Time Travelers Never Die

by Jack McDevitt

  Dave nodded. “There are also two Tyro plays, Tyro Shorn and Tyro Rediscovered. Could you get them for us, too?”

  The librarian gave them a pained expression. “You want three books at the same time?”

  “Yes. If that’s feasible.”

  “I’m sorry, but it’s against the rules. Unless you are a member of the Benefactors’ Society. I’m not aware that either of you is a member.”

  “No. Unfortunately not.”

  “Then I’m sorry, but you’re limited to two.”

  Shel decided it was as much a security measure as a means to collect contributions. The scrolls were all copied by hand and must have been immensely valuable. And the situation would not have been helped by the fact that everybody wore togas.

  “Okay,” Dave said. “We’ll take the Odysseus and the first Tyro.”

  “Certainly. One minute, please.”

  When he’d retreated in back, Shel asked why the librarian had seemed amused when he’d described the library as matchless.

  “You used the wrong ending for the adjective. Asyngrito is modern Greek. The classic version would have put an ‘s’ at the end.”

  “Oh. So what did he say?”

  “ ‘Not bad for a barbarian.’ ”

  “What?” Shel looked toward the door behind the counter. “That little nitwit.”

  “Actually, it was a compliment, Shel.”

  ODYSSEUS in Ithaca was set after the Trojan War, when the hero had returned home. He is an old man by then. One night, while walking on the beach, he meets a stranger. It is his son, Telemachus, come to find his celebrated father. But they do not recognize each other. And because both possess an inclination to deceive for amusement, or out of habit, they quickly find themselves at odds after a misunderstanding. Ultimately, challenges are issued. Combat ensues. Telemachus finds the spine of a sea beast that has washed ashore and uses it to kill his father. Then he discovers the identity of the victim.

  “Sophocles wasn’t strong on comedy, was he?” said Shel.

  “No. He’s not exactly light reading.”

  They recorded both plays and returned them to the desk. Next, they checked out Theseus and Circe. Then Parnassus and The Hawks. They were getting ready to return Troilus and Eurydice when the librarian came into the room. “The director is free now. If you’ll follow me, I’ll—”

  “No need, Ajax,” said a second voice. It belonged to a tall man who appeared outside the door. “Sorry to keep you waiting, gentlemen. What can I do for you?”

  “You are Aristarchus?” asked Dave.

  He was. Dave introduced Shel, said how honored they were to meet him, how they’d heard of him in their homeland, which was very distant. “You have a marvelous collection,” he added.

  The director tried to wave it off. “I’m just the librarian,” he said. “But you’re very kind.” He had a sharp nose and narrow features, but he looked congenial, and Shel got the impression he’d have been right at home in Philadelphia.

  “We’ve come a long way to find Shel’s father,” Dave said. “We know that he was an admirer of yours and of the Library. He was a world traveler, but he’s disappeared.”

  At a signal, Ajax collected the two plays and withdrew, closing the door behind him.

  “I’m sorry to hear it,” said Aristarchus. “I hope no harm has come to him.”

  “As do we. In any case, there’s a possibility he would have come to the Library to speak with you.”

  “What was his name, Davidius?”

  “Shelborne. Michael Shelborne.”

  “Interesting name. It would be difficult to forget. But I’m sorry to say, I have no recollection of such a person.”

  “May I show you his image?”

  Aristarchus frowned. “You have brought his portrait with you?”

  “Yes.” Shel produced four photos of his father. Two in business suits, one casual, one in a lab coat. The director’s eyes widened. “What are these?” he asked.

  “Photos, sir. It’s a new technology. I don’t think Alexandria has it yet.”

  “No. I should say not. But yes, I have met this man.”

  “Can you tell us when?”

  Aristarchus cleared his throat. Tried to remember. “He was only here briefly. And I wouldn’t remember him, I don’t think, except for his strange accent. Like yours.”

  “I see.”

