Appleton nodded. The truth was that he had no knowledge of how Alcibiades had received the wound, though the logical suspect was Heron. Appleton did know that he had employed those extra minutes in the restaurant -- between the cab's advertised and actual arrival times -- to type identities and take photographs on the screen for their identity wafers. His fingers must have slipped between the "Al" and the "cibiades," making them look like two names.
He retired to the hospital cafe for a cup of tea, the universal restorative. These jaunts in time did take their toll.
* * *
[New York City, 2061 AD]
Charles opened the room at the top of the spiral ladder. There were three chairs within.
"These look exactly like the chairs in Athens," Socrates observed. "Could they be?"
"No," Sierra replied. "They look the same because ... for several hundred years we have had the means of what we call 'mass production.'" She said the last two words in English, and tried to explain their meaning in Greek. "It is quite easy to build many identical, interchangeable copies of the same item -- including chairs."
Socrates smiled, almost mischievously. "And people now, as well."
"Well ... yes," Sierra said. "It is true that before we had duplication of people -- cloning -- we had duplication of inanimate objects. One follows the other."
Charles was stroking one of the chairs, admiringly.
"Will you be traveling with us?" Socrates inquired.
"I think not," Charles replied. "I would like to. I would want to have the pleasure of your conversation for as long as possible but ... I don't want my presence to disrupt part of what I have already seen, in the past. Miss Waters understands."
She nodded.
"And I think I am beginning to understand, too," Socrates said. "We will meet again?"
"I do not know," Charles said. "I only know what has already happened."
"That we can converse with any certainty at all about things that have not yet happened is because of this time travel, is it not?" Socrates asked.
"I believe it is, yes," Charles said.
"But someone must have witnessed those events in the future, and come to the past, in order to speak of them in the past," Socrates continued. "So, when you say you only know what already has happened, you mean you only know what you already have seen, whether in the past or the future of the world."
"Yes, that is what I mean." Charles nodded. And there were tears in his eyes now. "I should be going. I hope we do meet again. But even if not ... God bless you! You are right that you cannot be judged by your words in books. You can be judged by the conversations across the ages that they still and will forever inspire!"
Charles left the room and Sierra turned her attention to the chairs. "This one seems capable of being set to arrive at a time of our choosing." She examined a second chair. "This one is the same."
"But is that the way Heron intended it, or our good fortune?" Socrates asked.
"Who knows," Sierra responded. "I assume if Heron wanted us to go back to 2042 he would have made it impossible for us to go any time else -- just as he did with the chairs in Athens.... But you are right. There is no calculating what Heron intended...."
"Why, again, are we going back to 2042?" Socrates inquired, brows furrowed. "I am not objecting to it. I only want to make sure that you are aware of your reasons."
Sierra looked at the chairs. "Mr. Charles saw us back then. A crazy, circular reason, I know, but also unavoidable, for the same reason.... I don't know what would happen if we tried to break the circle."
"Sometimes a circle is the best guide," Socrates said, "especially if you want to know yourself."
Sierra smiled. "I also want to go to 2042 because there are people there that I care for."
"An entirely unparadoxical, logical reason."
"It is my time," Sierra continued. "I have lived my life in it. I have resources and people back then, to draw upon, to help you ... for whatever time ... you have left." She thought of Thomas, and tried not to think about Max.
"Yes, I think that reasoning is sound, as well. Your time, if it produced you, would be a good time for my remaining days," Socrates said, kindly. He walked to one of the chairs she had inspected. "Shall we go?"
"Yes," she said, softly. She programmed all the necessary departure codes into the chair. She helped seat Socrates. "We will see each other very soon."
Sierra sat in the other chair she had examined. She looked briefly at the third chair in the room. Who would be traveling in that one? Heron, Mr. Charles, Thomas? Someone she had not yet crossed paths with in this wildcat's cradle?
She poked in her own codes and the programming that would cause both chairs to leave at the same time.
Bubbles ascended ...
