When he got to the Chief of the Bureau, he would simply and calmly explain his identity and ask for permission to go back the ten or twenty or thirty years to the time in which he belonged, and where he could turn the two-way rig over to the proper authorities and resume his life from his point of departure. And when that happened, the jumpers would no longer be sent to the Moon, and there would be no further need for Absolutely Inflexible Mahler.
But, he realized, if I’ve already done this then why is there still a Bureau now? An uneasy fear began to grow in him.
“Hurry up and finish that report,” Mahler told the medic.
“I don’t know what the rush is,” the medic said. “Unless you like it on the Moon.”
“Don’t worry about me,” Mahler said confidently. “If I told you who I am, you’d think twice about—”
“Is this thing your time-rig?” the medic asked boredly, interrupting.
“Not really. I mean—yes, yes it is,” Mahler said. “And be careful with it. It’s the world’s only two-way rig.”
“Really, now?” said the medic. “Two ways, eh?”
“Yes. And if you’ll take me in to your Chief—”
“Just a minute. I’d like to show this to the Head Medic.”
In a few moments the medic returned. “All right, let’s go to the Chief now. I’d advise you not to bother arguing; you can’t win. You should have stayed where you came from.”
Two guards appeared and jostled Mahler down the familiar corridor to the brightly lit little office where he had spent eight years. Eight years on the other side of the fence.
As he approached the door of what had once been his office, he carefully planned what he would say to his successor. He would explain the accident, demonstrate his identity as Mahler, and request permission to use the two-way rig to return to his own time. The Chief would probably be belligerent at first, then curious, finally amused at the chain of events that had ensnarled Mahler. And, of course, he would let him go, after they had exchanged anecdotes about their job, the job they both held at the same time and across a gap of years. Mahler swore never again to touch a time machine, once he got back. He would let others undergo the huge job of transmitting the jumpers back to their own eras.
He moved forward and broke the photoelectronic beam. The door to the Bureau Chief’s office slid open. Behind the desk sat a tall, powerful-looking man, lean, hard.
Me.
Through the dim plate of the spacesuit into which he had been stuffed, Mahler saw the man behind the desk. Himself. Absolutely Inflexible Mahler. The man who had sent four thousand men to the Moon, without exception, in the unbending pursuit of his duty.
And if he’s Mahler—
Who am I?
Suddenly Mahler saw the insane circle complete. He recalled the jumper, the firm, deep-voiced, unafraid time jumper who had arrived claiming to have a two-way rig and who had marched off to the Moon without arguing. Now Mahler knew who that jumper was.
But how did the cycle start? Where did the two-way rig come from in the first place? He had gone to the past to bring it to the present to take it to the past to—
His head swam. There was no way out. He looked at the man behind the desk and began to walk towards him, feeling a wall of circumstance growing around him, while he, in frustration, tried impotently to beat his way out.
It was utterly pointless to argue. Not with Absolutely Inflexible Mahler. It would just be a waste of breath. The wheel had come full circle, and he was as good as on the Moon. He looked at the man behind the desk with a new, strange light in his eyes.
“I never dreamed I’d find you here,” the jumper said. The transmitter of the spacesuit brought his voice over deeply and resonantly.
The MacAuley Circuit
This, too, was written in June of 1955. Like most of my stories at that time it made its modest way from editor to editor, steadily descending from the top-paying markets to those farther down the pecking order, and early in 1956 was bought, for a glorious $40, by Leo Margulies, who was beginning to accept my work with some regularity. He published it in the August 1956 issue of Fantastic Universe. Like the rest of my work of that period, it’s no masterpiece: I wasn’t really up to turning out a lot of masterpieces when I was twenty years old. But it stands up pretty well, I think—an intelligent consideration of some of the problems that the still virtually unborn computer age was likely to bring. (And when you read it, please bear in mind that computers, in 1955, were still considered experimental technology—generally “thinking machines” or “electronic brains”—and music synthesizers existed only in the pages of science fiction.)
