The Brahms Deception Read Online Free PDF Page A

hurried down the sidewalk, turning up his collar as he walked in a nearly vain attempt to keep rain from sliding down the back of his neck. He turned the corner beside the pawnshop, and was about to cross the street when the flickering screen of a television in the window caught his attention. The lights in the shop were all out, and the awning had been retracted for the night. He stood in the rain, staring at the images on the big flat screen with a wide cardboard price tag taped to one corner.
    He knew the building in the picture. It was where Remote Research had their offices in Chicago. Sixty-seventh floor, two small but rather well-appointed rooms and a sparsely furnished reception area. He had spent a lot of time there, six months ago.
    He stepped closer to the pawnshop window, to get a better look at the screen. It showed a line of protesters, perhaps twenty or thirty of them, marching in a ragged circle outside the building. The camera zoomed in on the signs, which said things like “Beware the Butterfly Effect” and “Leave Our History Alone.” They were clumsy, hand-lettered, ungrammatical. Kris shook his head over “God Forbid Time Travel.”
    Braunstein and Gregson would hate this. The two of them— the inventor and the developer of the transfer process—insisted over and over that what their subjects did was not time travel but observation. If it were time travel, Gregson explained repeatedly, then the transfer wouldn’t take place in real time, matching the past and the present. The researchers would go one minute and come back the next, not lie on a cot for eight hours.
    The protesters cared nothing for this nicety. In fact, none of the Foundation’s arguments diminished their fury in any noticeable way. And now there was a bill before Congress threatening to make transferring illegal.
    Kris turned away from the display, and dashed across the street to the subway entrance. It was no concern of his, in any case. Not anymore. He supposed this week’s transfer had brought out the protesters, but as long as they didn’t break anything or interfere with people trying to go in and out of the building that wouldn’t matter. Sooner or later the news cameras would lose interest. The first transfer had attracted a lot of attention, but now that there had been ten or twelve, they were routine, hardly a blip in the news cycle. Even the protests had begun to feel a bit tired, like worn-out rituals no one really believed in anymore. If he wanted to know anything about the Brahms transfer, he would have to go to the Foundation’s Web site to read the report.
    He might not even do that much. He slumped on a seat in the subway, and told himself the emptiness he felt in his belly was just hunger.
    He let himself into the apartment as quietly as he could. His sister’s wheelchair sat just outside her bedroom door. That was a good sign. She had been able to walk to bed on her own, with only her cane to steady her.
    He shed his wet coat, and hung it on a doorknob to drip onto the worn carpet. He walked back to the kitchen, where he took a kitchen towel from the cupboard to dry his hair. He found leftover meat loaf in the fridge and cut two thick slices to pop in the microwave. While it was warming he took a plate out of the cupboard and grabbed a knife and fork from the drawer. He was just applying an opener to a bottle of beer when the phone rang.
    He snatched at it, hoping it wouldn’t wake Erika. She sometimes had trouble falling asleep. As he put it to his ear, he glanced at the stove clock. Nearly two. Far too late for a friendly call.
    â€œHello.”
    â€œHello? Is this Kristian North?”
    The voice—male, a bit thin—was familiar, but he couldn’t place it right away. Tentatively, a little suspiciously, he said, “Yes?” He heard Erika stirring in the bedroom, the click of her cane on the floor, and he swore under his breath. Getting