Symphony in a Minor Key

Recapitulation

When he woke up the pain was gone, and he could breathe again. The room was bright and decorated in white. He was in a strange bed, in an unfamiliar place—.

“Don’t try to get up, Howard.”

He sank back into the sheets, and smiled thankfully.

Antonia sat by the edge of the hospital bed. “Dr. Harrison says the surgery went fine, and soon you’ll be as good as new.” Robbins saw the relief in her eyes as she kneaded his hand. Life is so short and uncertain, he thought. It was time to get his priorities right. Cut back on his work, convince Antonia to do the same—and find time to build a life together.

Suddenly he felt very tired. As much as his heart wanted to gaze into Antonia’s eyes, the rest of him just wanted to sleep.

“You won’t leave me, will you, Antonia?” he croaked.

“Never, Howard. I’ll never leave you.”

He drifted back to sleep, Schumann’s Träumerei wafting through his mind.

But when he woke up, Antonia was gone.

The nurse who came in a few minutes later told him that he’d been in the institute’s hospital over four days. Then Velikovsky walked in. The latter asked him to describe what had happened on that street in Vienna in late 1852. Though eager to listen to every detail of the incident, he brushed aside Robbins’s queries about what it all meant with “It’s still too early to tell.”

After Velikovsky left, Robbins tried to think it through himself, but couldn’t. As many times as he’d traveled to TCE, his knowledge of the non-musical history of the places he visited was too sketchy.

Harrison saw him the next morning. “Everything seems to be healing well.” He paused. “Velikovsky asked me to tell you that there’s going to be a special meeting of the humanities committee at 1600 hours. Medically speaking, it should be safe for you to attend.”

“What’s the meeting about? That—incident on TCE?”

Harrison hesitated. “Yes. Velikovsky and his people started investigating it right after you returned, and he’s presenting their preliminary findings and suggestions to the executive committee this morning. He’ll meet with the science committee at 1400 hours, and your committee after that.” He looked at Robbins with an expression that resembled pity. “There are many rumors circulating as to what he will say.”

“Such as?”

Harrison shook his head as he left. “I always try to deal with facts, not things that may or may not be true. Life is so much simpler that way.”

A little before 1600, two nurses helped him get dressed and into a wheelchair. The orderly who scooted him through the underground tunnel to the institute’s main building, got him to the meeting room just on time.

The others were already there. He took the last empty seat, between Billingsley and Antonia. She didn’t respond to his greeting, but stared stonily ahead. Before he could speak again the Chancellor said, “Thank you all for coming here on such short notice. As you know, Dr. Robbins was seriously injured during his last translocation to TCE. We all wish him a speedy recovery.”

Then Velikovsky spoke. “For the last five days my staff has been traveling to TCE investigating the historical anomaly experienced by Dr. Robbins. Many were given missions which would normally have been considered too dangerous. Some have actually been injured—several fatally. Through their dedicated efforts, we now know that Transcosmic Earth has suffered a major catastrophe.”

Everyone in the room glanced at Robbins. What happened? What did I do?

Velikovsky continued, “Outside of a surge in nationalistic activity in the various German states in the preceding decade, we did not discover any significant deviations in the history of TCE until 1848. In that year, in our history, a number of popular and nationalistic movements threatened to or, in a few cases, succeeded in changing the political structures of many countries in Europe.”

Robbins listened as Velikovsky described events he only vaguely recalled from the historian’s orientation lectures. Demonstrations and riots in Vienna and Berlin in March, 1848 which forced the royal family of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, the Hapsburgs, to flee their capital and threatened to topple the other major German state, the Kingdom of Prussia. The calling shortly thereafter of the Constituent National Assembly in Frankfurt. Its purpose was to try to unite all the independent German states—Prussia, a hodgepodge of much smaller principalities and cities in middle and southern Germany, and the Hapsburgs’ empire composed of Austria, Hungary, and much of central Europe—into a single nation.

