“Play it,” said the blind man.
Ran Freeman played. He was an artist, and he knew it. But Joe no longer gave ear to the music. Something quiet—something too quiet—had been in his uncle’s voice. Something that suggested a cocked trigger about to be fired. He shivered, and gripped the ends of his sweater, and held them tight.
For the second time the music ended in a crash of chords. Freeman, swung about on the stool.
“Like it, Doctor?”
“Beautifully done,” the blind man said. He lay back against the cushions of the chair, loose and relaxed. “In fact, it would have been perfect if——”
Freeman chuckled. “Are you a music critic, too, Doctor? If what?”
“If,” Dr. Stone said quietly, “if many of those rapid notes had been struck by a living touch.”
Joe screamed, “Look out, Uncle David.” For Freeman, no longer self-contained, had leaped from the stool and one hand had gone toward a pocket.
The blind man did not move. “Lady, get him.”
A tawny form hurtled through the air. There was the sound of a falling body, a scream of terror. Captain Tucker came running in from the kitchen.