In imagination he played the piano with perfect mastery, without effort, without barrier between conception and performance. The exquisite music flowed from his fingers and laved the air. His heart burst with exaltation. The power of his playing infected all the nearby pianos; they exploded into the same melody.
Plink plink. Miss Brewster would have said primly, If that was your ambition, you should have practiced. Hours and hours and hours every day. Plink plink. And then Miss Brewster would not have smacked his hands and when he thought of her when he was bigger he wouldn't have.... Plink plunk. A stupid fancy.
He got up impatiently. Could that be the unicorn lurking in the shadows? He walked slowly toward it. The creature showed no fear of him, made no attempt to run away. Trembling a little, Lampley put out his hand. The unicorn nuzzled his palm. Lampley touched the golden horn, ran his fingers through the foamy mane. The unicorn looked at him with its blue eyes; Lampley felt infinitely rewarded.
The unicorn was smaller than he had thought—as small as a pony. They walked together between the pianos, the beast breathing gently, the man reassuring himself of affection by rubbing the soft coat. All the pain of struggle began slowly to drain from his body; he knew he could be content to stay here.
Only when they were almost at the elevator did the unicorn throw up his head, toss his mane and gallop off. The Governor turned to pursue but the clerk, still leaning in the open door, stopped him. "It's no use," he called, not unkindly. "You couldn't catch him unless he wanted you to."
"But he ..." began Lampley.
"A whim," said the clerk. "They're all alike."
Sadly he entered the elevator. It was only as the door was closing he realized the plinking from the stalactites had stopped as he touched the unicorn.
CHAPTER 8