You may address me as Mr. Oratorio.  Yes, THEE Mr. Oratorio.

          You know those days when the Sun's radiance is so intense its warmth seems to reach the marrow within your bones, yet the air, the air is cool and crisp against your body?  Filled with pollen and promise, the air's pungent smells of life and renewal make your heart sing to the melody of magic.  Music is trapped within the breeze, begging to be freed.  Your body hairs each stand erect upon their own private pedestal, resonating as if in tribute to that nuclear filament of light and life hanging in the sky.  Invigorating is what you would have to call days like these.  They're rare, but they happen.  And when they do, they make the happy child awaken in each of us.  It's thrilling simply to be alive, and to be  free and conscious; to be able to reflect upon one's existence within and part of this wonderful and endless cosmos.  The spirit sings and magic happens on days like these.

          Let the historians record that that described my state of mind and the music of the day when 'The Call' came in.  Yes, 'The Famous Call' that lead to my becoming Thee Mr. Oratorio.  Life was so kind that day.  And I, I was sooo deserving.
          Let me explain:
          I was sailing, and would have been sailing the entire day if it hadn't been for that fateful call; that call that changed my life from the generic dribble that most likely describes your own to a day that lead to the benchmark of entrepreneurial perfection being carved  into a plank of history by my own modest hands.
          Like I said, I was sailing on one of those magical days.  But what I didn't tell you was that the swells were running a good six feet.  Even though their amplitude was a full six feet, which would have normally meant a teeth-jarring pounding, their tempo was well over thirty seconds, which made for a long gliding rise followed by a slow soothing decent; a wonderful rhythm to harmonize with nature's orchestration.  I must say, the call was anything but welcome.
          The call:  Can you imagine their nerve?  The call couldn't have interrupted a more perfect day for sailing.  I mean, the wind was blowing a steady C, a steady C.  That's a strong breeze for late summer.  A two foot wind chop was running diagonally to those long stretched-out swells.  It made for an invigorating ride over very confused seas; the sort of sea surface that only the sturdiest and saltyist of sailors can appreciate, can stomach.  Count me among the salty.
          Boat and crew were holding their own, but, as usual, I was the only one with sea legs and stomach strong enough to go below deck and stuff bread tubes and pour mugs of cold gaduckada.  The crew were doing their best, I've got to give'm that, but they're a pack of wimps.
 They're my friends, yes, but none the less, they are a pack o' wimps.
          When I brought the bread tubes and gaduckada on deck the crew were beginning to look a bit green, they had lost their rhythm.  Like I said, they're a bunch o' wimps, lightweights.  Motion sickness is not a problem I have, but I'm not...
          Wait a second.  Wait one iddy-biddy second.  I've scuttled the topic of this damned paper: 'The Call' and what it lead to.
          I can ramble on sometimes; slip the subject and take another tack.
          Get me to talkin' about  sailin' and I'll wax rhapsodic every time.  It never fails.
          Oh well, now for the call.

          As the history books have accurately recorded, the call was from the head honcho of Space Exploration and Trade, Inc. (SE&T).  The top dog herself calling me.  If the truth be known, she's a spineless ninny I've had to handle firmly on many occasions.  She wanted to hear me in her office without any delay.  Nobody rushes Fustian Oratorio, and I mean nobody.
          Fortunately, my boat has a single-body transport tube in the aft cabin.  A nice little DC model that uses repeaters located around...
          Well,  I'll tell you about my boat and its equipment at another time.
          I was in the waiting room outside her office five minutes after the call.  It was forty-three minutes before the ninny called me in from the waiting room.  No way was I going to take that kind o' crap.
 

