April 16, 2074
There's no doubt in his mind: his fellow musician is gone. The final punctuation mark on that particular question came when he called the front desk and asked to be connected to Willy Silver's room, only to be disconnected.
He's not sure what to do with the guitar, but he knows he can't leave it sitting out. It's a beautiful instrument, one of the finest he's seen. When he steals down to the lounge in the dead of night and it's still sitting on its stand, the room heavy with silence, he can barely stand it. Goodbyes aren't easy for him and never have been, but that party was close to a month ago and last he looked, the longest anyone could go back for was a week.
Oh, Willy. It's a good thing he's not here with the intention of playing his sax, because he wouldn't be able to right now. There's only one fitting thing he can think to do. Carefully, he picks up the guitar and stand and moves them both to the top of the tower of amplifiers on stage. If this was a bigger auditorium the stack would be higher, but here it's just high enough. Once he's sure the guitar's going to be secure up there -- he'll bolt the stand to the top of the amps if he has to -- he starts his real work. Back in the supply room there's a ladder and he drags that out now, reaching for the lights. He trains one of them in the general direction of the guitar, climbs back down the ladder, turns on the lights. Climbs back up, refocuses the spot on the guitar way up there on the stack, goes back to the supply room, picks out a nice soft gel. One more time up the ladder where he sets the gel into place.
It's turquoise blue, like the oceans he's read about on Earth. It seems fitting.
Hopefully the robots who maintain the place will leave this as is. Back down the ladder again, he folds it up and puts it away and then, slowly, walks around the room with an eye on the stage. It's a good spot for a tribute and he knows if Willy does come back, that guitar will be waiting for him.
Tomorrow, he thinks, he'll bring flowers. Set them up there next to the guitar. It's a memorial, after all. Just before he leaves he remembers the guitar case, tucked up against the side of the stage. There's only one way to keep that one safe; he makes sure it's snapped shut and takes it with him. The room's never completely dark; the 24.66x7 bartender waits to take orders from the nonexistent drinkers.
Sometimes, he really wonders about this place. Guitar case in hand -- it's so long and slender compared to his sax case -- he turns around one more time to make sure he's satisfied with the work he's done. But once he gets to the door, he doesn't look back.
He's not sure what to do with the guitar, but he knows he can't leave it sitting out. It's a beautiful instrument, one of the finest he's seen. When he steals down to the lounge in the dead of night and it's still sitting on its stand, the room heavy with silence, he can barely stand it. Goodbyes aren't easy for him and never have been, but that party was close to a month ago and last he looked, the longest anyone could go back for was a week.
Oh, Willy. It's a good thing he's not here with the intention of playing his sax, because he wouldn't be able to right now. There's only one fitting thing he can think to do. Carefully, he picks up the guitar and stand and moves them both to the top of the tower of amplifiers on stage. If this was a bigger auditorium the stack would be higher, but here it's just high enough. Once he's sure the guitar's going to be secure up there -- he'll bolt the stand to the top of the amps if he has to -- he starts his real work. Back in the supply room there's a ladder and he drags that out now, reaching for the lights. He trains one of them in the general direction of the guitar, climbs back down the ladder, turns on the lights. Climbs back up, refocuses the spot on the guitar way up there on the stack, goes back to the supply room, picks out a nice soft gel. One more time up the ladder where he sets the gel into place.
It's turquoise blue, like the oceans he's read about on Earth. It seems fitting.
Hopefully the robots who maintain the place will leave this as is. Back down the ladder again, he folds it up and puts it away and then, slowly, walks around the room with an eye on the stage. It's a good spot for a tribute and he knows if Willy does come back, that guitar will be waiting for him.
Tomorrow, he thinks, he'll bring flowers. Set them up there next to the guitar. It's a memorial, after all. Just before he leaves he remembers the guitar case, tucked up against the side of the stage. There's only one way to keep that one safe; he makes sure it's snapped shut and takes it with him. The room's never completely dark; the 24.66x7 bartender waits to take orders from the nonexistent drinkers.
Sometimes, he really wonders about this place. Guitar case in hand -- it's so long and slender compared to his sax case -- he turns around one more time to make sure he's satisfied with the work he's done. But once he gets to the door, he doesn't look back.