Channing began to turn the tuner of the radio receiver. The band was dead, and Channing laughed. "This is going to be tricky, what with the necessity of aligning both the driver-alloy disk and the radio receiver. Takes time."
He changed the alloy disk in minute increments, and waved the tuner across that portion of the band that would most likely cover the experimental error of Charley Thomas' frequency measurement. A burst of sound caught his ear, was lost for a moment, and then swelled into perfect tune as Don worked over the double tuning system.
"Whoa, Tillie," said Walt. "That sounds like—"
"Like hell."
"Right. Just what I was going to say. Is it music?"
"Could be. I've got a slightly tin ear, you know."
"Mine is fair," said Walt, "but it might as well be solid brass as far as this mess is concerned. It's music of some kind, you can tell it by the rhythm. But the scale isn't anything like I've heard before."
"Might be a phonograph record played backward," suggested Wes.
"I doubt it," said Channing seriously. "The swell of that orchestra indicates a number of instruments—of some cockeyed kind or other—the point I'm making is that anything of a classical or semi-classical nature played backwards on a phonograph actually sounds passable. I can't say the same for jamstead music, but it holds for most of the classics, believe it or not. This sounds strictly from hunger."
"Or hatred. Maybe the musicians do not like one another."