          "Oratorio?"
          "Yes, madam."
          "Sorry to keep you waiting."
          "That's quite all right.  I was out on the bay.  It was so..."
          "What?"
          "Nothing.  I was just...   It was...  Never mind."
          "Good.  Let me tell you why I've called you in.  It seems that one of our explorers has come across a promising little planet only 4.3 light years beyond the Alpha Centauri Trio.  I don't know how this one slipped by us.  Regardless, since no one has been in that region in the last two thousand years, no one has thought to explore trade opportunities there.  Mellow Sonorousia found it.  His report indicates it's a type-B with receding ice.  As usual, the most intelligent creatures are sea mammals, however, Mellow said there's a terrestrial ape-like creature that might be sentient.  I want you to report to ship 4/4.  See what trade you can drum up."
          "Yes, madam."
          "Good.  Contact me when you return."
          "Madam?"
          "What is it, Oratorio?"
          "When do you want me to leave?  I was thinking:  If the weather  holds..."
          "Yesterday.  Come-on, Oratorio.  Get with it.  And don't make a cocophony of this one, or you'll be out on your ass in less than a muted note.  Follow?  We are not going to put up with your wondering mind much longer.  Concentrate, Oratorio.  Center yourself. Try to keep your mind on one note at a time."
          "Yes, madam."
 

          In this world, you're either drum or drummer.  If you want to play with the good orchestras, you'd better be drummer.  Let'm drum on you and it's goodbye to the band.  That's why I had to be so tough on her.  You're lucky you weren't there.  It was ugly.
          On my planet, Melodia, sound is important.  Because Melodians ear's are very big compared to many, and our hearing is as propreitorial as sight is for most of our neighbors, everything on Melodia, and I mean everything  - vessels, billboards, vehicles, ships, bridges, buildings, drapery, shoe strings, jewellery, - everything has some way of catching the wind to make music.  Music is paramount on Melodia.
          The top of the SE&T building, for instance, has an eighty foot funnel with a Sanflex curved spout on each of its eight sides.  Each funnel pivots so that, regardless of where the wind is coming from, there will always be a funnel catching the wind and draining the music from every humming molecule.
          Of course, there's always a wind blowing on Melodia.  The stronger the wind the straighter the Sanflex spouts become.  As they straighten, the spouts cross over a series of holes.  Each  hole initiates a different musical score.  City folk can tell the direction and force of the wind by the tune.
          The Space Exploration and Trade building is the acoustical pride of our planet.  It wasn't until I had reached its ground level and was about to walk through the port'ole that I realized the building was playing 'Spring Chimes and Silver Bells'.  It's one of my favorite tunes and all, but the reason I'm singing it here is because the SE&T building doesn't play that particular piece unless the wind is from the north and blowing F or better; a direction and force that meant I had left my boat floating dangerously near a rocky shore in the hands of wimpy novice sailors.  F winds blowing my baby toward a rocky finale!
          I couldn't be worrying about my boat at that moment.  I couldn't.  You hear, on Melodia, the only thing nearly as important as music is trade, and sailboat or no, I had to get to work.  I had just bullied my boss into assigning me what would turn out to be the most significant trade of the last four millennia; possibly the most significant trade ever.
          And it was my doing, all of it.  Mine, mine, mine.
          Anyway, I had to get to a transport tube and pop over to the spaceport.
          It took an hour to find ship 4/4.
          You'd think those people could  build a spaceport in which ships were easy to find.  Why couldn't they use the standard Deedra's Diatonic Directory system rather than a numerical system?  Maybe that's what I'll do next: harmonize those spaceport chaps.  Show them how to orchestrate a workable composition.
          The ship's conductor - an old friend and school chum of mine - was patiently waiting with the ship launch-ready.  The ship was idling.  It took me awhile to locate the bridge.
 

          "What the hell kept you, Ortund?  Ortund, right?"
          "No, conductor.  It's Oratorio.  We were schoolmates in... "
          "WHAT?"
          "Oratorio, sir.  I couldn't find the ship.  You know if we could just..."
          "Did you think to ask a director, Oratorio?"
          "Ahmm.  No, sir.  Conductor Philharmon.  May I go to my cabin?  I hate takeoffs, sir. They make me queasy."
          "That won't be necessary, Oratorio.  We've already launched.  In four days we'll be in position for hyper-leap, and four days after that we'll be orbiting the target planet.  I suggest you spend your time at a display studying the reports and preparing any trade packages that might be appropriate for these primitives.  Remember, Oratorio, 'Harmony  and Resonance.'"
 

