For Love of Amanda

by Timothy Zahn

  Because if I had, I had very possibly just altered history. _No pushing, no suggesting, no altering._...

  And then, as the sweat began to collect on my forehead, the music finally changed.

  It began slowly, just as it had earlier with the brunette. The major chords he'd been playing softened, flattened, and folded into their minor counterparts. The music modulated once, then twice, as Weldon searched for just the right key to fit the forlorn woman at the bar. The phrasing began to stretch out, the harmonies deepening and stretching and reaching.

  And slowly, subtly, it transformed itself into the soft melody I'd been praying to hear ever since I arrived in this time period. A piece simply called, "For Love of Amanda."

  I took a deep breath. This was it: the turning point in Weldon's life.

  And, if I did my job right, it would be Amanda's redemption as well.

  Across the room, the bartender handed Amanda her drink. Lost in her own misery, distracted perhaps by the buzz of conversation around her, she hadn't yet noticed the melody drifting through the smoke toward her.

  But she would soon; and when she did, I decided, it might be better if I wasn't here. Leaving my glass where it was, I slid my legs out from under the table and headed toward the restrooms.

  I went inside and let myself into one of the stalls, wishing I had a better idea of how long I should stay in here. All the biographies said was that "For Love of Amanda" had been inspired by a woman who'd come into the bar where Weldon was playing. I didn't know if she was going to go over and talk to him, or for how long; whether she would tell him her name or whether the song's title was just a wild coincidence.

  All I knew was that the final, published song was six and a half minutes long. For no particular reason, I decided to give them seven. Pacing as best I could in the confined space, I counted out the minutes, sweating the whole time. The waiting, as always, was the worst part.

  I'd wondered earlier if Amanda would go over to talk to him. In fact, she'd done me one better: I emerged from the restroom to find her seated at the table I'd just left. From my angle I couldn't tell whether they were talking or whether she'd just moved closer so she could hear the music better, but I was guessing the former.

  Perfect.

  And meanwhile, the familiar song continued its inexorable path through the oblivious room. _Like a handmade silk glove_, Amanda's own phrase echoed through my mind.

  I paused just outside the restroom door, pretending to adjust my belt, looking surreptitiously around the room. The two hard-eyed men who'd come in behind Amanda were still seated where I'd last seen them, now with half-full beer bottles in their hands. They were definitely eyeing Amanda as they muttered together, but neither looked interested in making any kind of move on her.

  But then, they hardly needed to leave the comfort of their table for that. There was no way for her to leave without walking directly past them.

  While at this end of the room we had Weldon, apparently smitten enough with this woman he'd just met to compose a song for her on the spot. A song, moreover, that would be deathless enough to endure for the next two hundred years.

  If he was smitten enough to take exception to her leaving with a pair of rowdies, there could be serious trouble.

  I finished adjusting my belt and started wandering back toward Weldon and Amanda. Number one on my Things-To-Do list was to make sure Amanda would be ready to move when I was. Number two would be to neutralize the men waiting for her at the door. I doubted they had any idea of Weldon's future place in history, or would care even if they did, and I had to make absolutely sure all of this whispered past without affecting him.

  My first clear look at Amanda's face as I approached the table was all I needed to see that Weldon's music had again worked its magic. The tension and hopelessness she'd been carrying when she arrived had been smoothed away, leaving behind something far more like the calm and lovely young woman of those holos. Weldon was still playing her song, working his way through variations and embellishments that I knew he wouldn't include in the final published version. The music's mood was one of hope now, and triumph, and peace, and joy.

  And in Weldon's own face, I could see another transformation taking place. Slowly, almost reluctantly, his quiet bitterness and rejection of life were beginning to fade away. Each time he looked at Amanda his eyes seemed to brighten, as if her newly rekindled hope was itself a breath of air on the nearly cold embers of his own life.

  It was like a scene from a nineteenth-century romantic novel. It was certainly history in the making. And it was all so beautiful, I almost hated to interrupt.

  Almost.

  Amanda's head jerked around as I sat down at the table beside her, her eyes startled out of the music's spell and back to reality. "'Sokay, lady," I assured her, letting my words slur together. "'Smy table, but you can sit here. Pretty music, isn't it?"

  "Yes," she murmured, looking me up and down uncertainly.

  I looked at Weldon. His eyes were on me now, too, the beginnings of a troubled crease forming between his eyebrows. He knew I hadn't been nearly this drunk, and had to be wondering what was going on. The sooner I got this over with, the better.

  "Yeah, pretty music," I repeated, adding enthusiasm to my voice as I retrieved my glass and gestured toward Weldon with it. The enthusiasm in my voice leaked out into equal enthusiasm in my arm --

  And the last remaining inch of beer splattered across the back of Amanda's coat.

  "Gosh dang crikey," I exclaimed as she jerked reflexively. "Sorry, sorry, sorry. Here -- let me get that."

