Time Travelers Never Die

by Jack McDevitt

  Sunday afternoon, more investigators contacted Shel and descended on his father’s house. They asked interminable questions, none of which he hadn’t already answered. Didn’t these people talk to one another?

  Shel was convinced there’d be a call. Or his father would walk in the door with an explanation. “We were trying an experiment for the Pentagon. A new device that allows secret agents to walk through walls.”

  CARBOLITE manufactured a range of household and workplace entertainment and communication devices. Their most popular unit was going to be the Showbiz, which would allow the owner to write his own screen-play, plug in a director, select a musical score, choose his cast, and watch the performance. Shel was working on the prerelease publicity when his secretary told him he had a call from a Mr. Joshua Jenkins.

  “I’m busy,” he said.

  “He says he’s your father’s lawyer.”

  Shel didn’t even know his father had a lawyer. “Get his number. Tell him I’ll get back to him.”

  He knew what it would be. Provisions of the will. Complications since his father had disappeared and his actual status was unknown. At some point, if it didn’t get resolved, he and Jerry would probably have to start proceedings to have him declared dead.

  No, that couldn’t possibly be what it was. It was too soon for anything like that.

  He picked up a phone and punched in the number. Got a secretary at the other end. “Washburn and McKay.”

  “This is Adrian Shelborne. Returning Mr. Jenkins’s call.”

  “One minute, please.”

  Clicks at the other end. Then a male voice: “Mr. Shelborne?”

  “Yes.”

  “I was sorry to hear about your father. Have they found anything out yet?”

  “Nothing as far as I know.”

  “Hard to believe something like that could happen. Well, let’s hope for the best.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Mr. Shelborne, I wonder if you could find time to stop by the office? Your father left something here for you.”

  “Really? What’s that?”

  “I don’t know. It’s an envelope. My instructions were to give it to you in the event he died. Or became incapacitated. Or other circumstances occurred in which it seemed justified.”

  “Mr. Jenkins, neither of those conditions applies.”

  “I know. If you prefer, I’ll simply hold on to it. But I thought at least you should know of its existence.”

  JENKINS was an oversized man, a small rhino, bald, with a pointed white beard and sharp blue eyes. He was seated behind an equally oversized desk, scribbling in a folder, when the secretary showed Shel in.

  He looked up. Smiled. Pointed to a chair. “I like your father, Dr. Shelborne,” he said. “I hope they find him. And he’s all right. But I guess you know the common wisdom about these sorts of things?”

  “That if he’s not found within a couple of days, the chances of his survival—” Shel sat down. “I know.” By then, he’d been missing a week.

  “I didn’t want to say this over the phone because I just don’t understand what’s going on. But he told me there was a possibility he might disappear.”

  Shel had to run the remark a couple of times before he grasped it. “He knew this might happen?”

  “Apparently.”

  “Why? What was he doing?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Didn’t you ask?”

  “Of course. He refused to say any more. Only that it was a possibility. If it happened, you were to get the envelope.” He looked embarrassed. “I wasn’t very happy to hear it. I told him he was either to explain himself or get another lawyer.”

  “I see how that turned out.”

  “He can be a difficult man, Dr. Shelborne. He told me it was unlikely to occur, but just on the off chance—I think that was his exact phrasing—just on the off chance he dropped out of sight, I was to call you and put this in your hands.” He opened a side drawer and took out an envelope.

  “How long ago was this?”

  “It was in June. Four months ago.” He handed the envelope over. “I don’t believe we’ve ever had a request quite like this before.”

  Shel’s full name was printed on it. Adrian George Shelborne. He looked at the lawyer and opened it. Inside he found a metal key and a note in his father’s handwriting.

  Adrian, the key is for a rental mailbox at the local UPS. Inside you’ll find three Q-pods. Destroy them. I don’t simply mean you should throw them away. But take them apart. Hammer them flat. Throw them into a fire. Then weigh them down and drop what’s left into the ocean.

  Don’t say anything to anyone about them. Even Jerry is not to know. Just destroy them and forget them. Nobody else knows they exist. Keep it that way.

  You and Jerry are now the owners of Swifton, with about 70% of the stock. You guys will do what you want, but I advise you to keep it. Put Markeson in charge. You can trust him.

  The two of you will also inherit the bulk of the estate. I’ve arranged for modest contributions to a couple of charities. Again, handle the details however you like. I want to thank you for being the son that you were. You’ve given me more pleasure over a lifetime than I could ever have hoped. I’m sorry your mother could not have lived to see who you became. Have a long and happy life.

  Jerry will be getting a similar letter, but without the Q-pod details.

