Time Travelers Never Die (13 page)

“I see.” Vincenzo squinted at the letter, moving his lips while he read. Then he signaled Geppo, and they both stood aside. “He isn’t well, and it would be most advisable if you make your visit brief.”

“Of course.”

The interior wasn’t particularly congenial. The furniture looked stiff and uncomfortable. The floor was brick, and the ceilings were vaulted. “Have a seat, please,” he said. “Geppo, advise the master.”

“Yes, sir.” The servant disappeared into a passageway. Dave heard a brief conversation in back. Then Geppo returned. “Sir, your father says he will be out in a moment.”

“Very good.” Vincenzo turned to the visitors, who were still on their feet. “Please make yourselves comfortable, gentlemen.”

They sat down. The place desperately needed air-conditioning.

Shel remarked what a lovely town Arcetri was.

Vincenzo agreed. “Sometimes, when you live here, you forget how very pleasing it can be.” He crossed one leg over the other. “Would you like some refreshment?”

Dave had a brief flash of what might happen to him and Shel if they had a bit too much to drink. Maybe they’d make for Cardinal Bellarmine and tell him flat out what they thought of the Inquisition.

“But of course,” said Shel.

Geppo produced a flask and filled three glasses. Dave tried it cautiously, not sure about homemade wine. But it was quite good.

They heard more movement in the back of the house. Then a door closed. Geppo made no move to go to his master’s assistance, which suggested Galileo did not want help.

The great man’s breathing became audible, and they heard the thunk of a cane or crutch. Vincenzo glanced at his visitors and shook his head. He was obviously not impressed by his father. Finally, a large man with shriveled skin limped into the room. He was virtually blind, and on crutches. But he found his way directly to an armchair that must have been reserved for him and collapsed into it. His hair had retreated, leaving a domed skull, and his beard showed streaks of white. “Father,” said Vincenzo, “Mr. Shelborne and Mr. Dryden are here to see you. They have approval from the Cardinal.”

Galileo took a deep, rasping breath. “I am told you are interested in the motions of the planets.” He wasn’t sure precisely where his guests were seated, so he raised his head and spoke to the room at large. “I’m glad someone in this dark country has some curiosity left about the world.”

“You’re quite right,” said Dave. “Actually, however, we had a different reason for seeking you out, sir.”

“Really? And what might that be?”

“Adrian here is looking for his father, Michael. Michael has always been interested in your work, and we believe he came to Arcetri expressly to see you. Unfortunately, he has gone missing. We hoped you might be able to help us find him.”

“And his last name?”

“Shelborne,” said Shel. “Professor Michael Shelborne. Do you know him?”

Galileo considered it, and shook his head no. “Unfortunately not. I don’t think I ever met him. You say he’s a scholar?”

“Yes.”

“Many scholars come here. Now that the priests have decided I’m too old to be a threat to them. When would he have come?”

“We’re not sure,” said Dave, taking the photo from Shel. “We have a picture of him here. May we show it to your son and your servant? Maybe one of them would remember.”

Galileo seemed not to have heard. A small table stood on one side of the armchair. Geppo placed a glass of wine on it and guided his master’s hand to its stem. He explored it with his fingers before lifting it. At last he raised it to the level of those blind eyes. “To all of us who are lost,” he said. “But you say you have a picture of him? You mean an oil painting?”

“Something like that,” said Dave.

“Well, of course you may.”

Vincenzo’s eyebrows rose when he looked. “What
is
this?” he asked.

“It’s a portrait. As I said.”

Vincenzo held it close to an oil lamp. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“It
is
quite sharp, isn’t it?”

He sat admiring the photo. Then he shook his head. “No,” he said. “I’ve never seen this person.” He handed it to Geppo, who was equally mystified.

“Maybe,” said Shel, “he hasn’t gotten here yet.”

“It’s possible,” said Dave in English. “But if he waits much longer, his subject won’t be breathing when he does show up.”

“I’m sorry we can’t help you,” Galileo said. “If he comes, we will tell him you were here.”

The grandfather paradox is simply a way of pointing to the fact that if the familiar laws of classical relativistic physics are supposed to hold true in a chronology-violating space-time, then consistency constraints emerge.

 

 

 

 

MICHAEL
Shelborne had apparently changed his mind about Galileo. He’d gone somewhere else. But where? Shel suspected he might find him among the witnesses at the signing of the Magna Carta, say. Or watching Washington’s troops come ashore on the road to Trenton. Or any of several thousand other possibilities.

Unfortunately, he had not left a notebook or a journal. He admired Tom Paine, and it seemed probable he’d go back at some point to meet him. Like Shel, he was a Jack Benny fan, and it was possible Benny would get to say hello to an unusual visitor. But there was no practical way to pinpoint the time of any such meeting.

It was Friday night, almost a week since they’d made the Italian trip. Shel was sitting, drinking coffee, running over possibilities, scratching ideas onto a legal pad. He kept coming back to one reality. There was no need to go into the historical past to find his father. He didn’t know with any precision where he’d been before he came back to Philadelphia. But he knew with absolute certainty where he’d been on the evening of Monday, October 15: He’d been home, talking with Shel, first on the cell phone, then inside the house. After Shel had left, he’d made up his mind where he wanted to go, and took off. All that was necessary was to repeat the visit. Wait until the earlier Shel was out of the house, and then go in and talk sense to him.

No paradox there. And it should be easy.

Do it now.

