Page 41 - Effable Encounters

The African Dog

ahead of the game you will be left behind. I’m here because of that,
and I’m looking for an associate in this part of the Americas.”
“Interesting. But the computer? I do not understand.”
“The computer in the United States has become many things to
many people,” replied Mosca, grasping the most recently arrived beer
bottle to cool his hands. “A toy, an adjunct to shopping and talking
and killing time; a business tool, threshing and grinding the data of
commerce; and a library for the curious, giving anyone the means of
reviewing tremendous quantities of information. A person trying to
discover the trends which lead to profit must take advantage of all
these functions, to obtain a competitive advantage. My own innate
ability to predict what will become popular—the next million-selling
recording act—is not reliable, and I have had to face that fact.
Jumping on the bandwagon is often treacherous; you can be thrown
beneath the wheels of any juggernaut.”
Mombeau smiled. “But you digress, Señor. The computer?”
“Yes, yes, sorry. I’m just coming to that. Do you remember the
unexpected popularity of Eastern European choral groups and
Gregorian chants a few years ago? I couldn’t believe it: low-brow
Americans rushing out to buy CDs of esoteric unaccompanied vocal
music in unintelligible languages. But then I did my homework. The
trend was there for anyone with adequate intelligence to perceive.
The United States had reached a point of ennui with home-grown
musical product and was ready to flirt, however briefly, with an exotic
sound promising unspecified emotional or spiritual exaltation. This
happens in regular cycles—regular, if you have plotted their
occurrence on the computer, of course. Meanwhile, my competitors
made millions. I found myself over the crest of the wave, flailing for
support. In my haste I predicted the fad would turn to the darker side
of human nature, skewed by contemporary concerns with devil-
worship and doomsday cults. I was wrong, and ‘Music of the Spanish
Inquisition’ cost me dearly.”
“I am sorry,” said Mombeau, after assiduously dabbing his mouth
with the small square of newsprint provided as a table napkin. “I
must confess that your recording did not appear in Cuba; or perhaps
it did, and I missed it.”
“Thank you. This wasn’t the first time I had extrapolated trends
incorrectly. A few years before that, when African pop music hit the

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