Robert Reed - Melodies Played upon Cold, Dark Worlds

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Melodies Played upon Cold, Dark Worlds

by Robert Reed

Say what you will about women. List your personal tastes according to tits and perversions and religious

persuasions. Define beauty along whichever rigorous line leaves you fulfilled. But to my way of thinking,

in those always difficult matters of love, no woman can love you as deeply or half as passionately as the

profoundly neurotic woman.

I own a little bookshop. I was in the backmost aisle, shelving my latest box of dusty treasures, when I

heard the gentle clearing of a throat. Turning, I discovered a small young woman with a wide, wide mouth

and a rugged prettiness that nicely accented the beauty of her dark brown face. With that wide mouth,

she smiled at me. I smiled back. But I didn't take much hope from her expression. Women often flash

their teeth at strange men. It's an instinctive reaction buried in their primate genetics: Because men are

large and potentially dangerous animals, it pays to start on our good side.

"Can you help me?" she inquired.

She was wearing a delicious gray sweater and tight black slacks and the oddest, pinkest shoes this side

of Oz. I was staring at her shoes, and she said, "I'm looking for a certain book."

"I don't have any books," I replied.

Incredibly, she accepted my silly joke as fact. An expression of utter disappointment emerged, and she

sighed, grieving even as she looked at the tall shelves. Second- and third-hand books were jammed

together, my inventory reaching to the water-stained ceiling.

"I'm kidding," I allowed. Then with my most patient tone, I asked, "What sort of book are you looking

for, miss?"

She touched the nearest shelf, two narrow fingers running down the long spine of a trout fishing

How-To.

"Not this book," she said.

Her hand dropped, and again, she smiled at me. It was a hopeful expression, and an equally hopeful

voice said, "The future."

"Yes?"

"It's a book about the future." She grew serious, and sober, and with a deliberate air, she pulled a tiny

piece of paper from her tight hip pocket. "I don't know the author's name," she confessed. "But it's

called, I think, Music of the Spheres. Or something like that."

"And it's about the future?"

"Very much so," she assured. "A person mentioned it to me. A friend did. The book explains what's

going to happen from now until the end of time." She seemed pleased with herself, speaking about such

lofty matters. "Do you have any books like that?"

Like any half-equipped bookshop, the entire world's output of written matter is in easy reach. I can print

any work to any size, in any of a hundred languages, using cheap paper or the most expensive linen. Or I

can deliver a million volumes into a private library no larger than a burly human hair. But the smallest

portion of my inventory, and the bulk of my profit, comes from the old books wearing inflated prices,

each aimed at the determined collector who doesn't have the cash or good sense to buy antique

breakfronts or old Barbie dolls.

"Have you checked with my assistant?" I asked.

"The machine—?"

"My AI assistant. Did you ask for his help?"

"I asked for a person. It sent me back here."

"All right." She seemed a little young to feel ill at ease around thinking machines. "Let's walk down this

way," I suggested, leading her into another aisle. Then with a showman's gesture, I told her, "This is my

science section. Cosmology and the history of the universe—"

"It's not that kind of book," she confided. "I'm pretty much sure it isn't."

So I led her into a different corner of the store. "Science fiction?" I asked, pointing at gaudy spines

wearing those curvaceous rockets that have never existed outside of human imaginations.

With a genuine embarrassment, she admitted, "I don't read fiction. For me, things have to be real …"

"Nostradamus," I blurted. Really, I don't know why it took me so long to place her on the appropriate

shelf.

But she surprised me, saying, "Oh, he doesn't help me. All of his predictions have come true."

Good, I thought. It was about time that we got rid of that old crank.

Again, as if unsure of her memory or the handwriting, she read the title on the sliver of paper. "Music of

the Spheres is what I wrote. But I don't think that's quite right. I was paraphrasing, I'm afraid."

I made a quick search of my catalog and took an expert's long glance at my occult section. Just to be

sure. Then I sat beside my assistant, doing manually what he could accomplish with a flick of coherent

light. I showed her a few titles with what seemed like the appropriate subject matter. Again, she said that

it wasn't a science book. She was quite sure about that. Then I warned her, "There's hundreds of books

with some similarity to that title. Including posted essays and term papers and obscure articles, there are

better than a hundred thousand works about the future … most of them looking rather slight, or

suspicious …"

Crestfallen, she said, "I don't know what to do."

"Call your friend," I suggested. "Ask about the title."

"I can't." She showed me a shy little smile, adding, "Actually, he used to be a friend. But now, there's a

restraining order … and really, I can't …"

"Sure," I said. As if everybody lives with that nagging problem.

Then with a wink and a teasing smile, I suggested, "Maybe your book hasn't been written yet. Since it's

about the future and all."

She actually believed me. I saw it in her face, in those bright doubt-free eyes. With a gush of wonder, she

asked, "Do you really think so?"

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Robert Reed - Melodies Played upon Cold, Dark Worlds

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