Hearts pounded...
Bubbles retracted...
Sierra got out of her chair, and walked to Socrates.
The room looked exactly the same. She could easily believe they had gone nowhere, had moved not an instant in time...
But then Sierra noticed: there were four chairs in the room, not three.
She helped Socrates out of his chair. The philosopher leaned heavily on her arm. The pressure felt more demanding than the last time... It had been a long day. Socrates, though still spry, was after all no youngster. Or maybe his days were getting shorter, more quickly, already--
The trap door to the room opened upward from the floor.
* * *
[Athens, 2061 AD]
Appleton booked a room in a hotel close to the Hippocrates Center. Alcibiades was considerably better the next morning, but the physicians still wanted to "keep him under observation" for a few days. "Nothing to worry about," the young doctor assured Appleton. "Mr. Cibiades has some unusual readings -- things we don't usually see in blood pressure, traces of various chemicals in his system, etc. We just want to get all of that into his file, so his regular doctor can add that to his baseline. Actually, Mr. Cibiades is a lot healthier in some ways than most people we see -- where did you say he comes from?"
"Greece," Appleton answered carefully. He understood enough to realize that the "unusual readings" likely were the result of Alcibiades coming from 2500 years ago. He also realized that he from a foreign country likely had a much better grasp of this Athenian culture than did Alcibiades from a much more foreign time.
"Yes, Greece" the physician replied. "That is what his identity file says." She looked at Appleton conspiratorially. "Don't worry. I'm a doctor not a cop. I checked his DNA on all of the data bases. I can see he's done nothing wrong. But I can also see some ... slight differences with the average Greek. Don't worry. I know how to respect people's privacy. You can tell me in complete confidence if anything more occurs to you."
Appleton spent two days in conversation, much of it cheerful, with Alcibiades. The Greek told the Victorian about life in ancient Athens, what had happened in Phrygia, what had happened in the prison with Socrates. The Victorian told the Greek about his publishing business, the great discoveries and inventions of the 19th century, and his house on the Hudson. Appleton found Alcibiades surprisingly easy to talk to and like. He almost felt as if they already had a longstanding bond.
But when he arrived in the hospital the third day--
"I'm sorry, Mr. Appleton," the voice from the screen informed him. "Mr. Cibiades left the Hippocrates Medical Center two hours ago--"
"What? Was he taken ill and sent to another facility?"
"No. His tests at 7:18am show Mr. Cibiades was in good health. He left of his own volition."
Appleton cursed under his breath.
"Mr. Cibiades left a message for you, Mr. Appleton. Would you like to see it here, or can I route it--"
"Here, please," Appleton replied. A light from the screen shone briefly on his eyes. He knew it was some kind of identity confirmation.
The message appeared on the screen. "Transcription from voice," the screen spoke. The message was written in classic Greek, wit
h accompanying English translation:
"I have decided to go back to the time of Theon in Alexandria, and seek the cure for Socrates that Heron spoke of to Antisthenes. As you know, I have little regard for Heron's truthfulness. But I cannot risk disregarding his words. I am relying on you not to tell Ampharete, and not to let her follow me. I am relying on you to protect her until I finish my work in Alexandria and return. Please keep her with you. That is the way I will find her."
Appleton shook his head and cursed again. Alcibiades had told him what Heron had told Antisthenes in the prison of Socrates. Socrates had a deadly illness of the brain. But there was perhaps a cure. Theon, the last great Librarian of Alexandria, had written of it. A cure lost to subsequent history. Appleton clenched his fist in white anger.... Theon was Hypatia's father. Was this but another trick of Heron's?
"Would you like a paper copy?" the voice on the screen inquired.
"Yes, please," Appleton replied.
He took the paper, walked out into the street, and mulled over his choices. He took his little telephone device from his pocket. It was inexpensive and he had learned how to use it. He could summon the authorities and ask them to look for Alcibiades, just in case he hadn't proceeded directly to the restaurant with the chairs.... No, bringing the authorities into this might well make things worse.... He had gone to lengths to avoid that in the hospital.