In the end, Velikovsky said, that attempt failed. By 1849 the reactionary factions, the ones who supported the political status quo, had won. The first successful steps towards German unification were delayed until the mid-1860s. Through the Realpolitik policies of Prussia’s “Iron Chancellor,” Otto von Bismarck, that kingdom and the smaller German states were united in 1871 into the German Empire with the king of Prussia, William I, as its Emperor. The Hapsburgs continued on their own separate path, their Austro-Hungarian Empire marked by a growing decadence and military weakness until its political incompetence touched off the First World War in 1914. Except between 1938 and 1945, the Germans in Austria never were a part of the nation that became “Germany.”

“That is what happened in our history and,” Velikovsky continued, “until recently, on TCE. But while our history has not changed, that of TCE certainly has. There, in 1848, Prussia, the smaller German states, and the entire Austro-Hungarian Empire were united into the Pan-German Empire, with the Hapsburg ruler Ferdinand I assuming the title ‘Emperor of All the Germans.’

“Such a major change in the political structure of Europe—a new nation of over 75 million people in the very middle of the continent, much larger than any except Russia—produced a history far different from ours. The event which almost cost Dr. Robbins his life in 1852, one which never happened on our Earth, was the near-capture of Vienna, the capital of the new empire, by the army of Czar Nicholas I. The German forces under Prince Alfred von Windischgratz were finally able to repel it, and a week later won a decisive victory over the Russians at the Battle of Olmiitz. The French, under the newly self-crowned Napoleon HI, also launched an attack as the Russians were threatening Vienna. They were more successful, defeating the Germans near Cologne. After an armistice, they forced the Pan-German Empire to cede all territory west of the Rhine to their own Second Empire.”

He went on, adding more details. The Franco-German war of 1868, ending with the execution of Napoleon III and the installation of a German prince on the throne of France. The successful invasion and subjugation of Russia in 1878 by a general named Moltke, with a member of the German royal family placed on the throne of the Czars.

“—And with the formation of the Anglo-German Confederation in 1892, all of Europe, North Africa, the Middle East, and Australia were under the direct or indirect control of the Pan-German Empire. Over the next two decades the Confederation extended its influence to include all of Africa and, after a bloody war with the Empire of Japan, Asia. By 1912, except for those countries in the Western Hemisphere which were not possessions of formerly-independent European nations like Great Britain and Spain, a “Pax Germanica” extended across TCE.

“Except for different patterns of immigration to it in the late 19th century and, of course, no war with Spain in 1898, until 1912 major events in the United States were very similar to those on our Earth. That year, Woodrow Wilson was elected president on an ‘antimonarchist’ platform. It included his ‘Ten Points,’ calling for the ‘liberation of the enslaved peoples of the world, the establishment of democracy, and the right to national self-determination.’ That began a period of forty years in which the US waged an ideological, indirect war against the Confederation that included fomenting civil unrest, terrorism, and guerrilla wars using proxy ‘national democratic liberation front’ groups within its borders. In the early 1950s, however, this ‘cold war’ reached a crisis after the successful invasions of Cuba and Canada by the United States, and the overthrow of the republican government of Mexico by a Confederation-backed local faction and its replacement by a monarchy headed by a Hohenzollern prince.”

Velikovsky paused. “To understand what happened next, remember that nearly all of the important scientific figures from 1848 on we are familiar with still existed on TCE. For example, Albert Einstein, Edward Teller, and Wernher von Braun did similar pioneering work, but never emigrated to the United States. Those born in America, like the Wright brothers, J. Robert Oppenheimer, and Robert Goddard had careers even more successful than in our history. Thus, the technology on TCE in the middle of their new twentieth century was as advanced or, in some cases, more advanced than at the corresponding date on our world.”

Velikovsky looked directly at Robbins. “On December 1, 1953, the United States of America launched a massive preemptive nuclear strike with its full arsenal of aircraft and missiles against the major cities and military installations of the Confederation. The latter retaliated in kind.”

There was a long silence. “It was difficult to assess the full range of destruction produced immediately, and by the later effects of residual radiation, plague, and the famine caused by the resulting ‘nuclear winter.’ We estimate that three billion people—85 percent of the total population of TCE when the war began—had died by the end of 1954. After 1996, we’ve been unable to find any survivors.”

I did it, Robbins thought to himself. I don’t know how, but I killed all those people. Eyes closed, he didn’t dare look at the rest of them. Especially Antonia.

