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only for the most basic trade there is： by 1966 little Isadora was an experienced and； if rumor is to be believed； acplished whore。
Even in that most clichéd of professions she was an anomaly。 She did not drink； touched no drugs save an occasional social reefer； and never seemed to project that desperate air of defeat and cynical surrender so characteristic of her colleagues。 She had a fiery fighting spirit that demanded and elicited respect from all who knew her； and except for physically； no one ever touched her at all。 Madams loved her for her utterly dependable honesty in the split； the girls loved her for her unflagging courage and willingness to be of help； and the johns loved her for the pletely detached professionalism she brought to her work。
Then came the bust。
Some sort of political mix…up； as the story goes … a payoff missed； an official inadvertently offended； a particularly well … written expose that demanded token action。 Whatever the reason； Hannah's House was raided in April of 1974 in the traditional manner； wagons and all。 Bobbi； a she was by now known； was loaded into the wagons with the rest of the girls before she had a chance to grab a wrap。 Consequently she attracted the attention of a patrolman named Duffy； who had e to appreciate that in such situations； a policeman hath rank privileges。 He attempted to collect what he regarded as only his right； and was refused： Bobbi allowed as how she might be for sale but she was damned if she was for free。 Duffy persisted； and bought a knee in the groin； whereupon he lost all discretion and laid open Bobbi's face with the barrel of his pistol。 This so mightily embarrassed Duffy's sergeant； who was also Duffy's brother…in…law； that he was forced to ignore the wound； locking Bobbi in with the rest of the girls in the hope that her disfigurement could be passed off as the result of a razor fight in the cells。 By the time she got medical attention； it was too late。 She was scarred through and through； and forever unsuited for the only job she knew。
Almost a year later； a producer received an unsolicited tape in the mail。 Such tapes are never played； but this one had the songs listed on the outside； and the producer's eye was caught by the first title： 〃The Suicide Song。〃 It was a crude； home…taped version of the song you just heard； audio only。 The producer played it once； and spent a frantic seventeen hours locating Bobbi Joy。
He didn't make her a star： he simply recorded her songs and made them available for sale。 She became a star； a star like there had never been before。 At least seven of her recordings； tape and holo； were proscribed from public broadcast … because areas in which they were played showed sudden jumps in the suicide rate。 The 70's and 80's were not good years in which to live； and Bobbi Joy spoke for all too many of us all too well。 She was a phenomenon； endlessly analyzed and never defined； and if some of us took a perverse kind of courage from her songs； maybe that was more reflection of us than of her。 And maybe not。
In any event； the producer with remarkable ease became unspeakably rich。 And it forted him not。 Poor devil； condemned to be the man who gave Bobbi Joy to the world； how could his heart be soothed with money？ He gave most of it away to his mad brother； who thought he could build a time…machine； just to be rid of it。 He pickled himself in alcohol with the balance； and never； ever played her tapes for himself。 Like all her fans； he ached to bring her peace and knew no man ever could； but there was more。 He loved her with a ferocious and utterly hopeless desperation； and consequently avoided her pany as much as possible。 He dreamed futile dreams of fixing her hurt； and lost a great deal of weight； and when his mad brother told him one spring day that the time machine was a success； he knew what he had to do。
His brother； though road； was not so mad as he was by now； and sought to reason with him。 He spoke of possible disruption of the time…stream by the changing of the past； and other plicated things； and flatly forbade the producer to use the time…machine。
Right now； years in the future； he's nursing a sore jaw and wondering whether I'm about to destroy the fabric of time。 And so am I。
I've been wandering around in your time for two or three days。 I gave myself some leeway to make plans； but I've been using it to cool off。 And now I don't know what to do。 Maybe my brother was right； he knows a lot more than I about it。 But I can't leave her in pain； can I？
Oh yes； one more thing： the bust is tonight。 About four hours from now。
What could we say？ We had to believe him … the technology inherent in that holographic sphere was certainly well beyond the present state of the art。 More important； if that voice truly existed in our time； we would have heard of it long since。 It was impossible to disbelieve that voice。
Callahan summed it up for all of us。
〃What do you figure to do about it； brother？〃
The Meddler didn't answer； and suddenly I knew somehow； maybe from the set of his mouth； maybe a little from the glance he gave Tommy Janssen。
〃I think I understand； Mike；〃 I said softly。 〃I saw him talking to Tommy while I was up on the stand； and I saw Tommy cuss him out。 Somewhere outside he ran into someone who told him where he could find a kid who used to be a heroin addict； a kid who would certainly know where to get him a gun。 He's going to kill Patrolman Duffy。 Aren't you； friend？〃
The Meddler nodded。
〃Then you've made your decision？〃 asked Callahan。 〃One murder'll fix everything？〃
〃It'll prevent that scar；〃 said the Meddler。 〃And how can it be murder to kill a scum like that？ The hell with a gun； I can get within knife distance easily … no one will be expecting anything； and； I don't care what they do to me afterwards。〃 He squared his shoulders； and looked Callahan in the eye。 〃You figure to stop me？〃
〃Well now； son；〃 Callahan drawled； 〃I'm not certain I've got the right to meddle in something like this。 Besides； I reckon it's no accident you're closer to the door than any of us。 But it seems like I ought to point out … 〃
He broke off and stared at the doorway。 So did the rest of us。 A man stood there； where there had been no one a moment before。 He looked like an older； wearier version of the Meddler； built much the same； but he wasn't wearing an overcoat so you could see that the pot…belly was actually an enormous belt strapped around his waist。 Obviously； it was a time…machine； just as obviously； he was its inventor； e to stop his brother from tampering with history。
But our attention was centered not on the machinery around his waist； but on the much smaller piece of it in his right hand。 Made of glass and seemingly quite fragile； it could only have been the handgun of the 1990's； and the way he held it told us that we ought to respect it。 I thought of lasers and backed away； fetching up against my amplifier。
〃I can't let you do it； John；〃 said the newer； ignoring the rest of us。
〃You can't stop me；〃 said the Meddler。
〃I can kill you；〃 his brother corrected。
〃Look； Henry；〃 the Meddler said desperately； 〃I'm n