  I scooped up the slightly damp napkin that had been under the glass and began daubing at her coat with it. "No -- please -- it's all right," she assured me, trying to move away. "Please."

  But I had a solid grip on the back of her coat collar, and I outweighed her by fifty pounds, so she wasn't going anywhere. "Sorry," I said again, ignoring her protests as I brushed industriously at her coat with the napkin. The music was still variations on Amanda's song, but I could hear it taking on a newly ominous tone. Weldon, with his sensitivity to mood and atmosphere, was starting to get genuinely upset. I pulled a bit on the back of Amanda's collar, and caught the glint of silver I'd been expecting to find. I pulled the collar back a little more, waving the napkin for emphasis and distraction --

  And as I did so, the first two fingers of my left hand dipped inside her collar and deftly removed the tiny silver disk that had been placed on the back of her neck.

  She jerked as it came off, but I was ready and held her down solidly enough that all that showed was a tiny twitch. I made a few more brushing motions with the napkin for show as I threw a surreptitious look at the two men by the door. Engrossed in their bottles, they hadn't noticed a thing.

  As for Weldon, he could now be as upset as he wanted, because we were ready to go. Crumpling the napkin, I dropped it on the table and got my feet under me.

  And everything went straight to hell.

  A sudden and all-too-familiar tingle slapped into my back, right between the shoulder blades, flowing rapidly outward across my torso and down my limbs. In its wake, it left muscles cramped like pine knots, turning my entire body into a living statue.

  The two men at the door hadn't lifted a finger. They hadn't had to. There'd been a third man, seated somewhere in the smoke and shadows behind me.

  And I'd never even noticed him.

  Amanda gave a half-strangled gasp as a big hand closed on her upper arm. "You think we're stupid?" a gruff voice grunted sarcastically in my ear. "I can pluck you crumb-brains out a mile away."

  I wanted to say something equally sarcastic back at him, but my jaw was just as locked up as the rest of my body. The gurgle I actually managed to get out didn't seem to impress him. Hauling Amanda to her feet, he glanced once in Weldon's direction, then pried the silver disk from between my frozen fingers. He held it up mockingly for my inspection, then gave me an affectionate-looking slap on the cheek that sent a fresh wave of ag
ony through the muscles. With a final smirk, he and Amanda headed for the door.

  "Sigmund?" Weldon whispered, his music taking on a tense, agitated tone. "What's going on? Who was that?"

  I struggled with my uncooperative lips, unable to turn my head to look directly at him. The facial muscles were starting to come back, but I wasn't quite able to make anything coherent come out yet.

  "Come on, who was that?" he persisted. "Should we go after them?"

  I fought with my mouth again, and this time I made it. "No," I managed. "Too ... dangerous."

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him look over at Amanda and her escort threading their way through the tables. "The police, then? Should I tell Al to call the police?"

  "No," I said again, managing this time to put some insistence in my tone. It was all over, I knew, and Amanda was probably dead. But bringing the local cops into it at this point would almost certainly bring about the same result _and_ massively change history, too.

  His head turned back toward me. "What did he do to you?"

  "Drugged," I said. It was close enough to the truth, and more believable to someone in 1953. "No antidote," I added, to forestall the inevitable question. "Just have to work it out of my system."

  They were nearly across the room now. The other two men were on their feet, one of them carefully counting money onto the table. Another minute and they would be out the door and gone.

  And I would probably never see them again.

  I closed my eyes, unwilling to watch them leave, aching in a way that had nothing to do with my paralyzed muscles. This had been my only chance. Perhaps Amanda's only chance. I'd read the whole thing right, played it right; and then, through a single moment's stupid carelessness, had lost anyway.

  And then, through all the frustration and reproach and self- pity, I began to be aware of something else. The music. Once again, the music had changed.

  It was still Amanda's song, at least as far as the basic melody went. But the rest of it had become something radically different. The glowing hope had been transformed into something ugly, something hard and cold and bitter and accusing. Weldon knew something terrible had just happened, even if he couldn't possibly understand exactly what it was.

  And he was throwing the blame straight between my eyes.

  I felt a stirring of anger inside me. I'd done my best, damn it, considering the tightrope I had to walk here. Didn't he see that? Or did he simply not care?

  He didn't care. That was it. He was just a musician, a barroom pianist who couldn't even hold onto the same job for more than a week at a time. How dare he judge me? How _dare_ he?

  I clenched my teeth as the music buffeted me, feeling my heart pounding its own indictment of my incompetence. I knew Weldon was looking at me, and I knew what his expression must be. I wished violently that I could turn my head around so that I could look him squarely in the eye; wished bitterly that I could free my tongue so that I could snarl his pious self-righteousness back at him. My hand twitched, aching to reach over and slap the contempt right off his face --

  I caught my breath. _My hand had twitched?_

  I tried again. This time, to my astonishment, the whole arm moved a little.

