"Listen," Wendall said, "you want to know what it probably is?"
"She knows they want her out of here," the old man said. "That's what it is."
"Oh, come on," said Wendall, twisting impatiently, "I'll tell you what it is. This is an old church-and this old organ's been shaking the walls for eighty years. Eighty years of that and walls are going to start warping, floors are going to start settling. And when the floor settles, this motor here starts tilting and wires go and there's arcing."
"Arcing?"
"Yes," said Wendall. "Electricity jumping across gaps."
"All this here extra electricity gets into the motor," Wendall said. "There's electromagnets in these relay machines. Put more electricity into them, there'll be more force. Enough to cause those things to happen maybe."
"Even if it's so," said Mr. Moffat, "why is she fighting me?"
"Oh, stop talking like that," said Wendall.
"But I know," the old man said, "I feel."
"It needs repairing is all," said Wendall. "Come on, let's go outside. It's hot in here."
Back on his bench, Mr. Moffat sat motionless, staring at the keyboard steps.
Was it true, he wondered, that everything was as Wendall had said-partly due to faulty mechanics, partly due to him? He mustn't jump to rash conclusions if this were so. Certainly, Wendall's explanations made sense.
Mr. Moffat felt a tingling in his head. He twisted slightly, grimacing.
Yet, there were these things which happened: the keys going down by themselves, the stop pushing out, the volume flaring, the sound of emotion in what should be emotionless. Was this mechanical defect; or was this defect on his part? It seemed impossible.
The prickling stir did not abate. It mounted like a flame. A restless murmur fluttered in the old man's throat. Beside him, on the bench, his fingers twitched.
Still, things might not be so simple, he thought. Who could say conclusively that the organ was nothing but inanimate machinery? Even if what Wendall had said were true, wasn't it feasible that these very factors might have given strange comprehension to the organ? Tilting floors and ruptured wires and arcing and overcharged electromagnets-mightn't these have bestowed cognizance?
Mr. Moffat sighed and straightened up. Instantly, his breath was stopped.
The nave was blurred before his eyes. It quivered like a gelatinous haze. The congregation had been melted, run together. They were welded substance in his sight. A cough he heard was a hollow detonation miles away. He tried to move but couldn't. Paralyzed, he sat there.
And it came.
It was not thought in words so much as raw sensation. It pulsed and tremored in his mind electrically. Fear-Dread-Hatred-all cruelly unmistakable.
Mr. Moffat shuddered on the bench. Of himself, there remained only enough to think, in horror-She does know! The rest was lost beneath overcoming power. It rose up higher, filling him with black contemplations. The church was gone, the congregation gone, the Reverend and Wendall gone. The old man pendulumed above a bottomless pit while fear and hatred, like dark winds, tore at him possessively.
"Hey, what's wrong?"
Wendall's urgent whisper jarred him back. Mr. Moffat blinked.
"What happened?" he asked.
"You were turning on the organ."
"Turning on-?"
"And smiling," Wendall said.
There was a trembling sound in Mr. Moffat's throat. Suddenly, he was aware of the Reverend's voice reading the words of the final hymn.
"No," he murmured.
"What is it?" Wendall asked.
"I can't turn her on."
"What do you mean?"
"I can't."
"Why?"
"I don't know. I just-"
The old man felt his breath thinned as, below, the Reverend ceased to speak and looked up, waiting. No, thought Mr. Moffat. No, I mustn't. Premonition clamped a frozen hand on him. He felt a scream rising in his throat as he watched his hand reach forward and push the switch.
The motor started.
Mr. Moffat began to play. Rather, the organ seemed to play, pushing up or drawing down his fingers at its will. Amorphous panic churned the old man's insides. He felt an overpowering urge to switch the organ off and flee.
He played on.
He started as the singing began. Below, armied in their pews, the people sang, elbow to elbow, the wine-red hymnals in their hands.
"No," gasped Mr. Moffat.
Wendall didn't hear him. The old man sat staring as the pressure rose. He watched the needle of the volume gauge move past mezzo toward forte. A dry whimper filled his throat. No, please, he thought, please.
Abruptly, the swell to great stop slid out like the head of some emerging serpent. Mr. Moffat thumbed it in desperately. The swell unison button stirred. The old man held it in; he felt it throbbing at his finger pad. A dew of sweat broke out across his brow. He glanced below and saw the people squinting up at him. His eyes fled to the volume needle as it shook toward grand crescendo.