by Anthology
Columbus did not speak at first. He looked down at his hand, where the letter from the future had rested just moments before. Then he raised his eyes to meet the bailiff’s face. “I am sorry, sir, sorry that I have wasted so much of her time with this foolishness. The queen’s advisors were correct. I cannot reach Cathay by sailing west.”
Columbus looked ten years older, his great dream dead. “Perhaps our descendants will go there someday. When it’s safe to explore the world.”
THE BEETHOVEN PROJECT
Donald Moffitt
Motivation is everything . . .
“Flat,” said Harv Saltz, the marketing director for Divergences, Inc. “Sales have been goddamn flat since that Bach thing, what was it?” He snapped his fingers impatiently.
Marty Stent, the firm’s creative director, spoke up. “Bach’s Variations and Fugue on a tune by Gershwin,” he said. It was his riff on ‘The Man I Love.’ The old guy went crazy with those descending chromatics. We livened it up with just a touch of wire brush, and . . .”
“Yeah, yeah. The point is, we haven’t had a hit since then. While The Music Factory, those snakes, have been cranking out hit after hit at our expense. What’s the one that’s been off the charts all week—‘Flipping the Byrd’ or something? That was our idea, goddammit, and we dropped the ball.”
“They bribed some temporal engineer at Timesplitters Associates to muscle in on a timeline that we paid for,” Marty protested. “It was legal because . . .”
“Because we didn’t get our branch registered before the statutory waiting period ran out, and they were able to file for a new intervention!” Harv shot back. His face was getting dangerously purple.
Lester Krieg sat back and kept his mouth shut. He was painfully aware that he was a very junior account executive, and that he was privileged to have been invited by Marty to a meeting of the big boys. But it was starting to look as if being Marty’s protégé might not be an unalloyed blessing.
The sales manager, Larry McGavin, tossed in his two cents worth. “We need a biggie, Marty,” he said. “Something surefire.”
Harv seconded him with a rumble that Lester interpreted as meaning, “Or else.”
Marty was nothing if not quick on his feet. “And that’s why I brought in my boy Lester here,” he said smoothly. “Lester may be relatively new to the game, but he’s impressed me with his creative ideas. And more important, he’s a young guy who’s in tune with the tastes of the avant-retro generation. I’d like you all to hear what he told me this morning.”
All eyes swiveled toward Lester. He shrank in his chair. He hadn’t discussed anything with Marty that morning.
“Go ahead, son,” Harv said, not unkindly.
Lester thought furiously. “I asked myself,” he temporized, “what concept would most strike a responsive chord in literally everybody, not just your ordinary music buffs, but even people with a limited knowledge of music.”
He had their attention now. “Go on,” Harv said.
“And then it came to me.” He swallowed hard, and then it did, in fact, come to him all in a flash.
“Beethoven’s Tenth,” he said.
They all looked at one another. A murmur of appreciation went round the table. Encouraged, Lester plunged ahead.
“Everybody and his brother Jake knows that Beethoven wrote nine symphonies and stopped there. And even the dimmest of music lovers has wish fulfillment fantasies about what a tenth would have sounded like.”
He had them nodding now. Ted Fisher, head of the research department, had started to take notes. Marty caught Lester’s eye and signaled him to go for it.
Lester took a deep breath. “Beethoven was always short of money. He conned his publishers. He wasn’t above selling the same composition to two or three different patrons if he thought he could get away with it. We know he thought about writing a tenth symphony after he finished the ninth, but he put the project aside for more profitable commissions. All we have to do is make him an offer he can’t refuse.”
Larry McGavin from sales was nodding his head enthusiastically. “I like it,” he said. He turned to Harv Saltz. “What do you say, Harv?”
The comptroller, Adam Fisk, was putting on that long face of his. “It’s going to be expensive, Harv. Opening another timeline, assembling all that cash in gold, reconnoitering expenses, figuring the optimum date for an insert—”
Harv cut him off. “Let’s do it.”
“An offer he can’t refuse,” Marty said. “How about it, Ted?”
