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“Well, no, not exactly a Musician. But it’s a highly artistic type of job with possible musical overtones.”

Clarey became a hollow man once more. No matter what it was, if it wasn’t as duly accredited Musician, it didn’t matter. The machine could keep him from putting his symphonies down on tape, but it couldn’t keep them from coursing in his head. That it could never take away from him. Or the resultant headache, either.

“What is the job, then?” he asked dully.

“A very important position, Sub-Archivist. In fact, the future welfare of this planet may depend on it.”

“It’s a trick to make me take a job nobody else wants,” Clarey sneered. “And it must be a pretty rotten job for you to go to so much trouble.”

The girl, whom he’d almost forgotten, gave a little laugh. Her eyes, he noticed, were hazel. There were L-E girls, he supposed, who also had hazel eyes—but a different hazel.

“Perhaps this will convince you of the job’s significance,” the interviewer said huffily. He took off his mask and looked at Clarey with anticipation. He had a sleek, ordinary, middle-aged-to-elderly face.