.
    I take it. “I’m Dru.”
    Kelly squeezes my hand lightly and releases it. “How do you like the fake instrument?”
    I shrug. “It’s not that bad. I’ve done studio work with enhanced instruments before. I’ve never worked with holograms, though. They’re strange! I’m a little worried about the concerts.
    Kelly shakes her head. “You get used to it. I’m a violinist. If I squint a little, I can pretend the hologram is a real Strad, not just a paradigm. Are you going to play some more?”
    “Sure. Would you like more Bach?”
    “Okay by me.”
    I continue with the Sarabande from the Suite in D, my favorite movement. Bach generates intensity and I easily plunge into the total concentration this music requires. As my last note ripples into silence, an excited shout sounds from behind me.
    “Bravo! Bravissimo! That was well played!”
    I turn and see a small man with his hands clasped before him as if they were frozen while applauding. His hair is light, frizzy and long. His nose, too, is long. He’s dressed in 18th Century costume, a pale blue satin suit and linen shirt with lace at cuffs and neck. He is young and looks somehow familiar.
    He speaks again, “That was very good! Are you one of the festival performers?”
    It always takes me a moment to shift from serious concentration to conversation, “Yes, I am.”
    He laughs, “Wonderful! So am I!”
    His eyes are small, close together and nearly rendered insignificant by his nose. Still, they are curiously dark and magnetic. They also sparkle with glee.
    “Oh,” I venture cautiously, “what is your instrument?”
    He giggles, “Various instruments, various. Have you been out on the concourse?”
    I shake my head. “No, I only just arrived.”
    “Well, you must see it. You really must!”
    I nod noncommittally. Two violinists have wandered in. A plump young woman over in the corner is inspecting a basset horn and frowning