For Love of Amanda

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 An original, unpublished Weldon Sommers song would bring in considerably more than a few bucks, should I ever choose to sell it.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.