From a distance he heard Velikovsky say, “There are two important questions we must answer. What caused this catastrophe? And can we do anything to change it? I will defer the latter question to Dr. Everett. As to the first, I would like your opinion, Dr. Robbins.”

Reflexively he opened his eyes.

Velikovsky said, “Computer, display.”

A holographic display appeared in the middle of the table.

“This is a recording made in Frankfurt on July 4,1848 at the official announcement of the formation of the Pan-German Empire.” The recording must have been taken from the top of a tall building. Robbins looked down at a sea of cheering humanity in the great open area, and a dais on which stood bemedaled dignitaries. At ground level, near one end of the raised platform, he noticed a military band that seemed ready to start playing.

“The man speaking,” said Velikovsky, indicating the walrus-mustached figure speaking softly in German in the middle of the image, “is the same Baron Otto von Bismarck I mentioned earlier. In our history, he was one of the many nobles in the Prussian and Hapsburg courts who opposed German unification in 1848. In the revised history of TCE, however, for reasons we still do not fully understand, they were among its most enthusiastic supporters.” The tiny figure in the display concluded his speech with a generous sweep of his arm toward “our new Kaiser.” As if on cue the band started to play a powerful, triumphant, martial time.

Robbins felt his flesh turn cold. Now he understood. As they sang together the faces of the tiny figures in the recording showed a mixture of pride, fervor, and single-minded patriotism. Workers, peasants, aristocrats—men and women, people from every level of society, different in so many ways, but all united in a common cause—in their love for their country. Right arms raised in a salute to their new leader, they shouted the words to the song passionately, in complete, fanatical unity—as if they were now inspired to go out and conquer the world.

It all made sense. He thought of the armies of Revolutionary and Napoleonic France, marching out to the strains of La Marseillaise to overrun Europe. Or the Germans of the twentieth century on their Earth, with Deutchland über alles. Even the English, perhaps, during their days of Empire, with God Save the King. A memory from his childhood came back to him—the time his father had taken him to a baseball game. The swelling pride he’d felt at being an American, standing with the rest of the crowd, as he’d heard The Star-Spangled Banner sung for the first time.

The people in the recording seemed to feel the same thing, but many times more intensely as they sang their own anthem. Aufstehen! (“Arise, ye German sons, unite!”) A song whose melody was based on the primary theme of the fourth movement of Beethoven’s final symphony.

The A minor.

The triumphant Tenth.

“Dr. Robbins?” Velikovsky was speaking to him. “Dr. Brentano says you’re familiar with the song these people are singing, and that it might have a bearing on the question we are discussing. Is that correct?”

“Yes,” Robbins said. “But first—could you please turn off that recording?”

After the others had a little time to absorb what he’d told them, Robbins turned to Everett, who was sitting by herself in the far comer of the room. “Is there any way we can undo all this? Change things back the way they’re supposed to be?”

She nodded. “I think we can. At the science committee meeting earlier this afternoon, Harrison said the vaccine-blocking agent the late Dr. Ertmann tried to use would still be effective even if it were given up to twenty-four hours after you injected the vaccine. All you have to do is translocate to Beethoven’s apartment again, say thirty minutes ‘after’ you gave the vaccine, and inject this neutralizing agent into him. Theoretically, that would undo what’s been done to this point, and TCE would return to normal.’ I propose that you do just that.”

That’s all? That’s all I have to do? He looked down at his hands, clenched them, then opened them. I destroy worlds, then I create them again—.

But not anymore. He had no desire to play God. After this one last time, he swore never to go back to TCE again.

The Chancellor said, “Is there a second for Dr. Everett’s proposal? All in favor? Opposed? Let the record show that the humanities committee has voted six to zero in favor of her proposal.”

Robbins sighed. The sooner he did it the better he’d feel—.

“And that,” the Chancellor continued, “brings us to the second item on our agenda. Dr. Velikovsky has submitted a proposal which was approved by the executive and science committees earlier today. It involves setting up a special task force to review future projects for changing the history of TCE. The applicability of this proposal is, of course, contingent on Dr. Robbins’s anticipated success in returning TCE to its original state. If he does, and this proposal is approved by the committee today, the task force will—.”

“What?” The Chancellor looked startled at Robbins’s interjection. “Are you saying that, if I do make things right on TCE, you’re going to let someone else go back and change them again?”