  And not just my arms. My legs were twitching now, the agony of massive cramps changing to the subtler pain of the cramps working themselves out.

  I turned my head -- I could do it now -- and looked at Weldon.

  He was looking back at me, all right, but not with the contempt I'd imagined would be there. His face was fixed and intent, his eyes blazing with some of the same anger and resolution that was pile- driving its way through my rapidly relaxing muscles.

  He didn't speak, maybe afraid of breaking the spell. Neither did I, for the same reason. Just as he'd done with Amanda, he'd found a way to connect his music with my soul and my need, whipping up anger and adrenaline and sheer willpower, forcing my body to burn off the effects of the paralyzer far more quickly than should ever have been possible.

  They were out the door by the time I was able to get shakily to my feet. But not very far out; and more to the point, they wouldn't be expecting me. I nodded to Weldon, got an answering nod that somehow also asked if I would need help. I smiled tightly and shook my head; and as I crossed the room I could hear the music once again change mood. No longer angry, it was now glowing with a triumph that said he was trusting me to come through.

  I wasn't going to let him down.

  They were two doorways away, two of them holding Amanda still while the third was trying to reattach the restrainer I'd taken off her neck. Watching the street for cops, they never even knew anything was wrong until I had dropped the first of them. They had me spotted by the time I dropped the second. The third had just enough time for a curse and a hopeless lunge for his weapon before he joined his pals on the pavement.

  Amanda was standing there shaking as I hurried up. "W-who -- ?" she began shakily.

  "It's all right, Miss Lowell," I soothed her, crouching down and slipping a dog-collar restrainer around the neck of each of the unconscious men. Only then did I return my stunner to its holster. "It's all over. My name's Sigmund Corcoran; I'm a private investigator. Your father hired me to find you."

  Her eyes searched my face as I stood up again. "I can go home?" she asked, as if still not believing it.

  "Absolutely," I assured her. "Our portal is in an apartment in Columbus. Let me bundle up these characters where they'll keep for an hour or two, call it in to my coordinator, and I'll drive you there. You'll be home in five hours."

  She looked down at the men. "You're not going to just leave them here, are you?"

  "Absolutely not," I said grimly, grabbing one under the arms and starting to drag him to a nearby alley. "Aside from anything else, I rather like watching kidnap trials."

  * * *

  It took some long and fancy persuasion to get Sir Charles and the authorities to allow me to go back. Even then, they made me wait until two months after I'd brought Amanda home.

  Which was fine with me. I'd been planning to wait that long anyway.

  The biographies said that Weldon had quit his barroom career by this point and was writing full-time out of a downtown Pittsburgh apartment. He seemed cautiously pleased to see me. "Hello, Sigmund," he greeted me, stepping back to let me into the room. "I was hoping you'd come back."

  "It took some doing," I said. "But I managed to convince them it would be safer to give you the whole story than leave you with only half of it."

  "I have a full half, do I?" he asked wryly as he waved me to a somewhat threadbare chair.

  "Possibly a bit less," I conceded, studying his face as I sat down.

  Two months had worked wonders on the man. The emptiness I'd seen in his eyes that last night was gone, replaced by the creative fire the biographies had so often commented on. "You're looking good," I added. "Much better than the last time I saw you."

  "I could say the same about you," he reminded me. He hesitated, just noticeably. "How is Amanda?"

  "She's fine," I assured him. "She sends her greetings, and her deep thanks."

  "So what exactly was that all about?" he asked, sitting down on a mismatched couch across from me. "I watched the papers for days, but there wasn't a thing in there. I was about ready to march into the police station and demand some answers."

  "I thought you might," I said. "That's one reason I pushed them to let me come back."

  "Back from where?" he asked, some tension creeping into his face as he leaned forward. "Russia? China?"

  I shook my head. "I'm from the future, Weldon. To be precise, from November 7, 2153."

  He took it better than I'd expected him to. A couple of owlish blinks of the eyes, and he was back on track again. "Two hundred years exactly," he said thoughtfully. "Coincidence?"

  "No, that's just how it works," I told him. "You can only do jumps in one-hundred-year multiples. No one knows why."

  "I've read stories about that sort of thing," he
said. "Science fiction, they call it. I never thought it could really happen. So Amanda was a time-traveler too?"

  "A very unwilling one," I said. "She was a kidnap victim."

  That one got me no less than three blinks. "She was _kidnapped? _" he asked. "Why?"

  "The usual reason," I told him. "Her father has a lot of money. A gang of sewage-eaters wanted some of it."

  He mulled at that a moment. "And they decided to hide her in the past while they waited for the ransom to be paid?"

  "Basically," I said, rather impressed he'd made the connection so quickly. "It's a little trickier than that -- they wanted some complicated power transfers instead of straight cash. But never mind that. The point is that it was going to take time, and the way everything's interconnected they knew they could never hide her that long."

  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."