Appleton sighed. His only sensible course of action was to wait here, near the Hippocrates Medical Center, until Sierra Waters returned by air ship or chair. His home on the Hudson would have to wait a bit longer.
* * *
[New York City, 2042 AD]
"Thomas!" Sierra cried out, delighted. She had placed herself between the door and Socrates. Now she sagged with relief, and smiled at Mr. Charles, who had also climbed into the room with the chairs in which she and Socrates had just arrived.
She went to Thomas, but his eyes were fixed on Socrates. "The clothes should make him less conspicuous here," Sierra said, awkwardly, in English.
"Who is this man?" Socrates asked her, in Greek.
"My God!" Charles exclaimed, in English. "Is this Alcibiades? I thought he was younger..."
"He was, he was," Thomas replied.
"Well, then, who--"
"Socrates," Thomas said. "This is Socrates." Thomas turned to Sierra. She flung her arms around him. He stroked her hair. "I am sorry for my part in this," he said, softly. "It will be ok."
* * *
The four went downstairs to the Millennium Club's dining area. It was empty.
"We ordinarily don't serve breakfast in the Club," Charles advised, "but I'll see what I can get for you."
"He is very hungry," Sierra said, in Greek, and gestured to Socrates.
"I am very hungry," Socrates confirmed.
Charles thought for a moment. "I think I have food that you would enjoy this time of day," he said, in carefully rendered Greek. "Bread and fruit."
"Yes! Thank you!" Socrates replied.
Charles went off to the kitchen.
"I was afraid you were Heron or his men," Sierra said to Thomas, still in Greek.
"A reasonable fear," Thomas replied in the same language. "Good for us that I was not."
"Is he still a threat?" Sierra asked, switching to English.
Thomas nodded. "Probably. He certainly has been, at some points in his life. I had a very unpleasant time with him before I returned to New York. I have no knowledge of what happened to him after you rescued Socrates, but have no reason to think he didn't live at least another few decades or more."
"What can we do to protect ourselves?"
"I doubt if Heron will come to New York City by any future means of transportation," Thomas replied. "Even if he could somehow smuggle something back to this world, in a bigger chair, or construct something from parts, it would make too much of a stir. He would likely come here by air, and there is not much we can do about that. But there is something we can do if he comes here by chair, at least in this Club."
"Oh?" Sierra asked.
"We can lock the room upstairs from the outside, so it cannot be opened from the inside," Thomas replied.
"But Heron's an expert with this equipment. Wouldn't he--"
"With the chairs, he's an expert, of course," Thomas said. "But he has no control over the physical premises of the Club, including what we do to the outside of that room."
"How did he get his chairs into the Club, to begin with?" Sierra asked.
Socrates, who had been examining the utensils on the table, looked at her. Sierra repeated the question, in Greek.
"I do not know," Thomas replied in the same language. "He arranged it some time in his future."
Sierra absorbed that, and shook her head. "But that means--"
"Yes," Thomas caught where she was going. "Heron may well have associates in the Club -- there are no guarantees about anyone."
"Who would be prevented from coming here, if the room was locked?" Socrates asked. "Who other than Heron might be locked into that room?"
"Anyone who has access to the chairs in this Club, up and down the years, future and past," Thomas replied.
"Alcibiades?" Socrates asked.
"Yes," Thomas replied.
Sierra realized that Thomas looked a little older, or younger, but different in some way from the last time she had seen him. Couldn't be younger -- the Thomas across the table knew too much. "Alcibiades would have had a hard time getting across the Atlantic in Socrates' era," Sierra pointed out, "unless he was able to find a Phoenician."
"They are talented sailors," Socrates agreed. "But you do not see many Phoenicians in Athens."
