For Love of Amanda

I waved a hand around me. "So they commandeered a pastportal and brought her here."

"Sounds like a pretty good plan."

"It was a terrific plan," I admitted. "Not only did we not have our usual resources to draw on in 1953, but we also had to make sure we didn't change history while we were looking for her. This was the first time this has ever been tried. I hope the cops can figure out a way to make sure it won't happen again."

He frowned slightly. "You're not a policeman?"

"Private investigator," I told him. "Amanda's father hired about eight hundred of us to assist the police in the search. I just happened to be the lucky one."

"Bull droppings," he said flatly. "Luck had nothing to do with it. You knew something."

"I didn't _know_, exactly, but I had a strong hunch," I said. "You see, during our interviews, one of Amanda's friends mentioned that she had discovered your music when she was a teenager, and that she had specifically felt drawn to your first published work."

His eyes widened. "You mean 'For Love of Amanda'? It's going to sell?"

I tensed. Uh-oh. "Haven't you sent it in yet?" I asked cautiously.

"Last month," he said. "But I haven't heard anything."

I breathed a quiet sigh of relief. Good; he'd already sent it in. No risk of me pushing or suggesting, then. "You will," I assured him. "Anyway, everyone else just assumed that she liked the song so much because her own name happened to be Amanda. Coincidence, and all that."

"But you didn't buy that."

"I wasn't sure," I said. "But I got to thinking there might be more to it than that, especially after I sat in on a couple of your sessions and saw how intensely personal and individual your barroom music could be."

"Like a handmade silk glove," he murmured.

"Amanda's own words," I agreed. "Which made me wonder if maybe that song really _had_ been written especially for her. If so, it stood to reason that you and she would eventually run into each other. I figured all I had to do was hang around in your shadow and wait for her to show up."

I shrugged. "Turns out I was right."

He shook his head wonderingly. "I knew I'd helped with something important," he said. "Somehow, I just knew it. But I never guessed it was something _this_ big."

"You saved her life," I said. "It doesn't get much bigger than that."

"I guess not," he said thoughtfully. "So what was that shiny thing you took out of her coat?"

"A restrainer," I told him. "A smaller version of a standard police gadget. If you try to run while wearing one, the controller can simply push a button and drop you where you stand."

"Is that what they used on you?"

"No, that was a paralyzer," I said. "It's supposed to immobilize someone for twenty minutes, minimum. Hurts like blazes, too."

He made a face. "I don't think I'd like living in your time," he commented.

I shrugged. "I know people who would agree with you."

He took a deep breath, let it go. "So that's it?"

"That's it," I confirmed, standing up. "I just wanted to come and tell you Amanda was okay. And to ask you not to tell anyone about this, of course."

"Of course," he said, standing up too. "I don't suppose you can...?"

I shook my head. "Sorry. Time travel has already got the philosophers and legislators tied in knots as to how known history and free-will can work together. They're not about to tempt fate by letting people like me give out hints. The only reason this particular event didn't land us all in trouble was that neither the goons nor Amanda knew who you were."

He snorted. "I'd be lying if I said I understood all this."

"So would I," I said. "But it happened, and Amanda's safe, and I'm not in trouble. The rest is up to the philosophers."

"Sounds good to me." He hesitated again. "Can you at least tell me if I'll ever see Amanda again?"

"I don't know," I said. "I doubt it, though."

"That's kind of what I thought," he said, his face looking wistful. "In that case, could you give her something for me?"

"Depends," I said warily, wondering which of the rules I was about to put my weight on this time. "What is it?"

"This." He crossed the room and selected two old-style reels of audio tape from a small pile on top of the piano. "It's a copy of the tape I just sent in," he said. "The original version of the song."

I searched my memory. None of the biographies had said anything about a second tape of that song being in existence. "I think that should be all right," I said.

"And this," he added, handing me the second tape, "is for you."

I frowned at the title written in block letters on the label. _Sigmund's Triumph_. "Ah," I said, momentarily at an uncharacteristic loss for words. "I..."

"Keep it as a souvenir," he said, smiling at my confusion. "Or sell it, if you want. Maybe it'll bring you a few bucks, or whatever it is you use back there."

I put both reels into my inside coat pocket, my fingertips tingling. An original, unpublished Weldon Sommers song would bring in considerably more than a few bucks, should I ever choose to sell it.

But of course, I couldn't tell him that. "Thanks," I said instead.

His smile went serious. "And give Amanda my love," he added quietly, stepping to the door and opening it.

"Sure," I said, gazing one last time into his face. The ghosts of his past were still there, I could see, lying in wait for the next time he hit one of the low points of his life.

But never again would they be able to crush him as they once had. On a dark September night two months ago, he had achieved the final victory over them.

For love of Amanda.

I was outside the apartment building, and heading down the steps to the sidewalk, when a final odd thought occurred to me. In two years, the biographies said, Weldon would marry a woman named Jean. A woman he would always declare to be his first and greatest inspiration; a woman of whose background nothing was known; a woman of whom there were no existing photographs.

Amanda, on the other hand, now knew that the song had indeed been written especially for her. A song that carried the title, "For Love of Amanda."

And Amanda Lowell's middle name was Jean.

I thought about it the rest of the way down the steps. But none of that was really my concern, I decided. What _was_ my concern was where I was going to dig up an old reel-to-reel tape player.

Because I had some music to listen to when I got home. Music, I fully expected, that would fit me like a handmade silk glove.

Turning my collar against the November chill, I headed down the street.