Velikovsky said, “Precisely. You have shown it is possible, with appropriate manipulations, to change TCE’s history without changing our own. Thus, instead of passively retrieving lost information as we’ve done in the past, we now know we can use TCE as a vast laboratory for studying the effects of carefully selected changes on subsequent political, scientific, and artistic developments. After each such experiment is finished, we can go back and, as you will be doing, undo that change and reset TCE’s history to its ‘default’ condition.”

He smiled warmly at Robbins. “Although the change you caused had, in that particular history of TCE, disastrous consequences for its people, we here on our Earth have benefited greatly. The dynamics of what is, to us, an ‘alternate’ history will provide enormous material for analysis and review for years to come. And this is just the beginning. We all owe you a debt of gratitude for showing us what can be done.”

Robbins wished he still had that gun he’d dropped on TCE. “Do you realize what you’re saying? You’re talking about deliberately manipulating, possibly destroying billions of innocent people for the sake of an ‘experiment’!”

Velikovsky looked pained. “Not real people, like us. ‘Shadow people,’ in a ‘shadow history,’ without a real existence of their own. As Dr. Everett has said, they live in a ‘pliable’ past that is not truly real’—.”

“Don’t you dare misquote me!” Everett interrupted. “You know what I think of your proposal!”

Robbins glared at Velikovsky. “They are real! Flesh and blood! I saw them! I touched them!” I killed four of them personally! “They can be hurt, they can feel pain just like us—and we have no right to play God!”

“Order, order!” The Chancellor looked angry. “We must discuss this proposal in a civilized manner. You and Dr. Velikovsky have had your say. Does anyone else wish to comment?”

There was another round of shouting, this time with Antonia on one side and Lytton and Shimura on the other. For every “Shelley” that Lytton mentioned or “van Gogh” that Shimura brought up, Antonia countered with “And how many billions of people have to suffer and die to get those tew extra poems and paintings?”

Billingsley said nothing. Just fiddled with his bow tie.

After the arguing died down the Chancellor said, “Is there a second for Dr. Velikovsky’s proposal?”

“Seconded!” Lytton and Shimura spoke simultaneously.

“All in favor?”

Velikovsky, Lytton, and Shimura raised their hands.

“Opposed?”

Robbins’s arm shot up first, then Antonia’s. Billingsley raised his lazily.

“Let the record show that the humanities committee has voted three to three on Dr. Velikovsky’s proposal.” She paused. “As per our by-laws, I must now cast the tie-breaking vote. Based on the positive recommendations made earlier today by the executive and science Committees, I feel that I too must vote in favor of the proposal. Let the record show that—.”

“That does it!” Antonia’s face was crimson. “You little tin gods can play your games with peoples’ lives by yourselves! I have nothing but the utmost contempt for you, and refuse to be a part of it!”

She stood up. “I resign from the Institute! Good-bye!” She glared at Robbins and sneered in a low voice, “You and your damn music!” Then she left the room.

“What a woman.” Billingsley said suddenly. He stood up. “I didn’t say anything before we voted because everybody had their minds made up already. Now, I’ll just say that a person can stand for a lot of pushing if they have to.” He paused. “But there are some things a person can’t take. I resign too.”

He moved toward the door. “It’s sad. I used to think we were the good guys. That we were Earth-One. Looks like we’re really Earth-Three.

“And for those of you who don’t get that one, here’s another twentieth century term that seems appropriate right now. A.M.F.!” Billingsley’s last words as he left the room were what that acronym meant.

Robbins blinked. He’d never seen the Chancellor blush before.

Recovering her composure she said, “Any more business? Then this meeting is adjourned.”

The others began to stand, say their own good-byes, and leave. Robbins stayed in his chair, alone with his memories and regrets. Faintly, deep within him, his mind played through the final Adagio of Haydn’s “Farewell” Symphony. As each instrument played its plaintive “auf Wiedersehen” and left, all the things he had hoped and lived for, everything that brought meaning to his life, seemed to go with them. Finally, as the two remaining muted violins closed the work softly in the distant, lonely key of F-sharp major, he got up and left too.

