The offertory should not be obtrusive but form a staidly moving background for the clink of coins and whispering of bills. Mr. Moffat knew this well. No man put holy tribute to music more properly than he.
Yet, that morning . . .
The discords surely were not his. Mistakes were rare for Mr. Moffat. The keys resisting, throbbing beneath his touch like things alive; was that imagined? Chords thinned to fleshless octaves, then, moments later, thick with sound; was it he? The old man sat, rigid, hearing the music stir unevenly in the air. Ever since the Responsive Reading had ended and he'd turned the organ on again, it seemed to possess almost a willful action.
Mr. Moffat turned to whisper to his cousin.
Suddenly, the needle of the other gauge jumped from mezzo to forte and the volume flared. The old man felt his stomach muscles clamp. His pale hands jerked from the keys and, for a second, there was only the muffled sound of ushers' feet and money falling into baskets.
Then Mr. Moffat's hands returned and the offertory murmured once again, refined and inconspicuous. The old man noticed, below, faces turning, tilting upward curiously and a jaded pressing rolled in his lips.
"Listen," Wendall said when the collection was over, "how do you know it isn't you?" "Because it isn't," the old man whispered back. "It's her."
"That's crazy," Wendall answered. "Without you playing, she's just a contraption."
"No," said Mr. Moffat, shaking his head. "No. She's more."
"Listen," Wendall said, "you said you were bothered because they're getting rid of her." The old man grunted.
"So," said Wendall, "I think you're doing these things yourself, unconscious-like."
The old man thought about it. Certainly, she was an instrument; he knew that. Her soundings were governed by his feet and fingers, weren't they? Without them, she was, as Wendall had said, a contraption. Pipes and levers and static rows of keys; knobs without function, arm-long pedals and pressuring air.
"Well, what do you think?" asked Wendall.
Mr. Moffat looked down at the nave.
"Time for the Benediction," he said.
In the middle of the Benediction postlude, the swell to great stop pushed out and, before
Mr. Moffat's jabbing hand had shoved it in again, the air resounded with a thundering of horns, the church air was gorged with swollen, trembling sound.
"It wasn't me," he whispered when the postlude was over, "I saw it move by itself."
"Didn't see it," Wendall said.
Mr. Moffat looked below where the Reverend had begun to read the words of the next hymn.
"We've got to stop the service," he whispered in a shaking voice.
"We can't do that," said Wendall.
"But something's going to happen, I know it," the old man said.
"What can happen?" Wendall scoffed. "A few bad notes is all."
The old man sat tensely, staring at the keys. In his lap his hands wrung silently together. Then, as the Reverend finished reading, Mr. Moffat played the opening phrase of the hymn. The congregation rose and, following that instant's silence, began to sing.
This time no one noticed but Mr. Moffat.
Organ tone possesses what is called "inertia," an impersonal character. The organist cannot change this tonal quality; it is inviolate.
Yet, Mr. Moffat clearly heard, reflected in the music, his own disquiet. Hearing it sent chills of prescience down his spine. For thirty years he had been organist here. He knew the workings of the organ better than any man. Its pressures and reactions were in the memory of his touch.
That morning, it was a strange machine he played on.
A machine whose motor, when the hymn was ended, would not stop.
"Switch it off again," Wendall told him.
"I did," the old man whispered frightenedly.
"Try it again."
Mr. Moffat pushed the switch. The motor kept running. He pushed the switch again. The motor kept running. He clenched his teeth and pushed the switch a seventh time.
The motor stopped.
"I don't like it," said Mr. Moffat faintly.
"Listen, I've seen this before," said Wendall. "When you push the switch across the slot, it pushes a copper contact across some porcelain. That's what joins the wires so the current can flow.
"Well, you push that switch enough times, it'll leave a copper residue on the porcelain so's the current can move across it. Even when the switch is off. I've seen it before."
The old man shook his head.
"She knows," he said.
That's crazy," Wendall said.
"Is it?"
They were in the motor room. Below, the Reverend was delivering his sermon.
"Sure it is," said Wendall. "She's an organ, not a person."
"I don't know anymore," said Mr. Moffat hollowly.