He poked in Galilei.
Then it asked a question: RETURN?
He stared at it.
RETURN?
Return where? The Allegheny National Forest?
The smart thing would be to leave it alone. Put it on the coffee table and forget it until tomorrow. But when he tried, when he shut the lid and set it down and closed his eyes, he couldn’t get it out of his head.
Return where?
Okay. Settle it. He put on a jacket, just in case, and touched the YES key, just barely, thinking how cold it might be out in the woods.
Ridiculous.
He pressed ENTER.
The dim glow of the electric candle faded and went out. Then the lamps came on. Two of them. Including the one he’d turned off just a moment ago.
He felt himself lifted off the sofa and dropped immediately back onto it. He sat listening to the silence. Got up. Looked at the lamps. But he was still at home. Still in his town house. Thank God for that.
But it had happened again. Something had happened again. His heart pounded.
He hung on to the Q-pod. Hung on as if it were a lifeline.
The Q-pod was doing it. He didn’t know how, didn’t even know what. But the goddam thing . . . !
He sat, not moving. Whatever it was, at least it hadn’t been a stroke.
Finally, he put the Q-pod down on the coffee table. Gingerly. Then he got up and made himself a rum and Coke.
CHAPTER 4
To see a world in a grain of sand,
And a heaven in a wild flower,
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand,
And eternity in an hour.
—WILLIAM BLAKE, “AUGURIES OF INNOCENCE”
THE sun was bright through the curtains, and the events of the day before seemed far away. Shel got up and looked at his watch, as was his habit. It showed 4:02. His alarm clock, which he hadn’t bothered to set, read 7:12. He checked the TV. The seven o’clock shows were on. But why was the watch three hours behind? Fear settled in. He tried to push it aside, made the watch right, and went over to Maggie’s for some pancakes.
Usually, he allowed himself time to relax and read the paper before going into the office, but he wanted to set his mind at ease and get back into his work routine, so after he’d finished his breakfast, he headed directly for Carbolite. He wondered what Linda’s explanation was going to be for hanging up on him the day before. Twice. She wasn’t exactly the most even-tempered person in the world, but that was way out of character.
When he arrived, she was in her office. “Hi,” he said.
She looked up from her keyboard. “Good morning, Shel.”
He sat down. “I don’t quite know what happened yesterday,” he said. “I got stranded. But anyhow, I’m sorry I didn’t call earlier.”
“Call about what?”
“About not showing up for work.”
She gave her head a shake, as if a ghost had appeared in the doorway. “What are we talking about, Shel?”
“About my not being here yesterday. Or didn’t you notice?”
She dropped her eyes to the floor, then came back to him. “Shel, you were here. At least until yesterday afternoon. Is that what you’re talking about?”
“Yesterday afternoon?”
“You do remember, right? I suggested you take the rest of the day off, and you went home early.”
“Linda, that was two days ago. I wasn’t here at all yesterday.”
“It was yesterday, Shel.”
“No. We’re confused here somewhere,” he said quietly. “I spent the entire day yesterday trying to get home from western Pennsylvania.”
Her eyes narrowed. “What are you talking about, Shel?”
“Just what I said.”
“Western Pennsylvania?”
“Yes. A town called Sheffield. Dave came and got me.”
“Dave?”
“Dave Dryden. I think you know him. He’s been here a couple of times. But anyhow, that’s where I called from.”
“Sheffield.”
“Yes. And you hung up on me. Twice.”
Her jaw was sagging. She looked worried. “You’re saying I hung up on you?”
“You don’t remember that either?”
“Shel, I don’t hang up on people.”
“You did yesterday. I was stuck and I was trying to talk to you—” He stopped.
Linda got up and walked past him to the door of her office. “Sally,” she said, “would you come in here for a minute, please?”
Sally was her secretary. Dark skin, black hair, glasses. A bit too serious, probably. Linda looked at Shel. “Sally, was Shel here yesterday?”
“Well, of course,” she said. “He was here.”
“All day?”
“As far as I know. Except that he left early, I think.”
“This is crazy,” said Shel.
“You want to ask around?”
HE promised he’d make an appointment with a psychologist. Linda urged him again to take some time off, take the rest of the week off, but Shel assured her he was fine. But when he sat down in front of his computer, he got another shock.
The Devil’s Disciples had gone to see Arms and the Man Tuesday evening. Early Wednesday morning, around two thirty, he’d experienced the event, whatever it was. He’d spent all day Wednesday getting home. It was now Thursday morning.
Except that it wasn’t. His computer indicated it was still Wednesday. He stuck his head in Bill Shanski’s office, across the hall. “Bill,” he said, “what day is this?”
“Wednesday,” said Bill, with his usual vacuous smile.
“You sure?”
“All day long.”
HE tried to bury himself in his work, assembling a sales presentation for a new data-control system. He’d never dealt with a therapist, always thought that therapists were for the weak-minded, that talking to an outsider about problems was a waste of time and money.