Back in his own apartment, he felt a little better. Harrison had sent a message for him to get a good night’s sleep before going back to deliver the vaccine-blocker in the morning. He sat down at the Steinway and, wincing occasionally from the pain in his upper back, began to play. But the pieces his fingers selected made him feel depressed again. The third movement of Chopin’s Sonata no. 2 in B-flat minor, then Haydn’s Variations in F minor. As the last questioning notes of the latter work’s coda faded away, the doorbell rang. Praying it was Antonia, he opened the door—.

It was Everett.

“May I come in?”

She sat down on the couch. He sat down beside her.

“Nice piano.”

“Thank you.”

Everett looked at him sadly. “You look depressed.”

“Of course I am!” Everett’s hair shimmered like spun silver in the muted light. Almost like an older version of—. “If I go to TCE and manage to undo all the damage I’ve done, Velikovsky and the others are going to use all those people as guinea pigs for their ‘experiments’!” But isn’t that what you did? No, I was trying to do something good for them and us! Tell that to all the people you killed. “And if it doesn’t work, I’ll still be responsible for the death of billions of people—the whole human race there! Either way, it’s all my fault!”

“No it isn’t. It’s more my fault than yours. I could have vetoed your proposal anytime. You wanted your music, I wanted to prove we could change TCE’s history without changing ours. We both got want we wanted. Just not what we expected.”

Everett moved closer. “How much of that report about TCE I sent out three weeks ago did you understand?”

Robbins rolled his eyes.

“Oh. That much. Well, I’m not very good at asimoving, but I’ll try. The key thing you have to understand is, at any instant in time, ‘choices’ are being made. At the smallest scale, a radioactive atom may ‘choose’ to decay or not decay. When you get up in the morning, you choose to part your hair on the right or the left. The “present’ is the sum of all the specific choices and decisions made in the past. Nearly all those choices are trivial,’ in the technical sense that they don’t lead to any ‘significant’ difference in the history of the Universe. They might affect only an atom or, at the macroscopic level, only a tiny portion of the cosmos. But, occasionally, one of them makes a ‘critical’ difference.”

She paused. “On September 17, 1666, someone, or something made a choice which—god, nature, whatever you call it—considered so important that it caused our Universe to split into two branches. In one branch, one choice’ was made, some event occurred—and in the other branch, it didn’t. On November 9, 1998, the same thing happened, due to some other choice. What we perceive as the ‘real world’ is just one of those latter two ‘branch’ universes. What we call TCE is the discreet timeline, the ‘history,’ between those two branch points in 1666 and 1998.

“If you’re wondering what the actual choices were that made the Universe split in those two particular years—well, I wish I knew, too. But I do have some guesses. In 1666 Isaac Newton—You’ve heard of him, haven’t you?—was doing some of his most important work.” She smiled wryly. “It’s supposed to be a myth but, maybe, in the other branch universe, the apple ‘decided’ not to fall.

“As for 1998—well, I’ve never told anyone this before. People think I have delusions of grandeur as it is. I was in my high school library that day looking for a copy of Little Women. I went down the wrong aisle, and happened to see a set of the Feynman Lectures on Physics.” A sad, faraway look came to her eyes. “Perhaps, in that other branch universe, there’s no transcosmology. Maybe, at this moment, I’m a retired English teacher playing with my grandchildren.”

She sighed. “We can’t physically travel to any of those other branch universes, or back into the past’—that is, from 1998 to ‘now’—of our own particular branch. Actually, we might be able to do it someday, if you believe in stable wormholes—which I don’t. On the other hand, folding space-time to travel to TCE, which is in a null energy state relative to our branch Universe, is fairly easy. It’s like temporarily reconnecting an umbilical cord between a baby and its mother. We use a—.”

She noticed the blank look on his face, then muttered a word that sounded like “reason.” “Never mind. You don’t really need to understand why this should work, just what you have to do.”

Her face moved closer to his. “I have a plan. It’s more dangerous than anything we’ve done so far. Depending on how strict nature is about violating causality, it might not even work at all. But it’s the only way we can make everything right on TCE, and here.”

Robbins’s eyes opened wide. “How?”

“As I said, we can’t physically travel back into the past of our own branch Universe and change things that have already happened. But, by using TCE, we might be able to change them by a less direct method.” She smiled. “Actually, this idea isn’t very original. I first read about it in some old science fiction stories when I was in college.”