  “Yes. He was very interested in the Library.” He smiled at the memory. “Of course, everyone is. But Michael insisted on taking us out to celebrate. Me and half the staff.”

  “To celebrate what?”

  “I never really understood that part of it. The completion of a journey, I believe. It was something like that.”

  “Can you give us a general idea when he was here?”

  “Oh, it’s been two or three years. At least. I’m not sure.”

  “Do you think any of your colleagues might remember?”

  “Come upstairs with me, and we’ll ask.”

  NOBODY knew definitely. Two years ago last summer, I think, said one of the staff. No, another insisted, it was shortly after my brother died, four years ago this fall. In the end, they could not narrow it down enough to be of any use.

  Aristarchus expressed his regrets. Then asked a question of his own. “Ajax did not understand why you had checked out several books, returned them promptly, and apparently planned to check out the entire works of Sophocles. During the course of the afternoon.”

  “We were doing research,” said Dave.

  “So I understand. Nevertheless, in perhaps an excess of caution, he notified his supervisor. The supervisor saw something odd. And he notified me.”

  “Odd? In what way?”

  Shel thought he already knew.

  “Gentlemen, I saw something I cannot explain. Rather like your, uh, photos.”

  Dave played it straight. “And what might that be, sir?”

  “You have a metal object of some sort.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “It produces light. I wonder if you would be so kind as to show it to me.”

  Dave translated for Shel. Shel nodded. “Show him.”

  Dave produced the gooseberry. “You probably saw a reflection,” he said.

  “Perhaps. May I ask what it is? And what you and your associate were doing with our books?”

  The tone did not sound threatening. Merely curious. “We’ve done no harm,” said Dave.

  “I did not mean to suggest you had. I would simply like to know who you are. And what has been happening.”

  “My name is Davidius. This is Shelborne. We are visiting scholars.”

  “I know what you have said. There is no need to repeat it.” He held out his hand for the gooseberry. “May I see it, please?”

  Dave gave it to him. “Be careful with it,” he said.

  Aristarchus examined it. Ran his fingers along the sides. “It’s very smooth. Is this actually metal?”

  “Plastic.” Dave used the English word. He didn’t know a Greek equivalent.

  “What is ‘plastic’?”

  “It’s—” He cleared his throat. “It’s hard to explain. It’s like metal. But more pliable.”

  “I see.” He found the lid. Opened it. The screen lit up, and the red power lamp came on. Aristarchus almost dropped it. But he hung on. Icons appeared, one by one. Then the voice, volume turned to a whisper, in English: “Ready to go, big guy.”

  It might as well have been a cannon blast.

  Aristarchus flipped the gooseberry into the air. Dave, who was ready, caught it on the fly.

  “It speaks,” said Aristarchus. His voice had gone up an octave.

  “There’s an explanation,” said Dave.

  Aristarchus stared at it. “I’m sure there is.”

  Dave looked to Shel, and Shel studied the ceiling.

  “The supervisor,” said Aristarchus, “thinks you are messengers from the gods. I am almost persuaded he is correct. What language is it speaking
?”

  “It’s English.”

  “I’m not familiar with it. But I suppose that is of no consequence. How does it speak? Who lives within?”

  “I can explain.”

  “Please do.”

  “No one is inside. It is advanced technology.”

  “Really? You can produce light in a piece of metal? Plastic? Whatever you call it?”

  “Yes.”

  “And this thing speaks?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did it say?”

  “It said it was ready to operate.”

  “And when it operates, precisely what does it do?”

  Dave turned to Shel. “I can’t see any harm in showing him.”

  “Go ahead,” said Shel.

  He brought up the Achilles and held it so Aristarchus could see. The sun was shining through a skylight. The director shielded his eyes and watched the pages flicker past. “The entire play is contained in this thing?”

  “All of the plays we looked at today.”

  “Incredible. It produces a better product than an army of scribes.”

  “Yes.”

