Its melting murmur o'er mine ear.

the stage, her robes flowing out behind her. She bowed quickly to the assembly and took her place at the organ console, her back, with its pleated draperies, illuminated by the spotlight. Killashandra saw her lift her hands to the first manual and then all the lights went out as the first chord was played. Killashandra all but kicked Lars as she recognized the music. In most Conservatories, a man named Bach would have been credited with its composition. On Optheria it was unlikely that any sheep safely grazed. Then the sensory elements began their insidious plucking. It was well done, the scent of new grass, spring winds, tender green, soothing color, bucolic fragrances and then Larss foot tapped hers urgently but she had already caught the image of the shepherd, a glamorized Ampris, a kindly, loving, affectionate, infinitely tender shepherd, gazing for that one moment upon members of his flock. Had Trag failed? Disappointment and a keen flare of apprehension suffused Killashandra. She forced herself to recall that first glimpse of this smaller theater. There had to be a second subliminal generator behind this organ console. Indeed, there was probably one attached to every one of these insidious instruments. How would they disconnect them all? A second image, of a grieving Ampris, saddened by a misdemeanor of his flock saddened but infinitely tolerant and forgiving capped her disgust with the entire exercise. Killashandra caught all of the images that were broadcast, as sharp and as clear as if a hologram had been suspended for inspection of a tri-d screen. The subliminals seemed etched on her retina. Something to do with her symbionts rejection of this superimposition? When the lights came up, Killashandra elected to seem to be affected by the performance as she should have been. Guildmember? Mirbethan asked in a soft eager voice. Why, it was charming. So soothing, such a lovely scene. I declare that I could smell new grass and spring blossoms. Lars tried to step on her toe. She struggled up out of the clutch of her seat and peered around him. Why. Lars Dahl, it is everything you told me it would be! He tapped twice, getting her message. A second performer strode out on the stage, his manner so militant that Killashandra laid a private bet with herself: one of the Germans or an Altairian, if Prosno-Sevics bombastic compositions had been composed before the Optherians had settled this planet. The music was an uninspired melange of many of the martial themes, each new one digital cameras with date time stamp buffeting the captive audience so that she found herself twitching away from the onslaught of the music, and wondering if she would survive the subliminals. She did, but her eyeballs ached with visions of Torkes and an improbably robust Pentrom urging the faithful onto the path to victory and planetarianism, defending the credo of Optheria to the death. An audible sigh of relief? preceded the applause this selection engendered. So the audience was being soothed to trust, encouraged to resist subversive philosophies: now what, Killashandra wondered? An alarmingly thin and earnest young man, swallowing his Adams apple convulsively as he crossed the stage, was the next performer. He looked more like a wading bird than a premier organist. And when he took his seat and lifted his hands, they splayed to incredible lengths, making the soft opening notes ludicrous to Killashandras mind, especially when she recognized the seductive phrases of a French pianist. The name escaped her momentarily but the erotic music was quite familiar. She held her breath against the first image and choked on the howl of laughter as the subliminal image of Ampris-the-seducer was superimposed, in reds and oranges, on the viewers abused senses. Fortunately, the notion of Ampris making love to her, or anyone, was so bizarre that the eroticism even magnified by scent and sensory titillation failed to achieve its full effect. Larss continual tapping was he succumbing to the illusion, keeping the beat, or trying to distract her from the powerful sensuality against her toe kept reminding her how perilous their position was at the moment. Bolero! The name returned to her as the lights came up. And fury at this arrant manipulation set a flush in her cheeks that matched those in Mirbethans as the delighted woman turned to inquire breathlessly how Killashandra had enjoyed the concert. The seats were all tilting forward, releasing their occupants once more into the cold cruel world of reality. I have never so totally experienced music before in my life, Mirbethan, Killashandra said in ringing, heartfelt tones. What she felt in her breast was not what the performance was expected to generate. A balanced and professional performance. The artists were magnificent. Excellent adaptations to the Optherian organs. Adaptations? Oh, no, Guildmember, this was the first performance of three brilliant new compositions. Mirbethan said and Killashandra could