“Science fiction?”

Everett looked at him quizzically. “Do you read science fiction too?”

“No, but maybe I should.” He started to ask her if the idea she was referring to was in “graphic novels” too, but thought better of it.

Everett reached up and took a book of piano music from the top of the Steinway. Taking a pen from her purse, she began writing on the book’s blank back cover. “This is what you need to do—.”

Robbins’s eyes opened wider as she explained her plan.

“But didn’t you say it was dangerous to—?”

“Believe me, I wish there was another way!” She handed him the book. “Will you do it?”

Robbins looked at the instructions she’d written on it, then turned it over. It was his copy of Beethoven’s Sonata in E-flat major, Opus 81a. He leafed through the score, remembering the subtitles the composer had given to its three movements. Les Adieux. L’Absence. Le Retour. Then he turned the book back over and reread what she’d written.

“Well, Dr. Robbins? It’s your choice.”

He sighed. “If it’s the only way to make things right—of course I’ll do it.”

With a sense of déjà vu Robbins entered the Portal Room after changing into a NOC suit. Miles, Everett, and Harrison were there again—just like when he’d gone to TCE and prevented Ertmann from injecting Beethoven with the same medicine he was supposed to give him now.

Harrison handed him the injector. “I’ve loaded it with the vaccine-blocker. Inject it the same way you did the vaccine.”

From his place at the control panel Miles said, “The portal is stable and active. Spatial coordinates are the same as when Dr. Robbins translocated to inject the vaccine. Temporal coordinates are set for ... twenty-nine minutes and counting after he returned from that translocation.”

“Let me check those coordinates.” Brushing the technician aside, Everett scrutinized the panel carefully.

Injector in hand, Robbins walked to the entrance of the portal, waiting. He hoped Everett knew what she was doing.

The latter’s hand played briefly over the control panel.

Miles frowned. “Excuse me, Dr. Everett, but why did you change—?”

“Dr. Robbins,” she said, pointedly ignoring Miles. “Do you remember everything I told you?”

“Yes.”

“Then—good-bye!”

As the blackness of the portal enveloped him, Robbins ran over Everett’s instructions once more in his mind. He hoped this wasn’t just going to make things worse. But even if it meant his own destruction, he was determined to set things right. His last thought before he arrived was to remember what Everett said could be sent back into their own past via TCE.

Information.

Suddenly his thoughts were interrupted—he was there. His first breath brought a multitude of unpleasant smells. The NV goggles activated automatically in the dark room.

He was in the kitchen of Beethoven’s quarters. A fireplace filled with musty ashes was set into one wall. The room had several tables and open shelves, with plates, bowls, and utensils on them. A wicked-looking knife lay on one of the tables. In one comer stood a dusty, dilapidated pianoforte. Robbins smiled slightly, thinking how ironic that was.

Slowly, he entered the main living area, carefully avoiding bumping into the small writing desks and chairs scattered around it—.

“Stop.”

Robbins froze, terrified. Slowly, his head swiveled in the direction of the whispered word. His NV goggles revealed another person in the room. Someone about his height, and wearing a NOC suit just like his.

The strange man spoke again. “Don’t go into the bedroom.”

Robbins whispered back, “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

The dark figure stepped closer, and removed its goggles and hood. Robbins blinked, unable to comprehend what he saw.

It was his own face.

The man replaced the goggles over his eyes. “Don’t talk, just listen.”

Robbins nodded as the stranger spoke. Many of the latter’s instructions didn’t make sense but, he was assured by the other man, in time he would understand them. Robbins felt sick when the man told him why he had to do all those things right.

He did protest about injecting the vaccine he carried into the stranger’s bare right arm, but obeyed. “They have to think you really did inject it into Beethoven, so you can’t go back with the injector unused,” the stranger explained, wincing as he rolled his sleeve back down and rubbed his right upper back with his left hand. “If everything works out the way it should, there’s no way that can hurt me. And now you’ve been absent long enough. It’s time for you to return.”

Robbins followed the other man into the kitchen. “Are you coming too?” Robbins asked. The other man replied, “No. If Everett’s right, and this works, I can’t go back.

