Heinrich opened the parcel in surprise, and read the note taped to the bundle of yellow papers inside.

"Come now, you can be a chum, can't you, and record this silly little thing for me? Just remember the good old days when we did it together, and those fine strolls on the docks when we were finished. What larks, eh? Isn't that what we used to say? -H.W.
p.s. If it's not too much bother, could you do it this week? Send me the manuscript back when you're done, along with the recording.
p.p.s. And don't go trying to make improvements on my stuff. I remember every note of it, and I'll hear if it's not right.
p.p.p.s. Only, if you don't mind, humor me and treat it as a great secret. It's those voices in my head, you know--or at least, the doctors say that's what it is. -H.W."

"Ah, Hector," he smiled when he had read it. "Not even the loony-house can keep you down. Don't you know this is illegal? You really must be losing it...no song is worth risking your neck over, however lovely. Poor chap...why did it have to happen to you, who were the brightest star we had? But...at the same time...how can I refuse? What larks, indeed. It's the least I can do, I suppose."

He flipped slowly through the tattered pages. His face sobered.

"My word, Willoughby, what have you become?" he muttered softly. "This is absurd."

Some pages were almost entirely blackened with notes flying in every direction; in other places there would be nothing at all but a slow series of chords, each sustained almost beyond reasonable endurance, for pages at a time. Sometimes the only thing written was a ridiculously simple melody on a single instrument. Sometimes there were so many melodies and counter-melodies going at once, chaos seemed the only possible outcome. This was not the Willoughby he had known. This was impossible.

---------------


"Hello? Hello? I say, someone did answer the phone--I heard them. Where'd they go?"

"I'm still here, sir, if you'd only let me speak. This is the Guildenbrock Mental Institute. How may I--"

"I know it's the Guildenbrock Mental Institute, you nitwit. Why would I dial a number without knowing who it belonged to? Especially a Mental Institute...good heavens. Are you an employee or an inmate? They oughtn't to let inmates answer the phone. Very bad policy. Get me a nurse or a doctor or someone."

"I am a nurse, sir, and we call them patients, not inmates."

"Another bad policy. Might as well call 'em what they are. But whatever you want to call them, I have to speak to one of them. Called Hector Willoughby."

"Oh, I'm sorry sir, but we don't allow our patients access to the telephone. Like you said, it would be a bad policy."

"I said it would be a bad policy to let them answer it, not talk on it, and I meant the ones who really are off their rockers. Willoughby isn't crazy--you know that as well as I do, I'm sure, unless you really are as dense as you make yourself out to be."

"I'm sorry, sir, but I'm not allowed to give out that information. And it's on the Rule Board, that no patients are to be allowed to use the telephone. I'm sorry."

"Look here, miss. I'm sure you're sorry, but you're going to be a whole lot sorrier if you don't let me talk to Hector. Don't you know you're talking to Heinrich Zinsser? Things never go well for people who get in the way of Heinrich Zinsser. Now get Willoughby on the phone, I say."

"Heinrich Zinsser? The real Heinrich Zinsser?"

"No, the pretend one. Go find Willoughby."

"You mean Heinrich Zinsser, the great composer and conducter? The one who wrote the march for the Commander's victory parade? The one with twelve motorcars and a gilded piano and ever such a handsome son?"

"Yes, well, I suppose he's a good enough looking kid in his own way, but he's got an ugly moustache."

"No-one's going to believe me when I tell them I talked to the real, live Heinrich Zinsser on the telephone. Oh my goodness. Which patient did you say you wanted to talk to, again? Oh, I remember now. H. Willoughby. That's #80395, I think. I'll have him here in a jiffy."

"In a who?"

But she was already gone.

......................

"Hello? Willoughby, that you?"

"Ah, yes. Hector. Nice of you to call. I'm afraid you'll have to make it quick, though. Doctors don't like me using this thing. Think it's bad for my digestion, no doubt, or some rot like that. They haven't got a clue what they're doing--sometimes I wonder if they're really doctors at all. But tell me, what's on your mind? Surely you didn't call just to talk about the weather?"

"We weren't talking about the weather, you old fish. Don't be ridiculous. The point is, what was that manuscript you sent me? Where did it come from?"

"Ah, was it really so bad? I didn't mind it, but I'm crazy, you know. You can't trust a crazy man's instincts. Plus I didn't have any instruments to test it out on. They aren't allowed here, of course. Had to write it all straight out of my head. Bound to go wrong somewhere."

"There you go talking nonsense again! Gone wrong? If that music was wrong, I could wish every note ever written had been just as bad. It was perfect! Divine! Where did it come from, I say? There was electricity in the air when the orchestra played it! Even the instrumentalists felt it, and they don't know a thing about anything. What was it?"

"Oh, then you did like it. I'm glad. I can't stay and talk though, old friend. Just send me the recording, why don't you. Tally-ho."

"But no, I say, hang on for just one moment. You've got to explain this to me. I'm in such a state, you see. I can't even pour my own tea, I'm in such a state. I mean, real music like that isn't allowed anymore! What were you thinking? But it was perfect! How did you do it?"

"I know it's not allowed, silly. That's why I had to do it."

"What kind of explanation is that? You can't really expect me to understand your riddles! Speak English!"

"Sorry, I must be going now. Nice chatting. Call again sometime. But no, on second thought, don't. They wouldn't like that."

"Wait! Come back. At least let me come visit. You could talk then, couldn't you?"

"No, you'd better not do that. Just send me the recording, like a good chap. Thanks!"

"But why not? Come on, Willoughby, be rational. I say--"

click.