Time Travelers Never Die

by Jack McDevitt

  “Actually, it’s possible the Pisa thing didn’t happen at all. Some people think the experiment is just a legend.”

  “All right.” They were in the den at Shel’s town house. “I guess our more immediate problem is the language. “Parla italiano?”

  Shel smiled. “Devo andare adesso.”

  “You said, ‘I have to go now.’ ”

  “It’s a joke. Parlo italiano like a bandit.”

  “I see we’re in for a long trip.”

  “I’m not especially competent, Dave. But I’ve been working at it. We went to Rome a couple of times, and once to Venice. I was in high school then, but I picked up some of the language, so I wasn’t really starting from nothing.”

  “So now you want to practice?”

  “If you have the patience.”

  “I’m at your disposal, Shel.”

  “Okay. No more English for the rest of the night.”

  IF there was anyone David could have confided in, it was Katie Gibson. Katie was a lifeguard at the local YWCA. They hadn’t exactly been doing a lot of dating, but he and Katie were friends. Both were waiting for the One and Only to show up. Meanwhile, they were marking time with each other. Had even slept together a couple of times. But the chemistry wasn’t really there. Dave had even let Katie know about his interest in Helen, whom she’d never met. She was horrified when he told her about introducing Helen to Shel. She’d wished him luck and advised him to be more aggressive. “Get out front with her,” she’d said. “Hire a brass band to follow her around if you have to.”

  “That would put her off,” Dave had said.

  “Not if there’s anything there. If she likes you, you need to take some action. Sweep her off her feet. If she’s really not interested, nothing you can do will change that.”

  “You’re saying I’ve nothing to lose.”

  “Exactly.”

  Still, he hadn’t hired the brass band, though they’d have been a magnificent sight, standing outside her office down at the medical plaza.

  Nor, of course, did he tell Katie about the time travel. As he had elsewhere, he came close. He was on the phone with her, and they were talking about upcoming movies, when she commented that the Churchill biopic, Her Finest Hour, would be opening in a couple of weeks. She was anxious to see it. One of the things he especially liked about her was that she was not much inclined toward chick flicks. Katie enjoyed conflict. Especially the ones featuring an ordinary guy, or woman, who simply decides he’s had enough and takes on whatever constitutes the evil empire, the local mob, corrupt politicians, or maybe just the bully across the street. “It looks like fun,” she said.

  And he imagined himself telling her: Katie, I’ve talked to Churchill. In 1931. Really.

  “You’re laughing,” she said. “If you don’t want to—”

  So then I said to Winston— “No, no,” he interrupted. “That’s good. Let’s do it.”

  “What was so funny?”

  “Umm. No, I was thinking about something else.” A new Superman film was opening. Dave had never thought about it before, but it must have been hideously diffic ult for Clark Kent to keep his secret. Especially in the face of Lois’s superior attitude.

  DAVE sent Shel some Italian films, with the suggestion he watch each of them until he could actually follow the dialogue. Meanwhile, he refreshed his own skills by reading editions of seventeenth-century Italian classics in the original. He settled in each evening with Machiavelli and the poet Giambattista Marino. He read La Reina de Scotia, a drama about the trial of Mary, Queen of Scots, by Federico della Valle. He struggled through Dante, and for the first time read the entire work, and not simply The Inferno. When he was finished, he understood why people still read The Inferno and ignored the other two books. He suggested that they watch some operas together. “I’ve no taste for opera,” Shel said. But they downloaded L’Orfeo, Pagliacci, and Lucrezia Borgia, and, for opening night, Don Giovanni. They got some pizza in, invited Helen and Katie, and turned it into a party. But Shel and Katie both suffered visibly through the opera, and it did nothing for Shel’s Italian.

  Two nights later, they did Pagliacci, this time without the women. Shel spent much of the evening glaring at the screen. “Give it a chance,” said Dave. “Relax and enjoy the show.”

  Shel tried. “But,” he complained, “I never know what’s going on.”