He got into his car, drove to his father’s house, and parked in the driveway. Then he set the converter to take him back to 10:55 P.M., October 15, climbed out of the automobile, listened for a few seconds to the chirping of crickets, and pressed the button. The concrete, the trees, the side of the house, and the crickets faded out and came back. The car was gone. And lights were on inside the house.

Okay. He walked to the end of the driveway, and turned toward Parvin Street, which intersected with Moorland about two hundred feet away. He crossed over, turned into Parvin, and took station behind a hedge. A police car came up behind him, paused at the stop sign, and went left. He put his hands in his pockets and tried to look casual. Just out for a stroll.

At eleven sharp a brief glow appeared on his father’s lawn, and he watched himself step out of it, look around, and start for the front door. His heart picked up. Never going to get used to this. The other Shel knocked, the door opened, and Dad appeared. Even from this distance, Shel could see the dismay on his father’s face. Somehow, he’d missed that the first time around.

They spoke for a few seconds, the other Shel went inside, and the door closed.

More lights came on.

Shel waited.

A dark blue Saber came slowly down the street. Al Peterson and his wife, Anna. They pulled into their driveway and stopped. The car doors opened. They’d always been good to him when he was a kid. They bought chances and contributed to the candy drives. The problem was that they quarreled a lot. Loud quarrels, screams you could hear in the next block. Their daughter Ilyssa had been Shel’s first girlfriend.

They got out of the car and went inside. They weren’t actively fighting now, but he couldn’t help noticing that Mr. Peterson simply walked away from his wife, behaving as if she weren’t there. He opened the front door and went inside, leaving it ajar.

Somewhere, music played. The obnoxious modern stuff. And it was loud.

More traffic came through.

Jay Tucker brought out his trash. Collection day tomorrow.

Down at the far end of Moorland, a couple of people were sitting on a front porch. It was probably the source of the music.

He checked his watch. It was a quarter after. He didn’t think the conversation with his father had lasted more than a few minutes.

Another car, filled with teens, drifted past. A door slammed. In the distance, a siren began to wail.

He was trying to remember how those last moments with his father had gone. Shel had suggested he accompany his father on the trip. His father had declined. “Let’s talk about it another time.” A little joke there.

He’d said okay or something like that. Have to go. Good to see you again, Dad. Then he was on his way out the door.

That was right, wasn’t it? At the end he was functioning on automatic. He might have simply used the converter inside the house. No. He hadn’t done it that way. Absolutely had not.

While Shel tried to settle the matter in his mind, the door opened, and the other Shel reappeared. He watched them say good night. Watched himself stride down the front walk. The door closed behind him.
Then
he touched the device attached to his belt and vanished.

All right. Give him a minute or two.

Shel rehearsed his lines, checked his watch, told himself to take a stand this time. When he was ready, he came out from behind the bush and started for the house.

Lights appeared behind him. A car.

The
police
car.

It pulled to the curb beside him. There was only one officer. He got out. “Good evening, sir,” he said. He was tall, half a foot taller than Shel. With just a touch of a British accent. And suspicious eyes.

“Good evening, Officer.”

At his father’s house, the downstairs lights were going out. “May I see some identification, please?”

“Umm. Is something wrong?”

“ID please, sir.”

Shel fished out his driver’s license. The cop took an unconsciona bly long time to look at it. He scanned it, said something inaudible into a cell phone. Then he turned back to Shel. “What are you doing out here, sir?”

“I was just taking a walk.”

“Mr. Shelborne, you’ve been standing here at least twenty minutes.”

“I was getting some air, Officer.”

“Are you waiting for someone?”

“No. My father lives over there—” He pointed.

“The house you’ve been watching?”

“I—I wasn’t really watching—”

The policeman had more questions. Did his father know he was here? What was that thing he was wearing on his belt?

A call came in. Apparently the results from the scan. The cop listened, nodded, listened some more. Said okay.

He looked at Shel. “Why don’t we go over and say hello?”

“Okay. That would be fine.”

But they’d gone only a couple of steps when the upstairs lights went out.

 

 

THEY
eventually let him go. They asked more questions about the converter but seemed satisfied with his story that it was experimental electronic gear that he was developing for Carbolite. He was advised not to indulge in “undue loitering.” And with that it was over.

Well, to hell with the paradox issue. He’d go back and try again, but this time he wouldn’t wait around. When Shel arrived, the other Shel, he’d walk right up to him, and when his father opened the door, they’d
both
be standing there. Hi, Dad.
You didn’t come back the second time either.

HE
set the converter for 10:59 P.M. He glanced over at the hedge on Parvin Street, which, when he arrived, would be shielding a third Adrian Shelborne. He took a deep breath and pressed the black button.

The trees and the driveway began to fade. In a moment, he knew, they would come back and only the time would have changed. But the vaguely churning mix of concrete and vegetation hung on. The driveway hung on. Faded out. Came back. Then everything went dark.

He was having trouble breathing.

He tried to step out, get clear, but there was nothing solid underfoot. He sucked in water. Began choking.

The world filled with water.

Panic seized him. He kicked and headed up.

His lungs screamed for air.

Then he broke out into the night, gasping and coughing. It was dark, no moon, no stars, nothing. He rode up the side of a wave and down the other. Water flowed over him, and he went under again.

He got to the surface and saw ocean. Fighting panic, he felt desperately at his pockets. Yes! The converter was still there. He dragged it out and hit the black button. If nothing else, it should put him back in his own town house.