Time Travelers Never Die (37 page)

Shel just stared as one oversized guy had to be restrained by police from physically attacking Alice.

 

 

ARTHUR’S
Camelot had an element of danger. But they decided to take a chance on it anyhow. They made several efforts but never found it. Nobody had ever established a precise geographical location for it, nor was there any certainty about the dates of its existence. For that matter, there was serious doubt whether it had existed at all. “If we could take a decent means of transportation back with us,” said Shel, “maybe we could nail it down. But trying to walk all over England isn’t a very efficient way to do this.”

It was while they were wandering around the British forests that Dave surprised him. “It’s good to be away from my classes. It’s one of the advantages of the converters. I can wander off for weeks and not even think about the next essay exam.”

“You don’t like your new classes?” It was September, both at home and here in Britain.

“It’s not the kids. They don’t change from year to year. And I shouldn’t expect them to arrive with unbridled enthusiasm. Instilling that is my job. It’s just—”

“What?”

“When you’ve been looking for Lancelot and Guinevere, declensions get pretty dull.” He stopped for a minute to listen to a scuffle in the branches. “This is going to be my last semester.”

“You’re going to quit?”

“I think so. The time has come.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’ve made some money at the track.”

“The horses? You’ve been playing the horses?”

“Yes.”

“You’ve been downstream, reading the race results.”

“Once or twice.”

Dave looked as if he didn’t want to say any more. But he shrugged and plowed ahead. “Shel, I have an original oil, a hawk in flight, by N. C. Wyeth. It took everything I had to buy it, back in the twenties. But it’s priceless now. I have bids for it that are out of the world. I’m going to take some of what it sells for, go back, and pick up an abstract desert landscape by Georgia O’Keeffe. I’m going to become an art dealer.”

Shel didn’t like it. But he couldn’t see any harm. “Good luck,” he said, reluctantly.

Dave grinned, pleased that Shel had taken it so well. “There’s room for both of us,” he said.

“Thanks.” Shel didn’t really need the money.

They gave up on Camelot, and made the final stop on their grand tour, though neither knew it at the time, on the beach at Cape Kennedy, July 16, 1969, where they relaxed and watched the launch of Apollo 11.

And the subject came up again. “You know,” said Shel, when it was over and the applause had died down, “I like the idea of collecting art.”

“What did you have in mind?”

“Michelangelo.”

“That’s a good place to start.”

“I mean, why bother with some relatively minor-l eague stuff when we could go get a portrait or something by
him
?”

“I’m with you.”

“He was only twenty-one when he first went to Rome.”

“And—?”

“Nobody knew yet what he could do. We could pay a visit. Give him a commission. Let him do a sculpture for us. It wouldn’t cost much, and it would encourage him.” He paused and looked out to sea. A freighter was passing. “What do you think?”

“A sculpture of what?”

“I don’t know. Athena would be nice. Maybe we could have him do an Aphrodite, too. One for each of us.”

SHEL,
in fact, had been spending time in Philadelphia, circa 2100. It was lovely, delicate, strong, beautiful. All the dire predictions of his own era had proven wrong. Yes, there were still problems, overpopulation primary among them. But world leaders had apparently long since gotten serious, and steps either had been, or were being, taken. Global warming was being brought under control, and the world’s nukes were gone. Famine still existed in spots but was not as widespread as people at the beginning of the century had feared. At home, the American dollar, eventually grown worthless after years of irresponsible fiscal policies, had been replaced, twenty to one, by “capital dollars.”

He was tempted to go farther afield, to find out what life would be like in the twenty-third century. Or in the fourth millennium. But in the end he decided to let it go.

A new skyscraper, the Claremont, would soon be going up. It was in Center City, with a magnific ent view of the new city hall and the Parkway. They weren’t taking reservations yet for condos, of course. But that was not a problem for Shel. He simply moved downstream a year and a half and secured a penthouse, which became his base. He furnished it lavishly, installed the best computer he could find, and bought a giant 3-V projection system. He spent more time there than he did in the town house.

He debated showing it to Dave. But that would mean explaining why he’d violated his assurances about traveling into the future. He knew Dave would say it was okay, forget it. But he’d conclude that Shel couldn’t be trusted. The future, for Dave, and maybe for both of them, was still a scary place.

Shel’s career with Carbolite had come to seem impossibly mundane. Dave’s decision to leave Penn inspired him to pull the plug. The morning after they’d returned from watching the moon shot, Shel gave Linda his resignation. Effective in thirty days.

She was shocked. “I thought you were happy here, Shel. I had no idea you were contemplating anything like this.”

