The Dark Symphony

gasping for breath. The Musicians were, he now knew with a certainty, a warped and disgusting lot; however, might not the Populars who could so easily give away a son and then just as easily upset his new life seventeen years later be worse than the Musicians? Did not this basic callousness shed some light on an ugly side of the Popular character every bit as foul as that of the Musicians? Well, whatever the case, whether the problems were his own or merely the focal point of larger problems for society in general, he had had to tell her, had had a duty to tell her and include her in his plans. They had shared, so rapidly, bodies and souls and minds that they had become a gestalt with the sum equaling more than either of the parts. In the end of his explanation, he said, simply, 'I'm not necessarily asking you to get involved in a revolution—though you well may. Chiefly, I just want to have you next to me."
    "Of course," she said.
    He sighed, cupped her chin in his hand, was going to kiss it when he thought that might be too cheap a movement Instead, he said, "I thought you'd be afraid."
    "Neither of us has anything to fear since the pillar," she said.
    The Erlking," he said, tangling his fingers in her hair.
    "The what?"
    "Schubert's
Der Erlkonig
. The Goethe poem set to music."
    "I don't think I understand," she said.
    "The Erlking is Death."
    "Oh," she said. "In my case, it was
Night on Bald Mountain
."
    That would do."
    They reached the neon stone gardens and lost themselves in a copse of trees so that they would be out of sight of any casual passers-by. When they seemed to be alone and unnoticed, they stepped across the last row of stones, the crimson glow just beginning to pulsate in those first hours of evening, and into the barren waste between the city and the ruins. Here, they could yet hesitate, could turn as Guil had turned earlier in the day, turn and run, run back to the safety of the neon stones and the ordered society they represented. But they did not turn, hardly even hesitated.
    They entered the ruins, hand-in-hand, wary for the slightest movement, the barest whisper of sound beyond the functions of their own bodies. The night was very dark among the broken buildings, brick dust and the stench of rotting food heavy on the air. Guil turned to look back over the ten gentle hills and ten towers where the descendents of Vladislovitch laid in their sensonics, sterile and pale as the black grip of passion tore their loins in false sensation. Too much wrong there. As he watched, he could not understand how he could ever have failed to understand his lack of compatibility with Musician society. He was not a good Musician (small
m
or capital M) simply because his blood was not of their culture, his genes not subject to their manipulation. He had never even known the smoothing finish of the Inundation Chamber.
    "Maybe we'd better use our shields," Tisha said.
    "They're expecting me," he said. "They must be. We aren't in any danger."
    "But the Populars are—"
    "Supposed to be savage," he concluded the statement. "But we have been taught wrong. They must be friendly, intelligent, and civilized in their own way. Come on, the night's going to go by fast enough as it is."
    They advanced into the ruins, stepping across the frame of the metal glider sofa, rusted and twisted over the centuries but still a recognizable skeleton. They had gone no more than a hundred feet when the faceless Popular stepped in front of them, his hands out-stretched in what he obviously hoped was a friendly gesture.
    Tisha jumped. Guil held her arm and kept her beside him. He had insulted this poor creature earlier by running from him in panic. He did not intend to be so grossly ill-mannered again. Besides, the phantom was obviously waiting to escort him somewhere.
    "I'm Guil," he said to the creature. He felt somehow absurd, like a man talking to the wind or to a tree.
    "I'm called Tar," the black figure said.
    "Tisha," she said, her voice somewhat uneven.
    "If you'll follow me," Tar said, "I'll take you to your people."
    Guil nodded.
    The phantom turned and glided off through the debris. They had to push themselves to keep up with him. He took them across almost unimaginable ruins: colossal piles of stone and mortar and metals, sprouts of fungus and mushrooms that had welled up from rotting timbers, puddles of glass (some of different colors, some that was not transparent). There were mashed unrecognizable things, some standing