"We've always known your music," he said. "We've always loved it. Just a week ago we heard the Washington Philharmonic doing—"
"The eighth." Chauncey Devlin cut him off disdainfully. "They always do the eighth."
"It's a great symphony," Dan protested.
Devlin chuckled, and bounced about the room like a little boy. "It was only half finished when they chose me for the big plunge," he said. "Of course I was doing a lot of conducting then, too. Now I'd much rather just write." He hurried across the long, softly-lit room to the piano, came back with a sheaf of papers. "Do you read music? This is just what I've been doing recently. Can't get it quite right, but it'll come, it'll come."
"Which will this be?" asked Dan.
"The tenth. The ninth was under contract, of course—strictly a pot-boiler, I'm afraid. Thought it was pretty good at the time, but this one—ah!" He fondled the smooth sheets of paper. "In this one I could say something. Always before it was hit and run, make a stab at it, then rush on to stab at something else. Not this one." He patted the manuscript happily. "With this one there will be nothing wrong."
"It's almost finished?"
"Oh, no. Oh, my goodness no! A fairly acceptable first movement, but not what I will do on it—as I go along."
"I see. I—understand. How long have you worked on it now?"
"Oh, I don't know—I must have it down here somewhere. Oh, yes. Started it in April of 2057. Seventy-seven years."