Drake bit back the urge to ask why Bonvissuto did not take the commissions himself. “What are the deadlines?”

“How soon can you produce?”

“Faster than anyone else they can find. I’ll take both of them. As many as I can get, in fact. I’ll write around the clock if I have to.”

“I’ll see what I can do. I can’t guarantee these or any other commissions, but I can make sure that you are on the short list. After that it’s up to you. I warn you, you will be dealing with people who have no more music in them than a dog who howls at the moon.” Bonvissuto shrugged. “I am sorry, but that is the price. Never mind. When you have the money that you need, you can return to normal life.”

A normal life was not what Drake had in mind — not for a long time yet. But he could not discuss his plans. He thanked Bonvissuto and left.

It was the beginning of a long period of incessant work. Drake took commissions, wrote commemorative pieces, gave concerts, and made recordings. As his reputation for good, fast, and reliable work grew, he produced reams of music for good, bad, and indifferent shows and movies. If anyone compared his recent work with his earlier work, and thought that he was debasing his art, they were too polite to comment. His own attitude was simple: if it was lucrative, it was acceptable.

Once a month he visited Ana’s cryowomb facility. He could not see her, but he could sit outside the room where she was housed. Knowledge of her presence produced in him a strange tranquillity. After a couple of hours with her, he could again face his work.