                How could I forget?  It IS the Planetary Seal.  'Harmony and  Resonance' is on every coin, certificate, and credit pen on Melodia; every pennant, plate, passport and pedestal.  It's the seed of what's practically become a religion.  The spirit of fair play, you know.  Spirit, hell.  If someone were to be caught making a trade, or striking a bargain that wasn't perfectly balanced in the eyes of both parties and the Court of Fair Play, they'd be stopped at once.  And even more  importantly, if someone tries to strike a deal without possessing the appropriate license, they'll be singing sour notes for a significant portion of their life.
          The history books sing of long ago times, before the Moral Renaissance, when trades, contracts, and sales were made in which one party would benefit much more than the other. As I understand it, the party benefiting the most was often lionized by the general public.  They would treat them as an entrepreneurial hero.  Well, it takes much more to be an entrepreneurial hero these days.  You've got to contribute, not take.
          Primitives.  Why am I always assigned the primitives?  Outside of this one all-important instance, they've never had anything worth trading.  You can't talk with them.  According to the law you can't even let them know you're there.  You have to use thought interpreters and  invisibility cloaks.  I hate using thought interpreters.  Every time I use one, somehow, my thoughts seem to be 'accidentally' blasted throughout the ship, and then, just as accidentally, they're transmitted back to SE&T.  Thoughts can be embarrassingly revealing for the thinker, and apparently very funny for the eavesdroppers.
          There's not much primitives are interested in from a planet as advanced as Melodia.  It almost always ends up being various sling designs, metal casting, bow and arrow making, potting techniques, footwear construction, boomerangs, that seems to be appropriate for their mind-set; their stage of development.  Fire's a big one.  It's my high card with primitives.  I was hoping that these creatures would want fire.  Dealing with a receding ice era, they might find fire a nice change, I thought.  It wasn't that easy.  They had fire.
          The concepts, designs, and techniques mentioned above amounted to my working  list of trade items when we entered orbit around the target planet.  If these weren't worthy, I was sure I would be able to come up with something when dirtside.  Around SE&T, I have a reputation for fast and sharp thinking when dirtside.  A certain panache, if you know what I mean.  As it turned out, I came up with a dilly.  Oh, me.
 

          "Oratorio.  This is Trobly.  He'll be in charge of the landing squad."
          "Hello, Trobly."
          "Yeah."
 

          We circled the planet seven times before finding any signs of the primitives.  All of the lights on the dark side were either forest fires or erupting volcanoes, until...  Well, like I said, they have fire.
          I would have to come up with something else, something other than fire,  I thought.  I centered my mind and channeled my energy.  I'm all business when dirtside.  I'm famous for being able to keep my mind on the business at hand.  I remember once on a planet populated with these creatures that were vegetable rather than animal.  Everyone was taken aback by this seemingly unsolvable problem.  Only I had the...  Well, I'll tell you about that later.  Or you can read about it in my autobiography:  'The Modest Moments of a Miracle Man: An autobiography by Fustian Oratorio', A Cappella Press, Melodia, 83,477.
          It was time for me to take the crew down.  They weren't the best I'd ever worked with, but they followed orders well enough when those orders were presented as suggestions.  You have to coddle these spacer merchants, you know.
 

          "Now remember, Oratorio, Trobly is in charge of everything but the actual bargaining.
 You will control the thought interpreters and he the invisibility cloaks.  Do as he says and you may make a decent trade for a change."
          "Yes, sir."
          "Have you selected your squad, Trobly?"
          "Yes, sir.  They're the best, sir.  Nothing will be disturbed.  They'll never know we were there.  And if they have anything worth trading, although I can't imagine what that might be, this is the squad to find it."
          "Good.  And remember.  Stay together."
 