  Love.

  THEY looked like ordinary Q-pods. A little wider, maybe, than the standard devices onto which people loaded books and music and movies. Each had a power pack attached. One thing caught his attention: There was no corporate logo. The units had been assembled privately.

  He took out a plastic bag and placed the Q-pods into it, then rolled it up so no one could see what was inside. He closed the mailbox, walked out of the UPS store and back toward the parking lot.

  It was raining. Several people charged past, trying to get to a bus without getting wet. Down near the intersection, brakes screeched, and there was a burst of profanity.

  If his father had wanted the Q-pods destroyed, why hadn’t he done it himself? In any case, what the hell was on them that he was so worried about?

  He pulled out of the parking lot, turned south on Cavalier Avenue, and hit the red light at the first intersection. The windshield wipers rolled back and forth, clearing the rain. A bus pulled up alongside. While he waited for the light to change, he opened the bag and removed one of the Q-pods. It did not impress him. More compact units were available. He was about to turn it on when the car behind him beeped. The light had changed.

  He rolled through the intersection, steering with his right hand. With his left, he flicked open the lid. The screen glowed and black letters appeared: ENTER ID.

  Best wait until he got back to the office. He laid it on the seat beside him and turned on the radio.

  HE put the Q-pods on his desk. Picked up one. Went back to ENTER ID. Spaces for seven characters appeared.

  He poked in michael.

  The Q-pod blinked. INVALID ID.

  He tried swifton.

  INVALID ID.

  What else? His father had gone through a phase of using their cat’s name as a code word for everything. He tried it. Clemmie.

  INVALID ID.

  He kept at it until he ran out of ideas.

  HE talked to Jerry that night. Jerry agreed they’d hold the stock, as long as the growth potential was reasonable. But he’d want to look at the earnings statements before committing himself.

  In the morning, Shel visited Swifton Labs. His father’s company. Everybody was jittery about the future. He informed Edward Markeson of his father’s wish that he take over. “At least until Dr. Shelborne returns.” Then he met with the staff and passed the news to them.

  Afterward, he went through the building, reassuring everyone individually, as best he could, that the laboratory would continue as always.

  He’d brought one of the Q-podswithhim.He showed it around, despi
te his father’s directions, to see if it rang any bells. But nobody was familiar with it. And nobody was able to suggest a code word to get into it.

  BACK at Carbolite, Shel’s distractions must have been showing because, toward the end of the afternoon, Linda called him in and advised him to take a few days off. She was a good boss, bright and easy to work for. “I know this thing with your father has been wearing on you, Shel,” she said. “Go home. Come back when you’re yourself again.”

  He argued that he was fine, but maybe he’d take the rest of the day anyhow.

  He lived in a town house on Wallace Avenue. It was a quiet area, with a park across the street. The town house was flanked by a pharmacy and a music store. There were a few trees, and a few kids, and he liked the place. He pulled into his garage and went in the side door and collapsed onto the sofa. That apparently set off his cell phone, whose ringtone was “Love in Bloom.” (He and his father had watched a lot of the old Jack Benny shows when he was growing up.) It was the FBI again. “Mr. Shelborne, do you have a few minutes? I won’t take much of your time.”

  They wanted more information on his father’s associates. How well did he know Lester Atkin? Did your father have any connection with James Greavis? Had Shel ever seen this gentlemen? And they flashed a picture of a guy with a mustache and dangerous eyes who looked like a hit man.

  “No,” he said. “I don’t recall ever seeing him.”

  It took more than a few minutes. He didn’t know any of the people they mentioned. When he asked whether the FBI was aware of a link between any of them and his father, they declined to respond. When it was over, they thanked him for his help and disconnected.

  He picked up the Q-pod. Raised the lid and watched the light come on.

  ENTER ID.

  His father had never been big on security. He thought people worried too much, and there was a good chance he’d have written the code word down somewhere. Probably, if he had, it would be among the materials the investigators had taken from the house. In fact, he recalled seeing Clemmie’s name on one of the cards. He called the police and identified himself. “I was wondering if you were finished with my father’s stuff.”

  The person at the other end asked him to wait, then informed him that the case was still under investigation.

  “I understand that. I was wondering, though, if my father’s personal effects could be returned?”

  That seemed to require a conference. A new voice, deeper, more authoritative: “Dr. Shelborne? We’ll need to keep them a bit longer, I’m afraid.”

  “Would it be possible for me to look at them?”

  “It’s not part of the routine, Doctor.”

  “I’d be grateful.” He made up a story about looking for a lost phone number. “Put a guard on me, if you want. I’ll wear gloves. I’d just like to look at his Rolodex and note cards for a minute.”

