Time Travelers Never Die (22 page)

If he went thirty or forty years downstream, he’d be even more tempted to stray from the general to the specific, to find out what his life had been like, and he wouldn’t want to discover that he’d ended up bored, that his career had gone nowhere (which was precisely what he suspected would happen), possibly even that he would come down with Boltmeyer’s Disease and at some future date spend most of his time mumbling at a TV, or whatever would pass for a TV in another few decades. The bottom line: He didn’t want to see a summary of his life. And in general did not want to see the future.

Still, knowing which way the markets might trend would be helpful. And whether hydrogen vehicles would finally come on line to replace electric and gas-powered cars. And where real-estate prices were going. He could even set up shop as a prognosticator. And, after he’d proven deadly accurate a few times, people would start to pay attention. He could provide warnings weeks ahead about an oncoming hurricane. Or where an earthquake would strike. Don’t get on that plane, lady; it’s going down.

It was an interesting possibility. He could eventually become a major ecumenical figure. Maybe even found a religion. But, to get serious for a moment, would he be violating any of the temporal conditions if he warned someone, for example, that a nutcase with a gun was planning to attack a mall? Was the future as fixed as the past seemed to be?

He had no idea. Thinking about it made his head hurt. When Dave had told him about traveling thousands of years downstream, he’d been alarmed. But maybe as long as they kept it long-range, there was no risk. The reality, though, was that he didn’t care that much about the next millennium. He was interested in next week. In whether he had a future with Helen. In the next political campaign. In the religious crazies who thought it was okay to lob bombs at infidels.

Both converters were now safely locked in his desk. He’d been uncomfortable asking Dave to return his. He hadn’t told him in so many words that he didn’t trust him. But the implication had been clear enough.

 

 

HE
was never sure what actually prompted him to do it. It may have been curiosity; it may have been simply that he was tired of trying to learn Greek. In any case, on Saturday, January 19, he came home from eating lunch at Spanky’s, picked up one of the converters, and drove into Center City. He parked the car in a one-hour zone, put the converter in his pocket, and walked over to Rittenhouse Square, where he picked an empty bench and sat down. He waited until no one seemed to be looking his way and pulled out the converter.

Why not?

He set it to keep him in his present geographical location, roughly two months later, in mid-March. Then, when no one seemed to be watching, he stood and pushed the button. The park came and went, and the bench on which he’d been sitting was covered with snow.

He pushed his hands into his pockets and tried to stay warm. The park was empty save for a few people hurrying through. He walked quickly, shivering, crossed Walnut Street, and turned east.

Center City didn’t look any different. He stopped in front of a variety shop and peered through the plate-glass window at a stack of
Inquirer
s. Should he buy one? The headline said something about Saudi Arabia.

But it was dangerous. Best let it go. He moved on. Decided he should get serious. Visit the future, or don’t. What would Philadelphia look like in sixty years? A few minutes later, he decided what the hell, walked into a clothing store, found a place in back where he couldn’t be seen, set the converter for spring, 2079, and pressed the button again.

 

 

HE
arrived inside a hotel lobby. Several people were staring at him. He tried to smile back. Do this all the time. A tall, awkward-looking guy shook his head at a woman. “You’re crazy, Laura,” he said.

Shel hurried out through an automatic door. Walnut Street was gone, replaced by moving walkways and broad lawns. Rittenhouse Square was still there, now somehow the center of a lush garden. Birds sang, and the central fountain in the park still worked, sending a bright cascade into the air. Kids fed the squirrels, and pigeons perched atop a sculpture of arms, legs, eyes, and flashes of light, a work right out of Dalí.

The area was as crowded as ever. The shops had retreated into malls. Clothes were lighter, brighter, more formfitting than in his time. Men and women both wore hats. Hairstyles for women were more formal. Among the men, he saw only one or two beards.

Two new skyscrapers had been added, giant towers dwarfing the old skyline. The ground shook briefly, signaling the passing of an underground train.

He rode one of the walkways, enjoying the warm air, his coat folded over one arm, and wandered into another hotel, the Shamrock. He stopped by the convenience store but saw no magazines or books. He would have liked to buy a chocolate bar, which were on plentiful display, but nobody seemed to be using paper money.

He wondered about himself. He’d be ninety-one now. There was a lot of talk about life extension during the first two decades of the century, but as of 2019 nothing much had happened. It was possible he was still charging around out there, playing tennis, living the good life. If that were true, the Shelborne of 2079 would remember that his younger self had visited Rittenhouse Square on this day. And he’d be here, somewhere, to say hello. Wouldn’t be able to resist that.

It was 11:03 A.M., May 12. A Friday. Okay. He made a mental note. I’ll be here.

He stopped walking. Waited. Looked around.

Nobody.

Of course, the area was crowded. The walkways were filled with people. Some shoppers. Some with kids. Many apparently on business. He’d be hard to find.

One thing he couldn’t help noticing: The downtown area was home to as many beautiful young women as ever. It looked as if civilization was moving along nicely.

Dave had it right.

 

 

HE
got onto a northbound walkway, discovering in the process that they were referred to as “tracks.” What had once been Market Street was now a long canal, with tracks on either side. He stayed northbound and crossed on a bridge, headed for the old Parkway.

It was still there, although, aside from an electric train, there were no vehicles of any kind. It was strictly grass, trees, fountains, and benches. To the southeast, the original City Hall remained, and William Penn still stood guard over the city. At the opposite end, the Art Museum appeared unchanged. He wondered if the statue of Rocky was still there.

The Philadelphia Library, which had, in his time, been located on the north side of the Parkway, was now a museum. A larger, more imposing library had been constructed behind it. He got off the track and walked inside.