Lester watched Ted Fisher’s face warily. So far, the research director hadn’t raised any objections. Not that he could have stalled the project after the executive committee had given it a green light, but he could still throw sand in the gears if he wanted to throw his weight around.
The three of them were closeted in Marty’s office with the door closed and all calls on hold. Marty had sent out for lunch, and the wrappings were still strewn about. He had started the meeting by telling them, with a broad smile, that Harv had approved his budget.
Ted shuffled the sheaf of printouts he had brought with him. “We’ve just done the preliminaries, but as far as I can tell, Lester was right on target. Beethoven was offered three hundred guineas by the London Philharmonic Society for a ninth and tenth symphony, but he held out for four hundred. That didn’t go over too well, and negotiations stalled. In 1822, they settled on fifty pounds for an eighteen-month exclusive for one symphony. That, of course, was the one that turned out to be the ninth, and after Beethoven collected the advance, he turned around and dedicated it to King Freidrich Wilhelm of Prussia, for which he got a diamond ring that turned out to be fake. He also jumped the gun and premiered it May of 1824 in Vienna, before the Londoners even got the manuscript. But the box-office receipts in Vienna were disappointing, and despite further offers from the Philharmonic Society, he gave up on his plans for a tenth symphony and concentrated on string quartets.”
“The last quartets,” Marty said reverently.
Despite himself, Lester began to have qualms. “Beethoven died in 1827,” he said. “We’d be depriving the world of the last five quartets and the Grosse Fugue.”
“Not our world, kid,” Marty said. “Look at it this way. They get the tenth as a consolation prize. We’ve got the tenth and the quartets. Besides, who’s to say that he won’t knock off a quartet or two anyway, after he finishes the symphony?”
“Beethoven’s health started to deteriorate in 1826,” Ted said. “Probably pancreatitis, cirrhosis of the liver—you name it! He didn’t have much time left.”
“What do you suggest, Ted?” Marty asked him.
“The best window would be mid-1824. The ninth was behind him, his health was still reasonably good, and he was taking a break from big projects by writing short piano pieces while he tried to figure out what he wanted to do next.”
“The Opus 126 bagatelles,” Lester interjected.
Ted ignored the interruption. “So my recommendation would be to hit him then. We know he was at least thinking about writing a new symphony then. He may even have been scribbling a few sketches.”
Marty turned to Lester. “That’s it then, kid. I envy you. Vienna in June and all that.”
“Me, Marty?”
“Who else? How’s your German?”
“Okay, I guess. A little rough and ready. My accent’s not good.”
“Doesn’t matter. He won’t hear you anyway. How’s your handwriting?”
“I don’t know if I can pull it off, Marty.”
“Don’t worry about it buddy. You can pass yourself off as a visitor from the young American democracy. Beethoven ought to love that. Right, Ted?”
Ted put on his sober face. “Beethoven was a liberal, and didn’t care who knew it. Vienna was turning into a police state with a spy network run by Prince Metternich. Beethoven got away with mouthing off because he was prominent and was considered an eccentric. But Schubert got himself picked up by the secret police for collaborating on
an antiwar opera. Based on Lysistrata, of all things. Yes, Beethoven wouldn’t mind a visit from an American admirer.”
“It’s settled then,” Marty said to Lester. “Let’s get you to wardrobe and then we can sit down and work out a game plan.”
Ted put his printouts back in his folder. “I’ll get to work on the preliminaries. Lester, you’ll have to deposit the funds in gold ducats with a banking house in Vienna. That would probably be Henickstein and Company. I’ll let you know.”
Marty put an arm around Lester’s shoulders. “Let’s go, young fella. Time’s a-wasting.”
The reception room at Alternatives Associates was cool and hushed, with subdued lighting and tastefully framed oil paintings of historical turning points decorating the walls. The receptionist said, “Roy knows you’re here. He’ll be out in a few minutes. Why don’t you gentlemen have a seat while you’re waiting.”