  Another pause. Then: “Okay. Come on down. We’ll see what we can do.”

  THEY led him into a side room and, while one of the officers watched, he flipped through the cards until he found the one with Clemmie’s name. It was one of nine character groups on the card. But only two others consisted of seven characters. One was Oscar14. The lone Oscar Shel knew of had been a pet parrot owned by his now-deceased Aunt Mary. He had no idea where the 14 might have come from.

  The final possibility was XX356YY. The digits sounded like someone’s batting average, and knowing his father’s passion for baseball, it wouldn’t have surprised him.

  He got up, thanked the officer, and left.

  Out on the street, he fished out the Q-pod. Both code words came back invalid.

  There’d been an aunt Eleanor, on his father’s side. He tried that. And got nothing.

  He drove home, made himself a scotch, and settled onto the sofa. It was a beautiful, warm day. Lots of kids playing across the street.

  He went to Clement’s for dinner, took the Q-pod along, and played with it while he waited for his meal. He entered various types of food and drink that his father had liked. Chablis. Hotdogs. Pancake. NYstrip. And some he didn’t like. Oatmeal. Lobster. They’d often eaten there together, so he tried clement.

  When the roast beef came, with mashed potatoes and coleslaw, he put the device away and concentrated on enjoying the food.

  HE was back at his desk Tuesday. He took the Q-pod back to the lab and showed it around to the engineers. Nobody could tell him anything significant although they offered to do an analysis. Shel wasn’t comfortable allowing that after his father’s insistence on destroying the things.

  That night, Dave picked him up for the show. He immediately asked whether there’d been any more news.

  “No,” Shel said. “They’re still looking.” He showed him the Q-pod. “Ever seen one like this before?”

  “I don’t think so. Maybe. I don’t pay much attention. What do you do? Play games on it?”

  “Yeah,” said Shel, as they set off for the theater.

  Dave confessed he’d been looking forward to the night’s show for months. Usually, the Disciples went over to nearby Bala-Cynwyd, where there was an amateur theater group. Tonight was special, though. A troupe of professionals were at Penn to perform Arms and the Man.

  They got there about twenty minutes before curtain time and took their seats. Dave told him he’d seen the group in rehearsal that afternoon. “They’re not bad,” he said.

  As is usually the case at a college performance, the auditorium was noisy as it filled up. Eventually, the houselights dimmed, the audience quieted, and the curtain went up. It revealed a young woman’s candlel it bedroom.

  The bedroom is, of course, Raina’s. She is standing out on the balcony when her mother enters, sees her, and sighs loudly with exasperation. “You’ll catch your death,” she says. But she brings news of a major victory in the war. The two embrace over their good fortune. They talk politics for a few minutes to bring the audience up-to-date. Then Raina is left alone. She selects a book and goes to bed. The audience’s attention is drawn back to the balcony. Something is moving out there. And they watch a male figure steal into the room.

  If Shel needed anything that night, it was Bernard Shaw. Chocolate works better than bullets, one of the characters observes. And he came very close to forgetting, for two hours, the world outside.

  When the show was over, and the players had taken their bows, the Disciples gathered in a meeting room, where they were joined shortly by the cast and supplied with hors d’oeuvres and soft drinks.

  The Disciples had two new members that evening. One was Helen Suchenko, with lush brown hair and eyes the color of seawater. The other Shel could never afterward remember.

  Dave introduced Shel to her with a sparkle in his eye. “An old friend of mine. I’ve been trying to get her to join us for a year now.”

  “I heard about your father,” Helen said. “I hope everything turns out all right.”

  Shel thanked her and said something about being pleased to meet her, and that was the substance of the conversation. He had a distinct impression there was a connection between her and Dave. How could there not be? The woman was a knockout. So he resisted temptation. In any case, making a pass at a stranger who was offering sympathy seemed in at least moderately bad taste.

  IT was well after two when he got home. He turned his cell phone back on and saw that he had a message. “Dr. Shelborne, we’re finished with your father’s belongings. We wanted to let you know that you can pick them up tomorrow.”

  He got out of his jacket, removed his tie, and started again with the Q-pod. He tried every physics term he could think of. Angular. Neutron. Quantum. Fission. Gravity. He entered virtual, thermal, nuclear, isotope, and kinetic. He went online to look for more.

  Eventually it told him to recharge the power pack.

  He complied, grumbled, and stared at it. So what exactly do you do?

  The Phillies had two players with seven-l etter names. Neither worked. Then he remembered Galileo.

&nb
sp;