  “That’s the whole point of the exercise. Your Italian’s a bit weak.”

  “They could be singing in English, and I don’t think I could follow it. There’s got to be an easier way.” He held up one of the software packages his father had been using: Speak Italian Like a Native.

  “Good,” said Dave. “How about the movies I sent over? Have you watched any of those?”

  “Amici Miei.”

  “Okay. And . . . ?”

  “Il Ciclone.”

  “Good comedies.”

  Shel looked doubtful. “Absolutely.”

  “Can you understand them?”

  “Some.”

  “Okay. Hang in.”

  WHEN, several weeks later, Shel had finally gotten a handle on the language, they decided it was time to go find his father. “First, though,” he said, “we’ll need a wardrobe. And it probably wouldn’t be a bad idea to grow a beard.” He’d already started one.

  “You’re kidding.”

  He frowned at Dave’s jaw. “I think you’ll look out of place like that.”

  They drove into Center City and visited Emilio’s Costume and Wardrobe Shop on Walnut Street. The walls were covered with photos of people dressed as sheiks, Roman soldiers, princesses, and Zorro. Some high-school kids, with a teacher, were wandering among the racks, apparently selecting costumes for a play.

  Dave was measured for two doublets, both with a calico design. He also got a soft blue huke, which was a kind of cloak, lined in white squirrel fur. When he tried it on, it hung to his thighs. “We’ll have to take this one in a bit,” said the clerk. “And let this one out.” He made notes, then put the garments aside.

  Hats were next. They tried several types but wound up with pillboxes. “What is it for?” asked the clerk. “A festival? Or are you in a show?” He was middle-aged, sporting a brown beard with streaks of gray, with gray eyes, full cheeks, and an attitude that Dave could think of only as theatrical pretense. This was a guy who, if he weren’t working at Emilio’s, wanted you to think he’d be directing on Broadway.

  “It’s a show,” said Shel.

  “Which show?”

  Shel glanced toward Dave.

  Dave smiled. “Two Gentlemen of Verona.”

  “That’s interesting,” said the clerk. “I don’t think we’ve ever had anyone do that locally.” He adjusted the pillbox on Dave’s head, looked satisfied, and announced it was perfect. “Which theater are you gentlemen with?”

  “Delaware Township,” said Shel.

  The clerk let them see he’d never heard of them, but he said nothing.

  Eventually they came to the footwear. Dave found a pair of soft round-toed green sandals that he liked. “These should complete the costume nicely,” said the clerk, handing him a pair of stockings almost as long as his legs. They were also green, but of a darker shade. And they were complete with leather soles. Dave went back into a dressing room, got out of his slacks, pulled the socks on, and slipped his feet into the shoes. They were surprisingly comfortable. He came back out and submitted to inspections by both the clerk and Shel. The clerk pronounced himself pleased, and Shel said he looked the very picture of a Renaissance scholar.

  When they’d finished, Shel insisted on paying. The clerk promised to have everything ready within two days, and arrangements were made to ship overnight.

  They came out onto Walnut Street and turned west toward the parking lot. “Time travel,” said Dave, “isn’t the way I would have expected it to be.”

  “I’M not sure how to go about this,” said Shel, “but I think we might start by trying to reach
Galileo in his later years. When he was in Arcetri. I think that’s when my dad would have been most interested in talking with him.”

  Arcetri was located in northern Italy, on the southern edge of Florence. Shel had prepared a chart of the area, which he’d spread across his kitchen table. The chart showed roads thought to be in existence during the early years of the seventeenth century. “We want to arrive as close to Arcetri as we can,” he said. “Preferably without showing up in the central square.”

  “You got us onto Forty-fourth Street in New York.”

  “I’d made the jump before, so I could get readings on the location. Once I’ve been somewhere, I can lock it in.” He pointed at an area close to several roads. “This is what I’m aiming for. If I’ve got it right, we’ll arrive within a few miles, just after dawn, during the early spring of 1640.” He handed Dave his converter. “It’s ready to go. Once we get there, it’ll automatically reset to return you here. If there’s any kind of problem, anything at all, just punch the button, and it’ll bring you back. Okay?”