  “Where did you get it?”

  “It was built. At home.”

  “Clovian tells me that is a place called Philadelphia?”

  “Yes.”

  “I would very much like to visit this Philadelphia.”

  “It is very far, sir.”

  “I’m sure. Though I have never heard of it, it is clearly the capital of the world.” Aristarchus held out his hand for the gooseberry.

  Dave hesitated. Then, once again, gave him the device.

  He examined it. Turned it over. Held it up to a window. Raised the lid again and watched the lights come on. “I would like to buy it.” He closed the lid and laid the gooseberry on the table. “Will you sell it?”

  “I’m sorry. We cannot.”

  “We would offer a very generous price. Perhaps you could even get more of these?”

  “I wish we could, Aristarchus. But it is impossible.”

  “May I ask why?”

  “Distance,” he said. “It is very hard to reach Philadelphia from here.”

  “I see.” His lips tightened. “Davidius, I cannot in good conscience allow you to leave with this instrument. I don’t know yet what use we would make of it, but it is a matter we would wish to explore.” He leaned forward, and those intense eyes swung to Shel. He understood who would make the decision. “I prefer,” he said quietly, “to let reason prevail.”

  While Shel considered his answer, the director got up, walked to the door, and opened it. One man came into the room. Another took station directly in the doorway. “Perhaps,” he continued, “you would be willing to let us retain this for a time. So that we may unravel the technology. Perhaps manufacture some of our own. Again, we would pay generously for the privilege.”

  “I would not wish to insult you, Aristarchus, but please believe me that your best technical people would not be able to duplicate this.”

  “I fear I must insist.” The librarian picked up the gooseberry. And inserted it into his robe.

  The guards moved closer.

  Dave went back to English: “Time to go home,” he said.

  “Good idea,” said Shel. “Do it, but don’t make any sudden moves.”

  Dave nodded. Reached casually into his toga. One of the guards, who was almost as tall as Dave, and considerably beefier, frowned and came a step closer.

  Dave pulled out the converter. All eyes locked on it. He looked at Shel, who hadn’t moved. “We going to do this on a count of three?”

  “You go.”

  “Me? What are you—?”

  “A demonstration. I’ll be there when you get there.”

  “English again?” asked Aristarchus.

  “Yes,” said Dave. He turned back to Shel. “And if you’re not there?”

  “Don’t come back.”

  “Shel—?”

  “Just go.”

  “You can’t even speak the language.”

  “I’ve got enough to get by.”

  Dave shook his head and lifted the lid. “This is crazy, Shel,” he said. Then he pushed the black button, shimmered briefly, and was gone. The guards whooped and fell back, while the director tightened his hold on a chair but otherwise remained firm.

  “Who are you?” he asked. His voice was barely audible.

  Shel spoke slowly. He had to, picking his words from a limited vocabulary: “A traveler. I mean no harm.”

  “I am glad to hear it. Why are you here?”

  “It would be helpful if you dismissed your aides.”

  But he didn’t understand what Shel was saying. “My Greek is not good,” Shel said. He repeated his request, speaking slowly, enunciating carefully.

  “Oh. Yes,” said Aristarchus. He directed the guards to go.

  They surprised him by refusing to abandon him to what must have seemed a demon.

  “I must insist,” said Shel. “What I have to say is for you only.”

  Aristarchus repeated his directive. Reluctantly, the guards left. When they were gone, Shel produced his converter and showed it to Aristarchus. “If we had wanted to create a problem,” he said, “surely you realize no one here could have stopped us.”

  Aristarchus repeated his question: “Who are you?”

  “A friend of the Library.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “As we told you, to find my father.”

  “You are human.”

  “Yes.” He paused. Took a deep breath. “When we said we were travelers from a distant place, we were telling you the literal truth.”

  Aristarchus gathered his robe around him. “The world is wide,” he said. “I suspect it is about to get wider.”

