The Dark Symphony

these things contributing to the weakening of its structure.
    The death of compassion bad been an outgrowth of the understanding that the man who was abused this moment would as likely abuse someone else the next Show compassion upon a beggar and make him into a rich man, and he will eventually turn upon you and compete with you to win your own riches. He will leave you a beggar for your kindness, refusing to stop and return the favor owed you, possessing the knowledge that if you were made rich out of his pity, you would break him and make him a beggar again.
    Guil told himself that not all men were this way. Indeed, he argued, he was not. But he could remember a week earlier when Rosie had won his Medallion—and all Guil could think of was that Rosie would go down in history and that he would have known him. A touch of selfishness? Perhaps. The system broke even the good men. The system was bigger than all, and the system used people. It was the toolmaster of toolmasters, using even those who fancied themselves as users.
    The system would not allow a man the privacy of his soul and the pleasure of living life as he saw fit. The system forced the toolmasters to use him, and to avoid the masters and live his life in his own way, he must pull strings, use people—in short, be a toolmaster himself. He was not, therefore, living life as he wanted. It was not really a vicious circle; it was a set of concentric circles, all madly whirling through even more sets. No place was still or quiet No place of peace. Save one…
    "That's more like it!" Strong laughed as the manbats shredded the Musicians with electric, jolting, screeching glee, then pulled away, their bloody grins punctuated with specks of what had been their enemies, their green eyes greener than ever before.
    The pillar, Guil thought. That was the one place…
    "I have it," Gypsy Eyes shouted.
    "What?" Strong had become so enthralled in the raging slaughter below the sled that he had momentarily forgotten all else—even, it seemed, the prayers from his Seven Books.
    "Those two groups of Musicians," Gypsy Eyes said.
    "And?"
    "One has been destroyed by a commando team. I can tell, because they have totally vanished from the possible futures."
    "Let the angel of the Lord chase them, let them be as chaff before the wind!" The prayers were back now.
    "The other group is concealed by a stand of oaks a hundred yards west of the Congressional Tower, at least, that's where they are in most of the immediate probabilities."
    "Chances?"
    "Still fifty-fifty," Gypsy said.
    Strong didn't like that. His face contorted into a hard, angular mask of anger. "Which way will they attack?"
    Gypsy Eyes concentrated a moment, leaned against the railing and clenched it tighter as if he would gather strength from the hard steel of the craft. They'll come around the perimeter of the West Neon Stone Garden and attack from the rear, the direction of the major ruins. It is all slated as a surprise, and I imagine they think themselves extremely clever. There is a ninety-two percent probability that this is the avenue of attack."
    The anger in Strong's face subsided as he dealt with this positive piece of prediction. "Good enough. We'll sneak behind them with a force of manbats and drop unawares." He kicked the accelerator with a massive foot, bucked the sled, and plunged them on, stopping only to confer with a manbat and have the creature relay his orders to Redbat Then they were on to the stand of oaks, gliding silently
like
a large moth.
    There were approximately eighty Musicians in the group that waited in the oaks, all robed in shimmer-cloth, the brilliant fabric that would always remain intact once its basic patterns had been generated, its own innate energy charge holding the patterns in countless coils. From what Guil could see as they drifted on their moth through the night above the mob, all eighty were armed with sound rifles, some with sonic knives as well. The initial burst of destruction had caught them off-guard, surely, as the other Musicians who had already died or had not yet rallied, but these were more quick-witted and had come to terms with the situation in surprisingly short order. And these, if any, would be the ones to come out of this alive. They were toolmasters, leaders. And, considering the fact that everywhere battles raged Musicians destroyed the weapons of their dead allies, this counter-attack mounting among the oaks was better armed than any of the