  Shel put a photo of his father into an envelope and slipped it into his pocket. They were dressed in the gear they’d bought at Emilio’s. And both now sported beards. “You look good,” said Dave.

  “Ah, yes.” He took out the second converter. “The latest styles for the interdimensional traveler.”

  CHAPTER 9

  I do not feel obliged to believe that the same God who has endowed us with sense, reason, and intellect has intended us to forgo their use.

  —GALILEO

  IT was raining. Pouring. They were in a glade, lined by a few small trees, in the early summer of 1640. “I don’t guess you thought to bring umbrellas?” asked Dave.

  The sky was dark, and a strong wind blew through the branches. Shel looked for shelter. “That hillside.” He pointed. “Might be a grotto.”

  They started trudging toward it, but Dave stopped. “I have a better idea.”

  “Make it fast, okay?”

  “Sure. The storm should be over in an hour or so.”

  Shel pulled his huke tightly around him. Stroked his beard. (Helen did not approve of it.) “What are you talking about?”

  It was six in the morning. Dave was resetting for eight. “We’ve got time machines. We don’t have to wait for storms to pass.”

  “Of course. Yeah. I wasn’t using my head.”

  Shel locked his unit on eight o’clock and they went. The gray light dimmed, the storm went away, and they were standing in wet grass. The sky was still pallid, but it was brighter than it had been. “You know,” Dave said, “these things really have possibilities.”

  Shel pulled out a map and compass, studied both for a minute, and then pointed toward some distant hills. “That way,” he said. “North.”

  “How do you know where we are?”

  “I’m assuming we landed more or less where we expected to.”

  Thunder rumbled somewhere. “Shel, what’s your father going to say when he sees me?”

  “I think he’ll be too relieved at being rescued to worry about it. Though if I know him, we’ll both get lectured.”

  “Do you think he’ll still want to disassemble the converters? When we get home?”

  “Probably. But let’s do this one step at a time and find him first.”

  EVENTUALLY, they came across a road. “Which way?” asked Dave.

  Shel consulted the map again. “To your right.”

  It was showing signs of becoming a pleasant morning. The ground was drying. Birds sang, insects hummed, and squirrels scampered up the sides of trees. They passed a vineyard and, minutes later, were overtaken by a donkey cart driven by two teenage boys. In his best Italian, Dave asked whether they were on the road to Arcetri.

  “Left at the fork,” came the response. “We’re going that way. You want a ride?”

  “Please.” The cart was loaded with planks. They climbed in.

  Shel tried his own Italian: “You boys ever hear of Il Giojello?”

  They were about fifteen. They appeared healthier than Shel had expected, although one of them could have used some dental work. They looked at each other and both shook their heads.

  “What’s Il Giojello?” Dave asked in English.

  “It’s Galileo’s villa. But we shouldn’t have a problem finding it. It’s on the map.”

  IT was uphill most of the way, on a winding road. A tower stood near the summit. Shel asked the boys whether it was the Torre del Gallo.

  “Yes,” the driver said. “That’s it.”

  Shel used his cell phone to take a picture of it. “It dates from the Middle Ages,” he said.

  “It strikes me,” said Dave, “that we’re pretty much in the Middle Ages.”

  “I won’t argue the point.”

  “Is that where he lived? Galileo?”

  “No. Not really.”

  “How do you mean, not really?”

  “The legend is that he used the tower as an observatory. It was the place where he was able to separate himself from the Inquisition. Get away from them.”

  “But it’s a legend? That he came here?”

  “Yes. It probably never happened. They kept him bottled up in his villa. The guy had trouble getting out to see his doctor.”

  Houses were becoming numerous. The cart stopped at a connecting road. “We’re going this way,” the driver said, pointing. “Arcetri’s straight ahead. About a mile.”

