He stepped back a few feet in the darkness, ran, and jumped forward. The lights did not go on. He had jumped far enough. It was merely a pressure plate, designed to count visitors. But one visitor would activate the auditorium staff. And that he didn't want.
He closed the door behind him and made his way into the balcony by way of a rest room. From the balcony he climbed into a box. From there a little used passageway led to the stage.
It was easy, ridiculously so. The piano was lighted by a soft violet light, probably germicidal. Danny paused at the entrance to the enclosure.
It was useless to struggle against the hand, that, from nowhere, fastened to his arm. He was no match for the strength of a robot.
"I knew there was something wrong," said the caretaker. The face that looked at Danny was dignified and kindly, if expressionless.
Danny said nothing.
"Humidity changes," muttered the robot caretaker. "Not much, but some on three successive days. No one is supposed to be here. Can't have it. Wood will rot and metal rust." It seemed vaguely disturbed.
Danny squirmed. The caretaker took hold of both arms and looked closer. "Why, it's human." It squeezed harder as if to test.
Tears came to Danny's eyes. "I belong here," he said stubbornly.
"During a synthony," conceded the robot. "Then it's all right for you to be here, in the audience. Other times you must stay out. Away from the piano."