But he didn’t have much choice. He opened the yellow pages, picked a psychologist, and made an appointment. “You should come in tomorrow,” said the female voice on the phone after he’d explained the problem, “for an appraisal.”
He’d never really had a physical problem other than once going to a hospital after he’d crashed into an infielder chasing a fly ball. The possibility that he was suffering from a mental problem left a cold knot in his stomach. He went through a dozen cups of coffee. (He usually had about two.) And, as if the day hadn’t produced enough shocks, Linda came in on her way out to lunch to tell him she’d just had a weird phone call. Two of them, in fact.
“About what?”
“A guy claiming to be you, Shel.”
Shel was starting to get out of his chair, but with that news he slid back down. “What did he say?”
“He said he was sorry he hadn’t been able to get to work today.” She shook her head. “He sounded just like you.”
Shel just stared at her.
“If this is some kind of joke, Shel, I don’t appreciate it.”
It was enough. He told her about his appointment with Dr. Benson. And then said he was going home.
“I think that’s a good idea. Why don’t you stay home until you’re feeling better.”
HE tried to call Dave, but all he could get was his voice mail. He’d probably be in class, so the phone was in his desk.
He skipped dinner. Had no appetite. He tried to read. Tried to watch some TV. Got on the computer for a while. But it was hard to think about anything other than what was happening to him.
He went back to the bookcase. Took down Hands on the Past, by C. W. Ceram. One of his favorites when he was growing up.
Hands on the Past.
It consisted of accounts of the early archaeologists. He thought of his father’s passion for history. How he’d disappeared from a locked house. And Shel wondered if, somehow, he had in the same manner disappeared from his house Tuesday night?
The idea was crazy. But it was too co
incidental not to have some validity. In any case, there could be no harm running a test. As long as he was careful.
He picked up one of the three Q-pods, sat down on the sofa, opened the lid, and entered Galilei. When it asked where he wanted to travel, he hesitated. Keep it simple: Here.
DATE?
Today.
TIME?
On his Wednesday morning experiment, he’d asked for 3:00 P.M. It certainly hadn’t been three o’clock in the afternoon when he’d opened his eyes in the Allegheny National Forest. It had been more like midmorning.
But it might have been three o’clock GMT.
Greenwich Mean Time? Maybe that was it.
He’d sat in this same sofa after Dave brought him back. The Q-pod had asked him RETURN? and he’d replied yes. Maybe the Q-pod had taken him back, not to where he started, but to when. Two thirty Wednesday morning. My God. Was that possible?
If it were true, then it had been Shel himself on the phone to Linda this afternoon, calling from the Sheffield Chevron. Or was it yesterday afternoon? His head was starting to spin.
He tried calling Dave again. Still got the voice mail. The whole idea was preposterous. But it was time to find out. Where did he want to go?
There was one way to settle it: He could stay in the town house, but take himself to the time when he and Dave were just getting in. Say, a quarter to eleven. Dave had brought him back Wednesday night. But then he’d pushed the RETURN key on the Q-pod. If he was right, it had taken him back to the point where he’d been early Wednesday morning. That was why it had still been Wednesday at the offic e. Or been Wednesday again, if that was more accurate. If he was correct, he and Dave were at that moment on the way home from the Allegheny National Forest.
A quarter to eleven Wednesday night translated to Thursday, 3:45 A.M. GMT. He set the time and date, and was about to push the big black button when it occurred to him that it wasn’t a good idea to be sitting down. If it really happened, he’d want to arrive standing up. That way he wouldn’t fall on his head.
He got to his feet. Took a deep breath. And hit the button.
The lights flickered and went out. One of the lamps came back on. He was still in his den. He hadn’t moved.
He checked his watch. No change. But then, it wouldn’t, would it?
He went into the kitchen. The wall clock showed ten forty-five.
Bingo. My God, I did it.
His father had invented a time machine.
Shel walked through the downstairs, wanting to scream it to the heavens, tell the world, We can travel in time. He knew that physicists had been saying for years there was no known reason it couldn’t be done. But Shel had never believed it possible.
How long ago had it happened? When had his father developed the first working model? Had he possessed this thing for years? Or was it connected with the government project?
No. He knew the answer. The letter had gone to the lawyer a few months ago.
Why had he told no one? More to the point, why did he want the devices destroyed?
HE turned out the lights. He wasn’t sure why. If David’s car actually showed up, carrying both Dave and himself, he’d open the front door and charge out onto the pavement and shake his own hand. Explain to himself what was going on.
Incredible.
But wait. That wasn’t the way it had happened.
As much as he liked the idea of meeting himself, he decided caution would be a better policy. He couldn’t have said why. Maybe he was driven by his father’s secrecy. Hammer them flat. Throw them into a fire. Then weigh them down and drop what’s left into the ocean.
The Shel coming back from western Pennsylvania, though, had no keys. He unlocked the front door. Save them from having to break a window. Then he picked up a spare key from the wicker bowl and put it in his pocket.
Minutes later, a car pulled up outside.