Lester was in full costume. The clothes from wardrobe were heavy and uncomfortable, and had a musty wool odor that made him itch. The elaborate stock around his neck was too tight, and he stretched it with a forefinger to ease the discomfort.
“I don’t understand why we’re here, Marty,” he said. “We always use Timesplitters.”
“Harv says we can’t trust them anymore,” Marty said. “He thinks The Music Factory has a mole there. Besides, Alternative Associates is cheap.”
“They’re also pretty new.”
“That’s why they’re still cheap. Wait another year. Trust me, you don’t want The Music Factory to get wind of this till it’s a done deal.”
The door to the inner suite opened and a gangling young man in green scrubs came through. He came over to where they were sitting and said, “Hi, I’m Roy Hendricks, the tech in charge of your project. You must be Mr. Saltz and Mr. Krieg. We’ve got it all set up for you. Come this way.”
He led them down a carpeted corridor to a cavernous area that might have been a conference room or corporate recording studio before Alternatives Associates took it over. Monitor screens lined one wall, and there was a faint smell of burnt insulation in the air. Half a dozen people were working at consoles, but otherwise the room was deserted.
“The way we worked it,” the tech explained, “we sent the gold ahead to the place your Mr. Fisher specified, a banking house called Henickstein and Company. Piece of cake. He supplied us with a map and directions. We scoped out the foyer for a few moments when no one was around, and left it in two valises right in front of the door. We did that yesterday, our time, but you’ll arrive about a nanosecond after the valises appeared, pick them up like you own them, which you do, and walk right in without a pause. We labeled them with tags that say ‘Herr Krieg,’ just in case. They’re heavy, about eighty pounds apiece, so you’ll need that amount in ballast when you return. We’ll give you a little pocket mass indicator to take with you. Nothing to it. You just keep tossing away small increments—coins are good—until you get a buzz and a green light.”
“He knows the drill,” Marty said. “Don’t you, Les?”
“I’ve done a few jumps,” Lester said. “But usually the extra mass was recording equipment, and I brought it back with me.”
“As long as you understand how it works,” the tech said.
“There’s one other thing,” Marty said. “Did our Mr. Saltz say anything to you?”
The tech frowned. “He said something about security concerns.”
“Lester here is going to have to stay behind for a few months to baby sit Beethoven until he finishes our . . . commission. Ordinarily, we’d just send him back to a later spot on the branch we split off, to harvest the results of the intervention. But we can’t take a chance on . . . someone else muscling in.”
“No problem,” the tech said. “How much do you know about the Schrödinger Effect?”
Lester could see that Marty had bristled at that, but that he was going to remain faux polite. “Well, a little more than your average layman, Roy. I use it every day.”
Roy was faux polite too. He smiled carefully. “I use the elevator every day, but I couldn’t tell you how it works. You can look at it this way. As long as Lester remains in his split-off branch of 1824, the channel is anchored here at this end, and nobody else can interfere. Once he returns, that particular universe joins the infinity of other realities floating around in the multiplenum, and anyone can tap into it. Our historian clients do it all the time. Did someone want to see what would happen if the South won the Civil War? No sweat. We follow the trail left in the macroverse by the original intervention and latch on to it at any point we choose. Of course any new intervention creates a new universe. The more the merrier. You can end up in a macroverse of twigs. If the original intervener thinks his experiment got screwed up, he can go back to a slice of time before the branch branched. That’s why the time paradoxes that used to be popular in old science fiction stories can’t occur in real life. You may go back in time and kill your own grandfather, but in your universe, the one you return to, he’s still alive and kicking.”
Marty turned to Lester with a complacent smile. “In other words, kid, we don’t give a damn if The Music Factory horns in on the project after you get back. In our world, we’ve got the jump on them. By the time they figure out what we were up to in 1824, our product is jumping off the charts.”
“What it boils down to,” Lester said, “is that I’m stuck in 1824 with the old curmudgeon until he comes through.”