The bookshelves were gone. Well, he shouldn’t have been surprised at that. Even in his own time, books and magazines were disappearing. Booths equipped with display screens were everywhere. Most were occupied. He found an empty one and sat down.

The screen lit up. A message appeared: PLEASE PUT ON EARPHONES. He complied. A voice said,
“Hello.”

“Hello,” he said.

“Scientific advances of the past sixty years, please.”

The screen gave him a series of categories: ARCHAEOLOGY, ASTRONOMY, BIOLOGY, ELECTRONICS, GEOLOGY, MATHEMATICS, MEDICINE, PHYSICS, ZOOLOGY.
“Please choose one.”

He stared at the screen. What would happen if he did a general search and entered his own name? What would he read about himself?

God, he was tempted.

What had been happening in the world over these last sixty years? Was the nation at peace? Had we succeeded in getting rid of nuclear weapons? Had the religious fanatics gone away?

Did we still have elections?

Most of all, he wondered what his own life had been like. He turned away from the screen and looked behind him, half-expecting to see an older version of himself coming toward him. Smiling at him. Reassuring him.

There is nothing done by human hands that ultimately time does not bring down.

 

 

 

 

SHEL
and Dave arrived in Alexandria during the late fall of 149 B.C., more than a century, according to Plutarch, before Julius Caesar invaded the area in his war against Ptolemy XIII and accidentally burned the Library down. “That’s probably not the way it happened, though,” said Shel, who’d read everything he could find on the subject. “It might have been the Christians who did it. Which would have been a few hundred years later.”

“Persecuting pagans.”

“That’s correct. They were demolishing everything associated with the old gods. Temples, statuary, manuscripts, anything they got hold of was burned or wrecked. The guy behind it here was, umm—”

“Theophilus,” said Dave. “He didn’t approve of pagans. But nobody’s really sure who was responsible. The Library might have survived as late as the seventh century.”

Shel checked a paper notebook. “Caliph Omar,” he said.

“Right. The story is that he thought the books would either contradict the Koran, in which case they should be destroyed, or they would agree, which would make them superfluous.”

“Never a shortage of idiots.”

The celebrated Alexandria Lighthouse commanded the mouth of the harbor. It was situated on the island of Pharos and connected to the main-land by a walkway. It would in time be declared one of the seven wonders of the ancient world. Like the Library, it would eventually vanish.

“Did Alexander really found this place?” Shel asked. “I couldn’t find anything definite.”

“That’s the legend. I don’t think anybody really knows.”

The anchor of the Library complex was the Museum, named for the Muses. It was a majestic structure, wide as a football field, and could easily have served as a temple. It was two stories high at the center, rising to five along its periphery. A silver dome rose over the roof.

It was built of white marble and polished stone. The surrounding grounds were filled with statuary and fountains and greenery. A pair of colonnades connected it to three buildings of comparable grandeur though of more modest dimensions. “This is my father’s kind of place,” said Shel.

They wore togas and sported beards again. Two of Dave’s female friends had complained about the beard, suggesting he was getting pretentious. Helen had simply raised her eyebrows and asked Shel whether he and Dave had a bet going. They strolled quietly through the complex, marveling that the ancients were capable of such magnificent architecture. Seeing artists’ representations, and seeing the real thing, constituted vastly different experiences.

The grounds were filled with visitors. Some appeared to be scholars. Children played variations of tag and threw balls around while their mothers watched. As Shel and Dave approached the Museum, a group of teenagers made their exit, descending the marble steps. There was an older woman with them. A teacher, possibly. They looked relieved, happy to be outside again. And Shel thought how some things never change.

Two statues, each about twenty feet high, flanked the approach: a winged female and a bearded deity who must have been Jupiter. Shel paused to admire them, trying not to gape. “Wish we could get one of them home,” he said.

“We could try transporting one,” said Dave. “See if the converter would take it.”

“Are you serious?”

“No. Not really. They belong here.”

At the front entrance of the Museum, the steps mounted to a portico. Massive columns supported the roof.

There were more carved gods in the portico. Shel recognized Apollo. And Mercury, with his winged heels. And two females. One had a bow slung over her shoulder. That would be Diana. Her companion was older. Probably Hera.

The front doors were massive, maybe three times Shel’s height. They were adorned with more deities, as well as warriors, triremes, chariots, vines, and trees. Two of the doors were ajar.

They passed inside.

 

 

THERE
was a cluster of large rooms. Halls, really. Lush carpets covered the floors. The walls were dark marble, decorated with oil paintings of warships and scholars poring over scrolls and beautiful women watching the moon rise and couples making love. Narrow columns screened walkways around the perimeters of the rooms. Tables and chairs were everywhere. Men and women sat reading in some areas and carried on meetings in others. Wide windows in walls and ceilings admitted sunlight. A librarian was stationed behind a long, curved counter.

Shel felt self-conscious in his toga. It was a bit too long, and too wide. He decided he’d have it taken in when they got back to Philadelphia. “You have any idea where we go from here?” asked Dave.

“I’d say the information counter. Let’s go check out your Greek.”

The librarian was a young man, barely twenty, extremely thin, with brown hair and brown eyes. He smiled and said something.

“Hérete,”
said Dave.
“En érgon tou Sophocléous zitoúmen.”

Shel understood some of it. Dave had told him they were looking for one of the Sophoclean plays. Which one? And Dave had asked whether there was a list.

“There are catalogs over there.” The librarian pointed toward a table. “If you know what you’re looking for, I believe we have every play extant.” A woman approached and placed a scroll on the counter. She glanced up at Dave and smiled.

The outside of the scroll was marked. If Shel’s spoken Greek was shaky, his ability to read text was nonexistent. “Dave, can you tell what it is?”