“But that might backfire! If Beethoven lived too much longer, his career would overlap those of Chopin, Schumann, and other composers active in the late 1830s and ’40s. If he was alive and writing constantly greater masterpieces himself then, they might feel discouraged, unequal to the task of reaching his standard of excellence, and not write much themselves! Although we’d still have them, TCE could be deprived of their greatest works. The same thing could happen if we saved Mozart, only worse—because Beethoven himself would be one of the composers who might be ‘discouraged’!
“But remember, Harrison said Beethoven won’t live much longer even if I do temporarily save’ him. So, both we and TCE should get the best of both worlds—a few more works by one of the greatest composers of all time, and no bad effects on his contemporaries. Plus, we’ll prove we can do something good for the people of TCE, too.”
“But that’s the real question, isn’t it? How do we know we’ll do something good for them?” Antonia took a piece of paper from her purse. “Billingsley asked me to give you this. He says you haven’t answered his messages, and he’s been too busy making trips to TCE to catch you in person.” She smiled grimly. “He said he wants to salvage as much pop-culture’ as he can from the twentieth century before you ‘screw things up and wipe it out.’ ”
How typical, Robbins thought. He took the note and stuck it in his pocket.
The Bach concerto sounded its final cadence. In the silence that followed, Antonia sighed. “It’s getting late, and I have to leave.”
Robbins walked her to the door. In the open doorway she said, “I don’t care at all for what you’re going to do. Even if the chance of something bad happening is small, it’s still too much.” She hesitated. “But I do care about you. Whatever happens, take care of yourself.”
She gave him a brief hug, brushed her lips chastely across his cheek, and was gone.
The scent of her perfume lingered in the empty room. Sitting down at the piano, he played “Für Elise,” mentally changing the title to “Für Antonia.” “You don’t mind, do you?” he asked the bust of Beethoven. The latter scowled back at him.
Then he remembered Billingsley’s note. It read, “Dear Howie, Please read these stories. They might make you change your mind about changing history on Earth-Two.”
There was a list of ten titles and authors. Well, why not?
“Computer?”
“Yes?” a warm contralto voice answered from the walls.
Robbins looked at the first title on the list. “Access story, ‘A Sound of Thunder.’ ”
“Category, science fiction?”
Robbins frowned. “I suppose so.”
“Author, Bradbury, Ray?”
He checked the note. “Yes.”
“Would you like it read to you, or a printout?”
“Printout.”
Robbins watched as sheets of paper spat out of a slot in the nearby wall into the wire basket attached beneath it. When the printout stopped, he read the first few pages—then threw the papers down in disgust. Hunting dinosaurs—how ridiculous!
He should have known better. Once he’d asked Billingsley why he always used the term “Earth-Two” instead of the standard “Transcosmic Earth.” The latter had replied very seriously that it referred to a series of “graphic novels” written in the last half of the twentieth century. He’d given Robbins a list of titles and authors then, too.
Intrigued in spite of himself (What was so “graphic” about them? And what did those strange titles like Flash of Two Worlds refer to?), he’d asked for printouts from the Net then, too. His surprise at receiving pages of small, crudely colored and lettered pictures turned to anger when, at his query, the computer said those so-called “graphic novels” were more commonly referred to as “comic books.” It was so—typical of Billingsley, quoting from simple-minded stories written for children!
Robbins read more titles on the note. Timescape. By His Bootstraps. The Men Who Murdered Mohammed. Appointment in Berlin. Then he crumpled it and tossed it on the floor. Probably more of the same. Not worth wasting his time over.
Fingers poised over the keyboard, he hesitated. Right now he didn’t feel in a heaven-storming, Beethovean mood. Something lighter—like Chopin. Playing through several of the master’s etudes from Opus 25, some of his tension drained away. As the last fluttering strains of the delicate etude no. 9 in G-flat major, the one nicknamed “The Butterfly,” laded away in the quiet room, he addressed the bust on the piano again. “Do you think I’m doing the right thing?”
Beethoven scowled at him even more disapprovingly.
Development
“Look’s good from this side, Dr. Robbins.”
Robbins examined himself in the changing room’s full-length mirror, and nodded in agreement. The “Night Operations Camouflage” suit that Miles, the Portal Technician, had just helped him put on resembled a deep-black wet suit, covering him from shoulders to ankles with an opening for his head. A wand-like digital scanner hung from a black belt around his waist.
Miles continued, “I calibrated and focused the portal just before I came here. You can translocate as soon as you finish getting dressed.”
Robbins sat down on a bench and tugged a pair of black boots on. “We’ll have to wait for Harrison. He’s bringing the vaccine I’m going to use.”
Miles frowned. “Dr. Harrison’s bringing it?”
“That’s what he told me. Why do you ask?”
“Because just before I left the Portal Room to help you, Dr. Ertmann came in. I assumed she had it.”
“Well, as long as one of them brings it.” He stood up, and Miles handed him a black hood. It covered his entire head except for small circles at his eyes and slits for his mouth and nostrils. Robbins pressed the edges of the hood and suit together. Their magnet: ic strips made a tight seal.
Miles handed him a pair of black goggles. Securing them with a strap behind his head, Robbins turned them on. A multicolored display appeared at the top of the left lens. “Fully charged, diagnostics check out,” Robbins read. “Lights off.”
In the darkened room the goggles switched to “NightVision” mode. Though it was like looking through green-colored lenses, everything in the room could be seen as clearly as in normal light.
“Lights on.” Robbins checked himself in the mirror again, and smiled. Billingsley called the NOC suit a “cat burglar outfit”—not a bad description for what it was designed to do.
To avoid contact with the people of TCE as much as possible, most of the work done there consisted of searching through rooms at night for manuscripts or other documents. Should a “native” happen to come into one of those dark rooms unexpectedly, the NOC suit was supposed to keep the wearer undetected long enough to hide or escape.
“Don’t forget this.”
Robbins took the bracelet from Miles and snapped it around his left wrist. No, he didn’t want to forget that. Without it, he couldn’t activate the portal from TCE and return to their Earth.
They walked back through the short corridor to the Portal Room.
Harrison was there, bending over a young woman wearing a white lab coat who was slumped forward in a chair near the main control console. Robbins didn’t recognize her. She seemed to be in her early thirties, with cascading red hair and pale skin. Sobbing violently, she buried her face in her hands.
Harrison looked up at Miles and him, obviously worried. “Do either of you know what’s wrong with Dr. Ertmann?”
Miles shrugged. “Beats me. She was fine when I left her about ten minutes ago.”