“It won’t be that bad, kiddo. He could knock off a symphony in a couple of months when he wanted to, and churn out two or three potboilers at the same time. With you there to keep him on the straight and narrow, he’ll finish before you know it. In the meantime, you’re on the expense account in Vienna, the City of Dreams. You’re authorized to draw funds from the Henickstein account for your own use, no questions asked. I’ll take care of Fisk.”
“All I’m saying is . . .”
“There’s no other way,” Marty said with finality. “You’ll be back in the blink of a quantum eye. Roy and I will be here waiting, just the way you left us. The air you displaced won’t even have had time to collapse in the vacuum you left. You can pick up your life exactly where you left it, only with all those golden memories of Vienna under your belt. So grin and bear it.”
“You’re assuming it’s a done deal. Beethoven was a tough old bird to handle.”
“Don’t get cold feet on me, Lester. This is a great career move for you. You come back with the manuscript of that symphony in your hand, and you can write your own ticket at Divergences, Inc.”
Roy Hendricks was looking impatiently at his watch. Across the room, a technician standing beside one of the time booths was trying to get his attention.
“Are we ready, gentlemen?” he said?
Lester paused at the curb to check his map. He couldn’t read the house number from where he stood, but it had to be Landstrasse No. 323. A small crowd of idlers was standing in the street, staring up at a pair of shuttered windows on the third floor. The crowd was generally well behaved, but a trio of louts in work clothes was being unruly, pointing up at the windows and laughing. One of them made some rude remark that sent the other two into gales of laughter, but Lester’s grasp of idiomatic German was too shaky for him to decipher it.
He pushed his way into the crowd and joined the gawking. Nobody paid any attention to him. He was close enough now to hear what the others were listening to—an alarming torrent of braying cries and animal howls, punctuated by what sounded like someone banging on an out-of-tune piano.
The strange noises stopped for a moment and he could hear someone shouting angrily. There was a pause for a moment, when someone else must have been replying in a softer tone of voice, then more shouting, another silence, and a resumption of the howling and banging.
After several minutes, a man in a top hat and swallowtail coat emerged from the front door, his face bright red and unsmiling. He took in the crowd, and his lips tightened. “Gehen Sie weg!
” he yelled, shaking his walking stick at them. He zeroed in on the three louts and gave them a piece of his mind. They backed off and left, feigning nonchalance. Several of the onlookers were intimidated enough to follow, but the rest of the crowd stayed put. The top-hatted man gave up and marched angrily off.
Lester in the meantime had figured out who he must be, though he bore only a passing resemblance to the portrait engraving Ted Fisher had shown him—Anton Schindler, the violinist-lawyer who had turned himself into Beethoven’s chief groupie and general dogsbody. Lester was relieved not to have to deal with him. According to Ted, he was jealous of the position he had carved out for himself with Beethoven, and could be a pain in the neck.
Mentally crossing his fingers, Lester separated himself from the little cluster of onlookers and strode purposefully to the door as though he had legitimate business inside. Nobody seemed to think it was odd. A bell jingled when he pushed the door open, but no one was in sight. He could hear women’s voices and kitchen noises from down the hallway that led to the rear of the house, but nobody came to check on the bell. There was a stairway to his right, and, not hesitating, he climbed up three flights to a dimly lit landing covered in fading wallpaper. From behind the door opposite came the sound of a three-note sequence repeated over and over again on the piano, as though Beethoven were trying something out in his head. Lester winced. One of the notes was flat. Probably Beethoven couldn’t hear it. The piano pounding was just his way of working off steam.
Automatically, he lifted a fist to knock, then caught himself. He tried the knob and the door opened. He stepped inside and closed the door behind him.
His first impression was one of awesome clutter. Papers and books were strewn haphazardly about, covering every conceivable surface. A small space had been cleared on one side table for a glass coffeemaker and a few chipped cups and saucers. There was a washstand with unmopped puddles of water on the floor beneath, and an unmade bed in the corner with more papers scattered across it. The room was not particularly large, and no fewer than three pianos crowded it still further. The tops of the pianos themselves were used as catch-alls, and Lester glimpsed a miscellany of objects that included a small ivory bust and several ear trumpets.
