Somewhere in Time by Richard Matheson Page A

recognizing the parallel, altered the foreseen tragedy by saving her child's life.
    What Priestley suggests is that the scope of the event determines whether it is subject to alteration in any way. Such a mass of details were contributing to the actualization of the Battle of Borodino that in no way could such a complex event be interfered with.
    On the other hand, the potential drowning of one baby (unless, presumably, that baby were a Caesar or a Hitler) constituted an event of such a lesser nature that it could be intervened upon and changed.
    This being true of future events, I believe that the same conditions must apply to past events. I was here in 1896 and caused a change in Elise McKenna's life. But that change did not have the vastly historical scope of a Battle of Borodino. It was, like the impending death of a child, a smaller event.
    Why then should I not be able to go back, just as before, but, instead of causing sorrow in her life, cause only joy? Surely that sorrow was caused not by her meeting me or by anything I did to her but by her somehow losing me to the same phenomenon of time which brought me to her. I know this sounds mad but I believe it.
    I also believe that, when the moment comes, I can alter that particular phenomenon.
    � � �
    Another solution occurs to me!
    I'll ignore the new instruction. Since the sound of my voice distracts me, let me eliminate that sound. I'll write instructions to my subconscious-twenty-five, fifty, a hundred times each. As I do this, I'll listen to Mahler's Ninth Symphony on my headphones, let it be my candle flame, my swinging pendant as I send written instructions to my subconscious that today is November 19, 1896.
    � � �
    An amendment. I will listen only to the final movement of the symphony.
    The movement in which, wrote Bruno Walter, "Mahler peacefully bids farewell to the world."
    I will also use it to bid farewell to this world-of 1971.
    � � �
    I, Richard Collier, am now in the Hotel del Coronado on November 19, 1896.
    I, Richard Collier, am now in the Hotel del Coronado on November 19, 1896.
    I, Richard Collier, am now in the Hotel del Coronado on November 19, 1896.
    (Written fifty times by Richard.)
    � � �
    Today is Thursday, November 19, 1896. Today is Thursday, November 19, 1896. (Written one hundred times.)
    � � �
    Elise McKenna is in the hotel now. (One hundred times.)
    � � �
    Every moment brings me closer to Elise. (One hundred times.)
    � � �
    It is now November 19, 1896.
    (Sixty-one times.)
    � � �
    Nine forty-seven p.m. It happened.
    I don't recall exactly when. I was writing It is now November 19, 1896. My wrist and arm were aching. I seemed to be in a fog. I mean literally. A mist appeared to be gathering around me. I could hear the adagio movement in my head. I was playing it for the umpteenth time. I could see the pencil moving on the paper. It seemed to be writing by itself. The connection between myself and it had vanished. I stared at its movement, mesmerized.
    Then it happened. A flicker. I can think of no better word. My eyes were open but I was asleep. No, not asleep. Gone somewhere. The music stopped and, for an instant-but a totally distinct and unmistakable instant-I was there. In 1896.
    It came and went so fast, I think it may have been no longer than an eye blink.
    I know it sounds insane and unconvincing. It even does to me as I hear my voice describing it. And yet it happened. Every fiber in my system knew that I was sitting here-in this exact spot-not in 1971 but in 1896.
    My God, the very sound of my voice as I say 1971 makes me cringe. I feel as though I'm back in a cage. I was released before. In that miraculous instant, the door sprang open and I stepped out and was free.
    I have a feeling that the headphones were responsible for it not lasting longer than it did. As much as I love the music, I'm appalled to think that I had these headphones on at that moment, holding me back.
    Now that I