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The fellow nodded。
〃How's that again？〃 blinked Doc Webster。
〃I am from the year 1995；〃 said the man in the overcoat with weary patience； 〃and I am going to change history in the year 1974。 If I succeed； the world I go back to will be different from the one I left。〃
〃Better or worse？〃 asked Callahan。
〃That's the hell of it： I don't know。 Oh hark； I might as well tell you the whole story。 Maybe it'll help。〃
Callahan set 'em up； and we all got fortable。
Her name （said the stranger） was Bobbi Joy； and you couldn't say there'd never been anyone like her before。 Lots of people had been like her。 April Lawton； for instance； was nearly as good a guitarist。 Aretha had at times a similar intensity。 Billie Holiday surely bore and was able to municate much the same kind of pain。 Joni Mitchell and Roberta Flack each in their own way possessed a parable technical control and purity of tone。 Dory Previn was as dramatic and poignant a lyricist； and Maria Muldaur projected the same artless grace。
But you could have rolled them all together and you still wouldn't have Bobbi Joy； because there was her voice。 And it was just plain impossible that such a voice could be。 When a Bobbi Joy song ended； whether on tape or disc or holo or； rarest of good fortune； live； you found your head shaking in frank disbelief that a human throat could express such pain； that such pain could be； and that you could hear such pain and still live。
Her name was the purest of irony； given to her by an employer in a previous and more ancient profession； a name she was too cynically indifferent to change when her first recordings began to sell。 I've often wondered what her past customers must feel when they hear her sing； I'm certain every nameless； faceless one of them remembers her。
They surely appreciate as well as anyone the paradox of her name … for while God seemed to have given her every possible physical advantage in obtaining joy； it never got any closer to her than her album jackets and the first line of her driver's license。 Although many pairs of lips spoke her name； none ever brought its reality to her。
For the scar on her soul was as deep and as livid as the one that ran its puckered； twisted way from her left cheekbone to her right chin。
The Woman With The Scar； they called her； and many； seeing only a physical wound； might have wondered that she did not have it surgically corrected … so easy a procedure in my time。 But she sang； and so we understood； and we cried with her because neither of her scars would or could ever be erased； and that； I suppose you'd say； was her genius。 She represented the scars across the face of an entire era； she reminded us that we had made the world in which such scars could be； and that we … all of us … were as scarred as she。 She。。。
This is absurd。 I'm trying to explain sex to a virgin； with a perfectly good bed handy。 Lend an ear； friends； and listen。 This holo will tell you more than I can。 God help you。
The stranger produced a smooth blue sphere about the size of a tennis ball from one of his pockets； and held it out toward the fireplace。 The shimmering of the air over the crackling fire intensified and became a swirling； then a dancing； and finally a coalescing。 The silence in Callahan's was something you could have driven rivets into。
Then the fireplace was gone； and in its place was a young black woman seated on a rock； a guitar on her lap and starry night sky all around and behind her。 Her face was in shadow； but even as we held our breath the moon came out from behind a cloud and touched her features。 It gave an obsidian sheen to her skin； a tender softness to a face that God had meant to be beautiful； and made a harsh shadow … line of the incredibly straight slash that began an inch below her left eye and yanked sideways and down to open up lips that had been wide already； like a jagged black underline below the word 〃pain。〃 She was black and a woman and scarred； and as the thought formed in our minds we realized that it was a redundancy。 Her scar was visible externally； was all。
We were shocked speechless； and in the stillness she lifted her guitar slightly and began to play； a fast； nagging； worrisome beat； like despairing Richie Havens； an unresolved and maybe unresolvable chord that was almost all open string。 An E minor sixth； with the C sharp in the bass； a haunting chord that demanded to bee something else； major； or minor； happy or sad； but something。 A plain； almost Gregorian riff began from that C sharp but always returned unsatisfied； trying to break free of that chord but not succeeding。
And over that primevally disturbing sound； Bobbi Joy spoke； with the impersonal tones of the narrator behind all art：
Snow was falling heavily on U。S。 40 as the day drew to a close。 This lonely stretch of highway had seen no other movement all day； and stillness was so plete that the scrub pines and rolling hills by the roadside may have felt that the promise given them so long ago had e to pass； that man had finally gone and left them in peace forever。 No snakes had swayed forth from their retreats that day； no lizards crawled； no wolves padded silently in search of winter food。 All wildlife waited； puzzled； expectant； caught in the feeling of waiting。。。 for what？
Gradually； without suddenness； each living thing became aware of a curious stuttering drone to the far east； which became audible too slowly to startle。 It swelled； drew nearer； and small muscles and sinews tensed； then relaxed as the sound was identified as familiar； harmless。
A pale green 1960 Dodge； with no more than three cylinders firing； crept jerkily into view through the shrouds of snow。 Wipers blinking clumsily； the great machine felt its way along the road； its highway song hoarse and stuttered。 With a final roar of mortal agony； it fell silent： wipers ceased their wiping； pistons ceased driving； lights winked out； and the huge car coasted gracefully off the road and rolled to a stop with its nose resting on a snow…laden mesquite。
Stillness returned to U。S。 40。。。 and still； on either side of it； the animals waited。
Even as she finished speaking； the walking bass line with which she was underpinning her mournful chord returned to that dysharmonic C sharp。 Then with breathtaking ease it slid down two tones to B； became the dominant of a simple E minor； and as bass； organ and drums came in from nowhere she began to sing：
Snow fallin' gentle on the windshield
Sittin' on the side of the road
Took a ride … my engine died and left me
Sittin' on the side of the road
In a little while I'll get out and start a…walkin'
Probably a town pretty near
But it just occurs to me that I ain't got no
More reason to be there than to be here
But I'll be leavin'
（sudden key shift）
Soon as I find me a reason to
Right now it's nice just to watch the snow
Coverin' the windshield and windows。。。
She finished on a plaintive A minor； toppled off it back into that ghostly mosquito…biting E minor sixth again； and the other instruments fell away； leaving her guitar