~
I don’t deny I destroyed Macauley’s diagram; I never did deny it, gentlemen. Of course I destroyed it, and for fine, substantial reasons. My big mistake was in not thinking the thing through at the beginning. When Macauley first brought me the circuit, I didn’t pay much attention to it—certainly not as much as it deserved. That was a mistake, but I couldn’t help myself. I was too busy coddling old Kolfmann to stop and think what the Macauley circuit really meant.
If Kolfmann hadn’t shown up just when he did, I would have been able to make a careful study of the circuit and, once I had seen all the implications, I would have put the diagram in the incinerator and Macauley right after it. This is nothing against Macauley, you understand; he’s a nice, clever boy, one of the finest minds in our whole research department. That’s his trouble.
He came in one morning while I was outlining my graph for the Beethoven Seventh that we were going to do the following week. I was adding some ultrasonics that would have delighted old Ludwig—not that he would have heard them, of course, but he would have felt them—and I was very pleased about my interpretation. Unlike some synthesizer-interpreters, I don’t believe in changing the score. I figure Beethoven knew what he was doing, and it’s not my business to patch up his symphony. All I was doing was strengthening it by adding the ultrasonics. They wouldn’t change the actual notes any, but there’d be that feeling in the air which is the great artistic triumph of synthesizing.
So I was working on my graph. When Macauley came in I was choosing the frequencies for the second movement, which is difficult because the movement is solemn but not too solemn. Just so. He had a sheaf of paper in his hand, and I knew immediately that he’d hit on something important, because no one interrupts an interpreter for something trivial.
“I’ve developed a new circuit, sir,” he said. “It’s based on the imperfect Kennedy Circuit of 2261.”
I remembered Kennedy—a brilliant boy, much like Macauley here. He had worked out a circuit which almost would have made synthesizing a symphony as easy as playing a harmonica. But it hadn’t quite worked—something in the process fouled up the ultrasonics and what came out was hellish to hear—and we never found out how to straighten things out. Kennedy disappeared about a year later and was never heard from again. All the young technicians used to tinker with his circuit for diversion, each one hoping he’d find the secret. And now Macauley had.
I looked at what he had drawn, and then up at him. He was standing there calmly, with a blank expression on his handsome, intelligent face, waiting for me to quiz him.
“This circuit controls the interpretative aspects of music, am I right?”
“Yes, sir. You can set the synthesizer for whatever aesthetic you have in mind, and it’ll follow your instructions. You merely have to establish the aesthetic coordinates—the work of a moment—and the synthesizer will handle the rest of the interpretation for you. But that’s not exactly the goal of my circuit, sir,” he said gently, as if to hide from me the fact that he was telling me I had missed his point. “With minor modifications—”
He didn’t get a chance to tell me, because at that moment Kolfmann came dashing into my studio. I never lock my door, because for one thing no one would dare come in without good and sufficient reason, and for another my analyst pointed out to me that working behind locked do
ors has a bad effect on my sensibilities, and reduces the aesthetic potentialities of my interpretations. So I always work with my door unlocked and that’s how Kolfmann got in. And that’s what saved Macauley’s life, because if he had gone on to tell me what was on the tip of his tongue I would have regretfully incinerated him and his circuit right then and there.
Kolfmann was a famous name to those who loved music. He was perhaps eighty now, maybe ninety, if he had a good gerontologist, and he had been a great concert pianist many years ago. Those of us who knew something about presynthesizer musical history knew his name as we would that of Paganini or Horowitz or any other virtuoso of the past, and regarded him almost with awe.
Only all I saw now was a tall, terribly gaunt old man in ragged clothes who burst through my door and headed straight for the synthesizer, which covered the whole north wall with its gleaming complicated bulk. He had a club in his hand thicker than his arm, and he was about to bash it down on a million credits’ worth of cybernetics when Macauley effortlessly walked over and took it away from him. I was still too flabbergasted to do much more than stand behind my desk in shock.