  Shel nodded. “We travel in both space and time.”

  “Explain, please.”

  “We come from another era. We come from an age when the glory of Hellas and Rome are still admired. But they have been gone a long time.”

  “You come from a time that has not yet happened? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “Yes.”

  “After what I’ve seen today, Shelborne, I am prepared to believe almost anything.”

  “Then know that, in my time, the Library, your library, is also gone.”

  His eyes closed briefly. “What happened to it?”

  “No one is sure. But it persisted a long time.”

  “What about the books?”

  “A majority of them will be lost also.”

  “Diana help us.”

  “We will not even have a good accounting of what was here. Only that it was the pride of the ancient world.”

  His head sagged.

  “Aristarchus, your name will survive.”

  “That’s not much consolation.” His eyes lost their focus. For a long time neither spoke. Shel became aware of the rumble of the sea. “That is the real reason you have come.”

  “It is one reason. I had hoped to find my father.”

  “And to reclaim what is here.”

  “We reclaimed a little of it today.”

  “Is this the first time you’ve been here?”

  “It is.”

  He allowed himself a pained smile and reached into his toga for the gooseberry. He put it on the table in front of Shel. “You looked at nine books today.”

  “Yes.”

  “Nine books,” he said again. “We have half a million.”

  “Fortunately, some books survived. From other sources. Others, perhaps, have lost their utility.”

  “You were planning to come again?”

  The answer to that, a few minutes ago, would have been no. But something had changed. “Yes.”

  “I will alert my staff. When you return—”

  “No. Don’t tell them about me.”

  “Why not?”

  “I ask it as a favor. I’m probably in violation of my father’s code even now. By telling you as much as I hav
e.”

  “All right. I suppose I can understand that. But when you come again, let us know, let me know, and I will see that you get everything you need.” He stood. “Shelborne, I am more indebted to you than I can say. We all are.”

  Shel was missing some of what he said. But the general thrust was obvious enough. “Then we help each other.”

  “Yes.” He paused. “I am almost afraid to ask my next question.”

  Shel waited.

  “How far have you come?”

  “More than two thousand years.”

  “At least the disaster is not imminent.” His eyes narrowed. “It isn’t imminent, is it?”

  “No. The Library has a long life ahead of it.”

  “Good. Thank you.” He lowered himself into a chair. “What is your world like?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Do people live in harmony?”

  “Some do.”

  “Have you maintained the rule of law?”

  “Yes.”

  He saw something in Shel’s face and frowned. “Maybe I should stop while I still like your answers.”

  CHAPTER 19

  I have drunken deep of joy,

  And I will taste no other wine tonight.

  —PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY, THE CENCI

  IT was, Aspasia knew, another manuscript. But this one came in a plain manila envelope with no return address. The date stamp indicated it had been mailed in Levittown, Pennsylvania. First class.

  Since she’d won the Athena Andreadis Award for scholarship in classical literature, she’d been awash in manuscripts by people who thought she could help them get published somewhere. Usually, they were Greek family histories of no interest to anyone, but there had been two or three academic gambits of interest. The manuscripts arrived regularly. Sometimes they were book-l ength, with the writer unable to understand why the Oxford University Press had not gobbled it up. Others were commentaries intended for Classical Heritage or Hellenic or Greek Life.

  They usually came online. But not always. And there was a tendency among those who used the post office to neglect sending self-addressed stamped envelopes. With the current cost of postage, sending them back was expensive. But Aspasia had never been able to bring herself simply to dump the manuscripts.

  She put this one aside, with a couple of bills, and opened the more interesting mail first. A note had arrived from Kingsley Black informing her that his classical literature class had profited from Showtime at Rhodes, her analysis of the reasons for the decline of classical drama. “Excellent book,” he concluded. “Best I’ve seen on the subject.” Well, of course, he would say that, but she had broken new ground. Showtime at Rhodes had been the principal reason she’d won the Andreadis.