  They thanked the boys, and Shel gave them a couple of coins. The kids lit up. There were cries of “Ringraziato, signore.”

  “My pleasure,” said Shel in English.

  They climbed down, and the boys kept showing each other the coins and shaking their heads in disbelief. “What did you give them?” asked Dave. “Gold?”

  “They’re carlinos.”

  “Carlinos?”

  “They’re silver. And they are worth a bit.”

  “You came prepared.”

  “Of course.” He shielded his eyes from the sun and looked uphill. “Looks as if we walk from here.”

  Dave was still admiring the tower.

  “In our time,” Shel said, “it’s been overhauled and refurbished. It’s now a museum and library dedicated to Galileo’s memory.”

  “He’s near the end of his life?” asked Dave. “Here, I mean.”

  Shel was moving briskly toward the cluster of houses at the summit. “He has two years to live. And he’s almost totally blind.”

  IL Giojello stood on a small street near a piazza of modest proportions. Several people were gathered in a park, playing a game that might have been bocce ball. “Did they have bocce ball this far back?” asked Dave.

  Shel shrugged. “Don’t know.”

  Two riders on horseback entered the street from the opposite end, moving casually, and raised their hands to say hello to Shel and Dave as they passed.

  Shel pointed toward a large villa on the far side of the piazza. “There’s another famous place,” he said.

  “What’s that?” asked Dave.

  “Some historians claim it’s the birthplace of comedy.”

  “That sounds mildly subjective. What is it?”

  “If I’m reading my directions right, it’s Il Teatro.”

  “The Theater.”

  “During the Middle Ages, comedians are supposed to have performed there.” Shel was looking at his map again. “On this side,” he said, pointing at a villa on their left, “is Il Giojello.”

  The house straddled three sides of a courtyard. It was two stories high, surrounded by spiked bushes. Vines climbed walls constructed of smooth gray stucco. The courtyard was of modest dimensions, and there was some open ground beyond it. Olive orchards and vineyards were clustered on either side.

  “How do we get in?” asked Dave. “Is the Inquisition watching?”

  “No. They left Galileo’s son Vincenzo in charge. To see that he didn’t violate the rules.”

  “His son?”

  “Vincenzo
was supposedly a good Catholic. The Inquisitors believed they could trust him.”

  “Could they?”

  “Apparently.”

  “So how do we get past him?”

  They’d stopped a few paces from the house. “The restrictions during Galileo’s later years became less stringent. They knew he had only a short time to live. And he couldn’t get around very well. He got visitors periodically. In fact, John Milton will be here next year to see him.”

  “Milton?”

  “Yes.”

  “My God, Shel, that’s when we should have come.”

  “You want to talk to Milton?”

  “I’d love to.”

  “Maybe we can arrange it. Meanwhile, though, let’s do one thing at a time. Let’s get my father back first.” He extracted a rolled document from his jacket. “If Vincenzo is at all reluctant to let us in, we give him this.”

  Dave frowned at it. “What is it?”

  “A letter from Cardinal Bellarmine instructing him to grant us entry.”

  “Where’d you get it?”

  “Same place I got the carlinos. What did you think I’ve been doing these last few weeks?”

  Dave was impressed. “Very good,” he said.

  THE door was opened by a cautious-looking elderly servant. “Yes?” he said. “May I help you?”

  “I hope so.” Dave took the lead. “This gentleman is Adrian Shelborne, and I’m David Dryden. We’re admirers of Professore Galilei. We’d like very much to speak with him about his discoveries, if we may.”

  “I’m sorry, gentlemen, but the professor does not presently receive visitors.”

  “We have authorization.”

  Dave was about to present the Cardinal’s letter when he heard a male voice inside: “Who is it, Geppo?”

  “Sir, there are two persons who identify themselves as admirers of the professor. They would like to see him.”

  A new face appeared at the door. A small man, probably in his thirties, literally dwarfed by Dave. “I’m sorry,” he said. “But he’s quite busy.”