          We hadn't been dirtside twenty minutes before those rookies got lost.
          Now, I've been in this sort of situation often enough to know exactly what to do.  When rookies get lost, it's the same old sequence of events.  First there's shock and surprise:  They find that they're missing on a strange planet.  Then there's fear and anger:  They begin looking for a scapegoat.  Finally there's denial:  They find that scapegoat outside their own ranks.  Invariably it's me.  I humor them.  My technique is to handle it as though they were children learning a new musical instrument:  Let them play with it for a while, then step in and clear things up.  How this translates is that I let these lost rookies run through the three stages and then I present myself and let them think that it was I who was lost and that they have found me.  It has never failed.
          While I was letting them solve their problem with being lost, invisible to all the planet's life forms, I sat on the top of a rise overlooking an ocean.  And a beautiful ocean it was that day.  Barely more than an A-major of wind was blowing over swells that were virtually nonexistent.  The air was filled with a spice rack of pleasant odors.  I love sailing my boat when the seas are calm, the wind's an A-major or less, and it's carrying organic fragrances off the beach.  My boat plays 'Lover's Lagniappe' when the wind is less than a B.  But don't get me started on my boat again.  You know how I feel about being away from my boat, my baby.
          You know, it was portentous that my thoughts were of my boat and its playing of 'Lover's Lagniappe' on that particular day.  Lagniappe:  An unexpected gift.  For that's what the civilized universe was about to be given because of the history making trade I, Fustian Oratorio, was about to compose.
 

          "So there you are, Oratorio."
          "I stopped for just a second to look at this sea and..."
          "And got lost again.  Right?  Well, just forget it.  We're all together now, and we have work to do.  While you were daydreaming, we found what might be called a village.  It's about four miles from here.  I don't think we'll find these creatures having much worth trading, but we do need to look and listen.
          "Come on.  Let's go find out before the star sets."
          "Yes, sir."
 

          Well, here it goes.  I don't care what you've read or heard, this is the way it was, the way things really happened:
          The village was small and primitive; as you would expect.  It was situated in a valley with a small river that emptied into that beautiful, calm ocean.  Fire pits, sleeping shelters, and the skins and parts of dead animals were everywhere.  It was a classic example of a type-3 primitive village populated with semi-sentient creatures.  And were they ever strange little creatures.  They have extremely small, non-rotational ears.  Poor things had virtually no fur.  Hell, they had to kill and take the skin and fur off of other animals in order to protect themselves from the cold, and a panoply of hostile plants.  That, however, wasn't the worst of it.  These ugly creatures walked on only two legs.  Only the very youngest of them had the good sense to use their forelimbs.  Like I said, they had no ears to speak of, only fleshy little nubs.  They seemed to be primarily reliant on their eyes.
          Trobly's approach was anything but ingenious; straight from the sound track.  We flared out and walked directly through the village taking atomic-patterns of everything we found of interest.  Following that, we were to meet near a large and lonely plant at the far side of the village.
          When we gathered near that huge, lonely plant, everyone reproduced what they had patterned.  The local star was about an hour from setting.  We began to examine things.  From over forty items that had been collected, this bevy of boobs couldn't find a single thing worthy of a trade.  I finally had to come right out and tell them that they were listening to what would undoubtedly be considered the most remarkable find of the last four millennia; and, of course, it is now considered to be just that.
          I can't believe they were deaf to it.  Each of them had brought at least one example to the meeting place, and they still couldn't sound it out.
          For the last time, now, I want to make it perfectly clear that I, Fustian Oratorio, trader extraordinary, had to point out to those flunklings exactly what it was that they were listenng to and couldn't hear; what I alone had found.  Clear enough?  I'm a professional, and a job worth  doing needs a professional's expertise.
          While they were administering to their bruised egos, or trying to horn in on my discovery, I began the very delicate and difficult task of coming up with an 'Harmony and Resonance' trade item that would be appropriate for this great discovery of mine, and, of course, acceptable to the Court of Fair Play.
 