“I’ve
been
happy,” he said. “It’s not that. But I came into some money, and the truth is that I’d just like to take it easy for a while.”

“Okay.” Linda sighed. “Shel, you understand I won’t be able to hold the job open for you.”

“Of course.”

He was tired. Traveling took a lot out of him. He never quite knew what time it was. Or what day of the week. After he’d talked with her, he went back to his office to work on a sales brochure for the new solar-energy system they were preparing to market.

 

 

STORM
clouds gathered through the day, and it was raining when he left. It was a Thursday afternoon. He and Dave were planning to go out again Saturday, back for another party with Voltaire, which had rapidly become Shel’s favorite pastime. His French had improved immeasurably. He wasn’t fluent, certainly, but he could not remember a time in his life when he had so much enjoyed himself.

The storm was breaking up and drifting east toward Jersey when he got home. He put aside the work he’d brought along and crashed for an hour. Then, on a whim, he called Helen. “If you don’t have anything planned,” he said, “I’m looking for a beautiful young woman to take to dinner.”

“I’ll see if I can locate one,”
she said.

“Ah, mademoiselle, surely you josh with me.”

The response jolted him. Then he remembered that he’d mentioned during an evening out last weekend that he was reading the French philosopher. “Okay,” he said.

“You’re going to give me a cheap date.”

 

 

“YOU
seem down tonight, Shel.” She nibbled at her salad.

“No, I’m good.”

“What happened?” She lifted her Coke, looked at him, and put it back undrunk.

The scent of candles mixed with the warm aroma of oregano. The candles were inside globes mounted on the walls. “I quit my job today.”

“You left Carbolite?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I was bored.”

“Okay. That’s a good reason.” She smiled at him, inviting him to explain where he was going next.

“I thought I’d just take some time off and decide on a new career path.”

That must have sounded foolish, but she didn’t react, other than to show she sympathized. “You going to be all right?” she asked.

“You mean for money?”

She said yes with her eyes.

“Yeah. I’m fine. Money’s not a problem.”

The pizza came, and he thought about inviting her to join him for an evening with Voltaire.

“There’s something else on your mind.”

Maybe there was. “Helen, I miss you when we’re not together.”

She was dividing the slices. “Ah, Shel, that’s a bit over the top. But the truth is, I miss you, too.”

“Really?”

“Well, up to a point.”

He leaned across the table. “Helen, this doesn’t feel like the right time to ask, but—” The world squeezed down to the tabletop, the Cokes, the candles, and the pizza. And those large, lustrous eyes. “I’m in love with you.” He lowered his voice. “I’d like you to share my pizza forever.”

She laid a piece on his plate. “Is that a proposal?”

“Yeah. I’m sorry. I know this isn’t exactly a romantic spot.”

She laughed.

“And I don’t have a ring with me. I didn’t expect to do this tonight—”

“When
did
you expect to do it?”

“I don’t know. But anyhow—”

“Yes,” she said.

HE
dropped her at home. “I’d invite you in, Shel,” she said, “but tomorrow’s my day at the hospital. Starts at dawn.”

“I know.”

“It’s not exactly the way to launch our engagement, but I have to be awake.”

“I know. Call you tomorrow night.”

“I hope so.”

He walked her to the door. She delivered a deep kiss, and held on to him for a long minute. Then she laughed and pushed him away. “I better go.”

She put her key in the lock, looked back briefly, with glowing eyes and a happy smile. Then the door opened, and she let herself in just as a bolt of lightning brightened the street. Seconds later, thunder boomed, and rain began to fall. “Appropriate staging,” he said.

She laughed. “Good night, Shel.”

He drove home through a downpour. Life with Helen was actually going to happen. And yes, this weekend he’d take her to meet Voltaire.

 

 

HE
didn’t like his living room anymore. The twenty-second-century penthouse was better. It was, in fact, spectacularly better. He could sit up there and look down at the city lights. Helen would love the place. And he’d take her there, too. Maybe take her there first, so she could get used to the jumps. Come to think of it, Voltaire might not be a good idea. He had no clue whether she could speak French.

He’d call Dave in the morning and tell him.

But now there would be three travelers. It was getting crowded. He could imagine his father’s reaction.

He made a drink and listened to the rain pounding on the roof. The storm had become torrential. Lightning lit up the curtains, and thunder shook the place.

He was wide awake, so there was no point going to bed. Couldn’t put on the TV or the computer during the storm. But, of course, he had options.

He got a converter out of the bottom drawer in his desk, set it for the penthouse, and traveled out.