"They're made the way they are," said Danny. "They never get any worse, or better. But composers are different. We have lots to learn."
The caretaker was satisfied. "All right. Play it, then." It adjusted the humidity controls in the piano enclosure to compensate for the increased moisture.
"Can't," said Danny, conscious of time. "Tomorrow, maybe."
"Tonight, if you want," suggested the caretaker.
"Tonight will suit me fine," said Danny.
During the years that followed Danny practiced and played for his own enjoyment. He did well in his conventional studies; that was a matter of camouflage. Not so well, though, that he'd be selected for specialization. That called for more real knowledge than he dared show. He had to be a step ahead so that he could estimate what he was supposed to know and then fit himself into the academic specifications.
As he grew older his free time increased. He spent as much of it as he could at Music Hall. Mornings, evenings, but mostly at night he practiced. Even by the old forgotten standards he became an excellent musician. It was a precarious existence; his mastery was sharpened by the knowledge that he must never be discovered.
During the year he was fourteen he attended a synthony; nothing unusual in it, a routine matter. He sat in the balcony where he was less conspicuous. The lights lowered and the conversation in Music Hall slackened.
On the stage came the Louis Armstrong Hot Five. Satchmo to the life, all of them, from the first to the last recorded note. Two trumpets, a cornet, and two singers.