          "All right, squad, reproduce and label your items.  Oratorio?  Oratorio!?!"
          "Over here, sir."
          "Well, get over here and join us.  That ocean isn't going anywhere.  You can listen to it after we've finished with business.  I want you to start synching your mind to the thought interpreter, and then with those primitives.  We've got a big one here, Oratorio, a really big one.   Look at these.  Have you ever seen anything like them?"
          "No, sir.  I haven't."
          "What do you make of them?"
          "Not much, sir.  A bunch of skins, bark, and stones with colors on them."
          "Look a little closer, Oratorio.  Those colors aren't random.  They're clear representations of the animals they hunt, themselves, and their weapons.  Look here.  This is their star, and here, this must be their satellite.  Over here, this is obviously one of them shooting an animal with an arrow while these others are throwing spears.  They're beautiful.  This is a re-creation of one of their forepaws.
          "How could such a primitive culture have come up with such a delicate and moving form of art; a form of art unheard of throughout all the civilized universe?  It has been four thousand years since a new art form has been added to those of the civilized universe.  This is very, very  big, Oratorio.  Very big."
          "Yes, sir."
          "Jameson, what do you make of it?"
          "I agree with you, sir.  This is big.  I don't know, however,  what we might trade for it.  They have fire and all the other things on Oratorio's list.  If we can't make a 'Harmony and Resonance' trade, we will have to leave empty handed."
          "Yes, I'm aware of the law, Jameson.
          "Well, Oratorio?  What do you suggest?  You ARE the licensed trader here."
          "I don't know, sir.  Gunpowder, perhaps?"
          "Gunpowder?  Don't be ridiculous, Oratorio.  At their stage of development, they wouldn't be able to expand on such an item.  It would be forgotten in a few generations.  Besides, it would be completely inappropriate to give something that could be used as a weapon in exchange for what will surely be one of the great art forms.  Remember that 'Harmony and Resonance' implies a fair balance and an appropriate relationship between the items traded.  Giving a weapon is a poor choice.  Try again, Oratorio."
          "Yes, sir."
          "Jameson, Broha, can you two think of anything that will help Oratorio?"
          "No, sir.  Not me."
          "And you, Broha?"
          "Well, it reminds me of that song, you know the one, 'Trader's Lament':  Finding an item of unusual value and significance and not being able to come up with anything worthy of a 'Harmony and Resonance' trade."
          "Ah, yes.  A beautiful melody, that one."
          "It's one of my favorites."
          "Mine, too.
          "Oratorio.  Get over here.
          "Have you synched with any minds down there?"
          "Not yet, sir."
          "Well get with it, Oratorio.  There might be something in one of their thoughts that will help us out."
          "Yes, sir."
          "In fact, Oratorio, since you haven't come up with anything on your own,  I want you to tune us all in to their thoughts.  One of us might be able to hear something."
          "Sir?"
          "I know it's your area and all, but you haven't offered a thing.  The longer we stay, the more chance there is that we'll leave a sour note here.  We're not leaving without this.  There has to be a 'Harmony and Resonance' trade here.  There has to be."
          "What was that, sir?"
          "Which one, Fizby?"
          "The old female watching the star set and listening to those animal songs."
          "Yes.  Run that one by again, Oratorio."
          "Which one, sir?"
          "The female watching the star set.  Yes, that's the one.  Huummm.  She's considering the star set as a possible future work of art.  And....THERE!  What was that? She seems to be listening to that animal.  What is it?  She thinks of it as a mimickingbird; no, a mockingbird.
          "That's it.  She's giving us our answer.  What a break for you, Oratorio.  This primitive creature, on this nowhere planet, what do they call it? Earth, has done your job.  This primitive she-creature has done a trader's job in a respectable 'Harmony and Resonance' fashion.  Is this ever your lucky day, Oratorio."
 

          Believe you me, it was frustrating to have to put up with the cacophony of novice suggestions that landing squad presented.  Their minds seemed to be on everything but the job at hand.  And that say nothing, know nothing, spineless squad leader, Trobly, could have slept through the whole thing for all the help he was.
          Again I say, as I have so often said:   Leave the professional to the professional's job.
          When we returned to the ship and I began registering the trade, all hell broke loose.  Imagine those amateurs thinking that the trade should be registered under the names of the entire landing squad.  One of them even had the gall to suggest the inclusion of some female primitive down on the planet.
          Well, let me tell you, it was one slow slog to weather, that return trip.  One hell of a slow slog to weather.  That crew hates me.  I'm  pretty sure of it.  And now, back on Melodia, they're spreading lies about who was responsible for the greatest 'Harmony and Resonance' trade of the last four millennia.
          I'm standing my ground, though, and the Trade Registry backs me up on this one.  It reads:  No. E82-554M.  Representational Art accepted for trade from terrestrial, bipedal, type-3 creatures of planet Earth, by Fustian Oratorio (Lic. #3755S), in exchange for the concept of Musical Art.  Seed idea given in trade: plucking of the bow and drumming of the body.  Trade No. E82-554M validated by the Court of Fair Play,  83,476.548 CUT.
 
 

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