"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 agony 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.