Macauley brought him over to me and I looked at him as if he were Judas.
“You old reactionary,” I said. “What’s the idea? You can get fined for wrecking a cyber—or didn’t you know that?”
“My life is ended anyway,” he said in a thick, deep, guttural voice: “It ended when your machines took over music.”
He took off his battered cap and revealed a full head of white hair. He hadn’t shaved in a couple of days, and his face was speckled with stiff-looking white stubble.
“My name is Gregor Kolfmann,” he said. “I’m sure you have heard of me.”
“Kolfmann, the pianist?”
He nodded, pleased despite everything. “Yes, Kolfmann, the former pianist. You and your machine have taken away my life.”
Suddenly all the hate that had been piling up in me since he burst in—the hate any normal man feels for a cyberwrecker—melted, and I felt guilty and very humble before this old man. As he continued to speak, I realized that I—as a musical artist—had a responsibility to old Kolfmann. I still think that what I did was the right thing, whatever you say.
“Even after synthesizing became the dominant method of presenting music,” he said, “I continued my concert career for years. There were always some people who would rather see a man play a piano than a technician feed a tape through a machine. But I couldn’t compete forever.” He sighed. “After a while anyone who went to live concerts was called a reactionary, and I stopped getting bookings. I took up teaching for my living. But no one wanted to learn to play the piano. A few have studied with me for antiquarian reasons, but they are not artists, just curiosity-seekers. They have no artistic drive. You and your machine have killed art!”
I looked at Macauley’s circuit and at Kolfmann, and felt as if everything were dropping on me at once. I put away my graph for the Beethoven, partly because all the excitement would make it impossible for me to get anywhere with it today and partly because it would only make things worse if Kolfmann saw it. Macauley was still standing there, waiting to explain his circuit to me. I knew it was important, but I felt a debt to old Kolfmann, and I decided I’d take care of him before I let Macauley do any more talking.
“Come back later,” I told Macauley. “I’d like to discuss the implications of your circuit, as soon as I’m through talking to Mr Kolfmann.”
“Yes, sir,” Macauley said, like the obedient puppet a technician turns into when confronted by a superior, and left. I gathered up the papers he had given me and put them neatly at a corner of my desk. l didn’t want Kolfmann to see them, either, though I knew they wouldn’t mean anything to him except as symbols of the machine he hated.
When Macauley had gone I gestured Kolfmann to a plush pneumochair, into which he settled with the distaste for excess comfort that is characteristic of his generation. I saw my duty plainly—to make things better for the old man.
“We’d be glad to have you come to work for us, Mr Kolfmann,” I began, smiling. “A man of your great gift—”
He was up out of that chair in a second, eyes blazing. “Work for you? I’d sooner see you and your machines dead and crumbling! You, you scientists—you’ve killed art, and now you’re trying to bribe me!”
“I was just trying to help you,” I said. “Since, in a manner of speaking, we’ve affected your livelihood, I thought I’d make things up to you.”
He said nothing, but stared at me coldly, with the anger of half a century burning in him.
“Look,” I said. “Let me show you what a great musical instrument the synthesizer itself is.” I rummaged in my cabinet and withdrew the tape of the Hohenstein Viola Concerto, which we had performed in ’69—a rigorous twelve-tone work which is probably the most demanding, unplayable bit of music ever written. It was no harder for the synthesizer to counterfeit its notes than those of a Strauss waltz, of course, but a human violist would have needed three hands and prehensile nose to convey any measure of Hohenstein’s musical thought. I activated the playback of the synthesizer and fed the tape in.
The music burst forth. Kolfmann watched the machine suspiciously. The pseudo-viola danced up and down the tone row while the old pianist struggled to place the work.
“Hohenstein?” he finally asked timidly. I nodded.
