H. Symphony in a Minor Key: Symphony in a Minor Key

Harrison bent down again, close to the woman’s ear. “Dorothy, what’s the matter? Are you sick? Do you want me to get some help?”

Slowly Ertmann looked up at Harrison. Her face was drawn, her eyes red and moist. When she wasn’t crying, Robbins thought, she was probably quite pretty. “I’m so sorry,” she said, “I should have known better than to—She stopped suddenly, staring at Robbins. “Who is he?” she demanded.

“That’s Dr. Robbins.” Harrison said. He frowned at Robbins’s black, hooded form. “That is you, isn’t it?”

Robbins nodded.

“Dr. Harrison, do you mind if I leave now?” Ertmann pleaded. “I’m sure he”—she pointed at Robbins—“will tell you what happened!”

“Do you feel up to walking? I can get a wheelchair—.”

“No, that’s all right.” With an effort Ertmann lifted herself out of the chair and headed toward the exit. “I just need to go to my room and ... lie down for a while.”

“Well, if you’re sure you’re up to it—.”

“I’m sure. Please, I just need to be alone!”

After she left, Miles said, “Doc, what was that all about?”

Harrison shrugged. “I don’t know. I arrived just before both of you came in, and found her sitting there, crying!” He paused. “Dorothy has always been—sensitive. When things don’t go right she can get very flustered. But I’ve never seen her this upset before.”

Shaking his head, Harrison took a small white box from the floor and opened it. “I’ll go check on her after we finish here.” He extracted a device resembling an automatic pistol, and a small bottle filled with clear fluid. Flipping its metal tab off, with a twisting motion he inserted the top of the bottle into a round slot on the bottom of the body of the device, then gave it to Robbins. “Any questions?”

“No.” Robbins hefted the transcutaneous injector in his hand. Yesterday Harrison had demonstrated how easy it was to operate by using it on him. “Press the tip of the injector firmly against the upper arm like this, release the safety catch, and pull the trigger.” Robbins had felt only a slight tingle as the sterile water Harrison had loaded it with passed through his skin, leaving a small red spot that quickly disappeared.

Robbins nodded to Miles. “Ready when you are.” The latter moved toward the control console, pausing to pick up several objects off the floor and replace them on a nearby shelf. Glancing over the displays on the console, he said, “The portal is still stable and active. Local time on TCE is now... 1:10 A.M., November 17, 1825.”

Nervously, Robbins went to the entrance of the portal. It was a large cylinder, about six meters long and laid on its side. It was flattened a little where it touched the platform, and its entrance was about three meters in diameter. When the portal was active, like now, at the near end of the cylinder was pure blackness. From past experience Robbins knew better than to stare into that utter emptiness. It made him dizzy, as if he were looking down over the edge of a high cliff into a bottomless chasm.

Here goes. Walking into the portal wasn’t painful. It felt like his whole body had been turned into a mildly vibrating tuning fork, resonating at middle C. Miles had told him the sensation was due to his passing through “low-level phase-inverted force fields” used to keep air molecules and microorganisms from passing from Earth to TCE. Those fields did, however, let “slow-moving, macroscopic objects” like him through. And, the portal was basically a one-way path from Earth to TCE. With a few exceptions, like the oxygen bound in his blood when he breathed there, no matter or energy originating on TCE could come into their world—.

Suddenly his thoughts were interrupted—he was there. His first breath brought a multitude of unpleasant smells. The NV goggles activated automatically in the dark room.

He was in the kitchen of Beethoven’s quarters. A fireplace filled with musty ashes was set into one wall. The room had several tables and open shelves, with plates, bowls, and utensils on them. In one comer stood a dusty, dilapidated pianoforte. Robbins smiled slightly. It was ironic that the composer, who had started out as a piano prodigy and contributed so much to the literature for the instrument, had become so indifferent to it in his final years. After finishing his last sonata and the Diabelli variations a few years before, he wrote no other major works for it. Maybe it was because he couldn’t hear and enjoy his own playing, or was too preoccupied with major projects like the Missa Solemnis or the Ninth Symphony. Whatever the reason, it was sad to see his piano so badly neglected. Given extra years of life, maybe he would write for it again.

He didn’t notice the knife lying on the floor until he accidentally kicked it. It skidded across the floor and rattled into a corner. Robbins froze instantly, straining to hear anyone talking or moving, alerted by the noise. But everything stayed silent.

Slowly, he entered the main living area, carefully avoiding bumping into the small writing desks and chairs scattered around it. He was tempted to examine the partially-notated sheets of staff paper on the desks, but refrained. First things first.

The door to Beethoven’s bedroom was open. Moving even more cautiously, he entered it.

The composer was lying on his right side in a small wooden bed, snoring quietly. A thin blanket covered him up to the waist. He wore a plain night shirt that was tom in several places. A fringe of unruly hair peeked out from beneath his night cap.

Robbins contemplated the sleeping figure. Here, he knew, was one of the greatest musical geniuses of all time, one who set a standard of excellence that no later composer had ever surpassed. Superficially, though, all he saw was a paunchy man, prematurely old at fifty-four, with a homely, pockmarked face.

With a grunt the man on the bed strained and farted loudly. Robbins froze again, expecting him to wake up any second. Instead, a smile came to the man’s face. He resumed his melodious snoring.

Robbins looked carefully for a place to inject the vaccine. Fortunately, there was a large tear in the night shirt over the upper left arm. Cautiously, he raised the triangular flap of cloth upward, exposing the skin beneath. He released the safety on the injector and pressed it down—.

There was a faint click as the injector fired. Robbins jumped back, watching to see what the composer would do. But he only snorted, and kept on sleeping.

Slowly, Robbins retraced his steps back out to the main room. There he succumbed to temptation and ran his scanner over the sheets of music he’d seen before. Back in the kitchen again, he checked the chronometer display in his NV goggles. He had been on TCE ten minutes—and was right on schedule. Since an equal amount of time had passed for Harrison and Miles on the other end, they would be expecting him to return about now.

The next step was to reactivate the portal, return temporarily to Earth, and then translocate back to see if the composer was still alive in Vienna on March 27,1827—the day after he was “supposed” to die. Excitedly, he pressed a stud on the retrieval bracelet. The air shimmered in front of him, like heat waves above a hot street, indicating where his end of the portal was located. He stepped into the shimmer...

Robbins took another peek over the rim of the crater. The Cossacks were still coming slowly toward him—about seventy meters away. Ducking his head back down, his mouth slid wetly across the muddy side of the crater. A few measures from On the Beautiful Blue Danube lilted through his brain before he could shut it off. He was going to have to make a run for it and take his chances. Not a great choice, but better than just staying there in the mud and dying on his belly—.