Shel was so excited he could hardly breathe. He went over to one of the dining-room windows and peered out through the curtain. Headlights swept across the driveway, and Dave’s white Regal eased in off the street. It was dark, but he could just make out the passenger. A chill slithered up his spine.
The engine died. They got out of the car, and Shel—the one outside—stood looking around, wondering, of course, how he was going to get into a locked house. Shel watched, unable to believe what he was seeing, and, somehow, mildly disappointed in his appearance. He didn’t look as good as he’d expected.
Abruptly the man outside turned Shel’s way. Shel ducked back into the dark. The outside Shel stood staring for a minute. Then he shook his head, and said something to David. He remembered: “Somebody’s in there.”
Shel retreated from the dining room into the kitchen and stood near the side door.
They’d be coming in the front. When he heard them on the porch, he eased the side door open and slipped out into the driveway.
He went for a walk. Gave it an hour just to be safe. When he returned, the lights were out, and the Shel who had arrived with Dave had by then consented to the time machine’s query: RETURN? It had put him back in the town house early Wednesday morning.
HE sat cradling the Q-pod in his hands. His father must have had a big time with this. The guy who’d lived to visit Urquhart Castle and the Palmengarten and the Hanging Gardens had extended his reach dramatically.
He wondered how far back he’d been able to go. A few days? Years? Was the Mesozoic within range? Had he been able to travel in the other direction? Into the future?
And that explained his disappearance. He’d gone somewhere, and, obviously, something had gone wrong. Maybe he’d landed in the middle of the Little Bighorn. If Shel could figure it out, he could follow him and, he hoped, do a rescue. If he was in time.
Wait a minute.
Shel had a time machine. If you have a time machine, there’s never any question about the cavalry arriving on cue. If he was too late with the first attempt, he could just reset the clock and go back another hour. Or whatever it took. All he needed to do was figure out where his father had gone.
He visualized him on Lincoln’s train to Gettysburg, or watching Washington cross the Delaware. Maybe he’d decided to tour the Renaissance. Hell, that would explain the robes! He had been going back pretty far.
But how to know where to look?
Then he realized how dumb he’d been: There was no need to follow his father into the past. Or the future. Whatever. He’d left from the house on Moorland Avenue a week ago Monday. All Shel needed to do was to show up at the house on Monday the fifteenth and say hello.
CHAPTER 5
We were the first that ever burst
Into that silent sea.
—SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE, “THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER”
SHEL would have liked to transport himself directly into his father’s house, or, failing that, onto Moorland Avenue. Why drive over there when he had, in effect, instantaneous transportation? But he didn’t know how to do it. There were provisions for narrowing down the arrival site, but he had no idea of the precise location of the house in terms of degrees, minutes, and fractions of seconds.
So he waited until morning. Usually, breakfast was his big meal, but he got up with no appetite, settled for a cup of coffee and a piece of toast, wrapped the Q-pod in a plastic bag, and drove to Moorland Avenue. He parked in the driveway, got out, walked behind the house, where he was more or less out of sight, and set the converter to take him back to Monday night, October 15. With no change of geographical position.
Then he pressed the button.
The sun went out, and the sky filled with stars. The house remained dark.
He walked back out to the driveway. And voilà. Shel’s car was gone. Now it remained only to wait for his father to arrive.
But, come to think of it, there was no need to wait. Time travelers don’t have to wait for anybody. And there was the title for the book he would one day write about all this. My God, he felt good. The vast realms of pa
st and future were opening up. And, more important, he didn’t have to worry anymore about a tumor. Life had become a dream.
What time had he spoken with his father on that night? On this night?
He couldn’t remember. He’d been watching the TV but wasn’t sure what had been on. Okay. It was simple enough. The time at the moment was eleven minutes after nine. He set the Q-pod to take him forward to ten o’clock.
The darkness faded and came back. And he realized he was standing in the middle of the driveway. Time traveler run down by father.
But no car was coming, and the garage was still empty. He was sure the call hadn’t come in after eleven, so he set the device to move forward one hour. This time he walked onto the lawn before activating.
And the black Skylark had arrived. Inside the house, lights were on.
Who said Shel wasn’t brilliant? He congratulated himself and knocked at the front door. There was movement inside, the living-room lights came on, and the door opened.
His father’s eyes went wide. “Adrian.”
“Hi, Dad.” They stood for a long moment staring at each other. “Did you want to invite me in?”
“Yes. Of course.” He stepped back. “I just got finished talking to you.”
“I know.”
Michael Shelborne resembled Jerry more than he did Shel. Or would have had Jerry not picked up weight. His father was tall, lean, with thick black hair and the kind of face that would have allowed him to play Sher lock Holmes. “Adrian, were you in your car when we talked?”
“No.”
“I thought not.”
Shel showed him the Q-pod. His father acquired a distinctly unhappy expression. “Come in,” he said, using a tone that one might adopt to a sixteen-year-old caught smuggling his girlfriend into the house.
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