I saw a conflict going on within him. For more years than he could remember he had hated us because we had made his art obsolete. But here I was showing him a use for the synthesizer that gave it a valid existence—it was synthesizing a work impossible for a human to play. He was unable to reconcile all the factors in his mind, and the struggle hurt. He got up uneasily and started for the door.
“Where are you going?”
“Away from here,” he said. “You are a devil.”
He tottered weakly through the door, and I let him go. The old man was badly confused, but I had a trick or two up my cybernetic sleeve to settle some of his problems and perhaps salvage him for the world of music. For, whatever else you say about me, particularly after this Macauley business, you can’t deny that my deepest allegiance is to music.
I stopped work on my Beethoven’s Seventh, and also put away Macauley’s diagram, and called in a couple of technicians. I told them what I was planning. The first line of inquiry, I decided, was to find out who Kolfmann’s piano teacher had been. They had the reference books out in a flash and we found out who—Gotthard Kellerman, who had died nearly sixty years ago. Here luck was with us. Central was able to locate and supply us with an old tape of the International Music Congress held at Stockholm in 2187, at which Kellerman had spoken briefly on “The Development of the Pedal Technique”: nothing very exciting, but it wasn’t what he was saying that interested us. We split his speech up into phonemes, analyzed, rearranged, evaluated, and finally went to the synthesizer and began feeding in tapes.
What we got back was a new speech in Kellerman’s voice, or a reasonable facsimile thereof. Certainly it would be good enough to fool Kolfmann, who hadn’t heard his old teacher’s voice in more than half a century. When we had everything ready I sent for Kolfmann, and a couple of hours later they brought him in, looking even older and more worn.
“Why do you bother me?” he asked. “Why do you not let me die in peace?”
I ignored his questions. “Listen to this, Mr Kolfmann.” I flipped on the playback, and the voice of Kellerman came out of the speaker.
“Hello, Gregor,” it said. Kolfmann was visibly startled. I took advantage of the prearranged pause in the recording to ask him if he recognized the voice. He nodded. I could see that he was frightened and suspicious, and I hoped the whole thing wouldn’t backfire. “Gregor, one of the things I tried most earnestly to teach you—and you were my most attentive pupil—was that you must always be flexible. Techniques must constantly change, though art itself remains changeless. But have you listened to me? No.”
Kolfmann was starting to realize what we had done, I saw. His pallor was ghastly now.
“Gregor, the piano is an outmoded instrument. But there is a newer, a greater instrument available for you, and you deny its greatness. This wonderful new synthesizer can do all that the piano could do, and much more. It is a tremendous step forward.”
“All right,” Kolfmann said. His eyes were gleaming strangely. “Turn that machine off.”
I reached over and flipped off the playback.
“You are very clever,” he told me. “I take it you used your synthesizer to prepare this little speech for me.”
I nodded.
He was silent an endless moment. A muscle flickered in his cheek. I watched him, not daring to speak.
At length he said, “Well, you have been successful, in your silly, theatrical way. You’ve shaken me.”
“I don’t understand.”
Again he was silent, communing with who knew what internal force. I sensed a powerful conflict raging within him. He scarcely seemed to see me at all as he stared into nothingness. I heard him mutter something in another language; I saw him pause and shake his great old head. And in the end he looked down at me and said, “Perhaps it is worth trying. Perhaps the words you put in Kellerman’s mouth were true. Perhaps. You are foolish, but I have been even more foolish than you. I have stubbornly resisted, when I should have joined forces with you. Instead of denouncing you, I should have been the first to learn how to create music with this strange new instrument. Idiot! Moron!”
I think he was speaking of himself in those last two words, but I am not sure. In any case, I had seen a demonstration of the measure of his greatness—the willingness to admit error and begin all over. I had not expected his cooperation; all I had wanted was an end to his hostility. But he had yielded. He had admitted error and was ready to rechart his entire career.
To Be Continued: The Collected Stories of Robert Silverberg, Volume One Page 8