“Oh, one more thing.” Robbins saw him walk over to Beethoven’s pianoforte, and smile.

“Now, listen very carefully—.”

“Are you disappointed it didn’t work?”

Robbins shrugged. “I’ll live.”

Antonia sat next to him on the couch in his apartment, listening to the music with him. Eyes closed, she smiled dreamily as the symphony ebbed and flowed around them.

Draping his arm lovingly over Antonia’s shoulder, Robbins closed his eyes too. He was still trying to work out in his mind everything that had happened in the three days since the Humanities Committee had approved his proposal. Especially after he’d translocated to TCE intending to give Beethoven the vaccine.

Just as the man in Beethoven’s apartment had told him to do, immediately after he’d returned to Earth he’d gone to find Ertmann. Actually, he didn’t have to “go” anywhere. She was still calmly sitting in that same chair in the Portal Room with Harrison and Miles nearby, just like before he’d entered TCE to inject the vaccine. As soon as she saw him, before he had a chance to say anything, Ertmann “confessed” to them that she’d gone back before and injected Beethoven with something to block the vaccine. At Robbins’s suggestion, they’d called Everett to come to the Room and get her opinion on what they should do next. She had looked at him a bit suspiciously, as if to say she was the one who was supposed to suggest he go back a little “earlier” and confront Ertmann on TCE. But she’d agreed he should do it.

Back again in Beethoven’s apartment, when Ertmann appeared he’d pleaded with her to trust him, said he was on her side, and told her what they had to do. And, he’d said finally, when you go back, please, please don’t hurt yourself!

Then, after returning to Earth himself, he’d changed clothes and translocated back to Vienna on the morning of March 27, 1827. The newspapers there reported that Beethoven had died the day before—naturally, since he’d never injected him with the vaccine. Then he’d returned home once more—to “failure.”

The hardest part was lying at the special humanities committee meeting yesterday that he’d done his best to prolong Beethoven’s life. The others seemed surprised when he’d then asked to withdraw his proposal. He told them he’d had second thoughts about the possible disastrous consequences it might have for both TCE and their own world. He’d even used examples from the stories Billingsley had given him—and, most damning of all, the one the “stranger” in Beethoven’s apartment had told him about.

The vote in favor of withdrawing his proposal was four to two. Lytton and Shimura were the holdouts, disappointed they’d never get a chance to try out their own pet projects. Robbins still wondered if he’d done the right thing, following all the instructions the man who said he was a “future” version of himself had given him. But, if you can’t trust “yourself,” who can you trust?

As he’d asked her, Ertmann had visited him in his apartment earlier this evening. He’d stressed that she should never, ever tell anyone about their “conspiracy.” If anyone found out what really happened, they might try it again—and neither of them wanted that. Dorothy had thanked him for everything, especially the way he’d helped Harrison convince the Executive Committee not to dismiss her from the Institute. Then she’d given him a warm hug, planted a chaste kiss on his cheek, and left.

The memory of that hug lingered vividly in his mind. Robbins found himself having to suppress some very unplatonic thoughts. But no, he was a little too old for her. Besides, he already had a beloved.

The symphony was approaching its thunderous, explosive climax. Antonia snuggled closer to him. “Beautiful, isn’t it,” she murmured dreamily. “So ecstatic, so full of life and celebration.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “But not as beautiful as you.”

As their lips touched and he lost himself in their kiss, the music seemed to fade for a moment, replaced by another melody—a powerful, triumphant, martial tune in C major. The one the man in Beethoven’s apartment had tapped out on the pianoforte in the kitchen. Robbins wished the man had told him where it was from.

Antonia whispered softly in his ear, “Don’t be too disappointed you didn’t get your ‘new’ music. Remember, ‘Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard are sweeter.’ ” Then, her breasts barely grazing his chest, she looked shyly up at him. He had last seen that look in her eyes far too long ago, and knew she wasn’t planning to go back to her own apartment tonight. Over her shoulder he glimpsed the bust of Beethoven on the Steinway. The ghost of an approving smile seemed to play on its plaster lips.

In the background, endlessly repeated booming notes by the full orchestra were followed by a skyrocketing upward glissando and the last fortissimo chords of Beethoven’s final symphony.

The D minor.

The joyous Ninth.