Sierra nodded. "I would say Alcibiades arriving in New York directly from the ancient past is unlikely." She heard her voice quaver with emotion. "I made that voyage once, but--"
"As did Heron's student Jonah," Thomas interrupted. "But-- ah, here is our traveller from the nineteenth century -- Mr. Charles." Charles, back from the kitchen with a loaf of bread in one hand, a basket of fruit and cheese in the other, smiled and sat down at the table. Thomas concluded, "The Club did not exist before the nineteenth century. The chairs would have been difficult to locate before then."
Charles sliced a piece of bread for Socrates, and gave him the basket of fruit and cheese. "Donovan's on duty in the kitchen, already. He'll be out soon with coffee and tea.... But, you know, the chairs travel back to Roman times in England. You used them, didn't you?" he asked Sierra.
"Yes," Sierra replied.
"And from what I heard, the chairs fit in pretty well back then, without a proper Club," Charles observed.
Sierra turned to Socrates. "Rome was a mighty empire, after the empire of Alexander. Heron seems to recruit his soldiers from that time."
Socrates nodded with a mouthful of bread.
Thomas looked at Charles. "You are correct, of course. Still, as Sierra said, the Atlantic was not easy to navigate in those times, far more difficult than the Mediterranean or the coast of Europe. I doubt we will be seeing Alcibiades walk down the stairs any time soon from that hatch, wide open or bolted."
"You're thinking of bolting the door from the outside, then?" Charles asked.
"Yes--"
"Look," Sierra said more loudly than she had intended, in English. "I admit to being more concerned than the two of you about Alcibiades. Let's say he wants to come here?"
"You're worried he'll be trapped inside the room?" Thomas asked. "It won't happen. We have cameras and microphones up there -- that's how we knew the two of you had arrived." He looked at Socrates, who was discovering the joys of an Anjou pear, and seemed not to mind or even notice that the conversation had shifted back to English.
"And what happens if you're out of town -- or out of time -- or both?" Sierra demanded.
Thomas exhaled slowly, and shook his head.
"You don't know anything -- you can't know anything -- with any certainty when it comes to this," Sierra continued. "You know that
certainty is not possible in this world that you -- Heron -- whoever -- created. Nothing is certain where time travel is concerned."
Thomas said nothing.
Socrates looked up. It was impossible not to feel the heat of the discussion.
Sierra was clutching the edge of the table. Her knuckles were pale. She spoke Greek. "Why did you get me involved in this, in the first place?" she asked Thomas. "Did you know Max would be killed?"
"I ... I didn't mean for that to happen.... I--"
Sierra started to say something, even more angrily--
Socrates partially stood, leaned across the small table, and touched Sierra's arm. He spoke clearly, calmly. "I think you should go and look for Alcibiades. It is not too late. It is never too late. We have all proven that." He looked at Thomas.
Sierra began, "but you--"
"I will be safe here. I like this place very much. The bread and fruit are delicious. Far better than the bitter hemlock -- I thank you all for that -- even if I do not live much longer."
Sierra looked at Socrates.
"Go," Socrates said again. "It is not too late. Anything in the future is possible, nothing is yet written that cannot be unwritten, and, if I understand this time travel correctly, all of time is your future, the past as well as the present. Would you agree?"
"Yes, I most certainly would," Charles spoke up.
Sierra got to her feet.
"You will take one of those raindrops again across the big sea?" Socrates asked her.
Thomas looked at him, thoughtfully.
Socrates shook his head. "What did I just say? I am sorry.... I meant to say air ships, air ships..."
Sierra winced. "Yes," she said, and walked over to Socrates. He stood as well. She hugged him, kissed him on his forehead. "Is this what they do in your Athens?"
"Anything you do is the right thing to do, because you are the one doing it. The age of the world does not matter," Socrates replied.
"I wish we had more time to talk. There is so much--"
"I know," Socrates said. "But you will find others to talk to."
She hugged Socrates again, smiled at Charles, and turned to Thomas. "I know you had no real choice. It seems none of us do. We just do the best we can."
The Plot to Save Socrates (Sierra Waters Book 1) Page 27