Time Travelers Never Die

by Jack McDevitt

The kid switched the weapon to his left hand and began crossing himself. He seemed unaware that the chamber was empty. The hounds kept making false lunges at Shel and licking their lips. The kid stumbled into a hole and juggled the weapon and finally went down.

  Then he was on his knees, the weapon still aimed at Shel. “Hey,” said Shel. “The dogs. Take the dogs with you.”

  “Yeah,” said the kid. “Okay.” Absolutely. Anything you want. “But you go away, right?”

  “Yes. Sure. Absolutely. Won’t come back.”

  “Oscar,” he said. “Roamer. Come over here.”

  The dogs turned to look at him. Then turned their attention back to Shel.

  “Over here,” the kid said, as sternly as he could manage. Then somebody else came running. Out of the farmhouse. “Jake, what’s going on?” He was a big guy, probably would have been as tall as Dave had he stood straight, but he hunched over. His face was full of wrinkles and whiskers.

  “Dad, we got some kind of devil.”

  Dad was coming as fast as he could. “Just relax, Jake. Don’t shoot him.”

  One of the hounds was sniffing at the converter.

  Shel started to drop his arms, but the father told him to keep them in the air. “What’s he doin’ here?”

  “Dad, there were two of them.”

  “Two? Where’s the other one?”

  “Don’t know. He just went away. Disappeared.”

  The father surveyed the area. It was wide-open, except for a few scattered trees. “What are you talking about?”

  “They come and go,” Jake said. “The other one came back.” His weapon was still trembling.

  “You better give me that,” said the father. He checked the weapon, reloaded it, but pointed it at Shel’s feet. One of the hounds went over and began rubbing Dad’s leg. “Who are you, mister? And what are you doing here?”

  “I’m a researcher,” Shel said. “Conducting an experiment. But I got lost.”

  “Is there somebody else?”

  “Another man?”

  “Yes. What did you think I meant?”

  “I don’t know,” said Shel. “I came alone.”

  Jake snarled. “You’re a liar. There was another one, Dad. I’m telling you—”

  “If there was, where is he?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Sir,” said Shel, “I dropped that over there.” He nodded at the converter. “I’d like to get it back, if it’s okay.”

  “What is it?”

  “It, um, measures light. We’re trying to make better lamps.”

  Dad walked over and picked it up. He looked at it and put it in his pocket. “You know what I think?” he said. “I think you’re a spy for the goddam redcoats. Why don’t you just come with me?”

  “Okay. But could I have my inclinator?”

  “Is that what you call it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why? What’s it do again? Measures light?”

  “It measures the inclination of the light.”

  Dad laughed. “Whatever that means.” He checked to be sure Shel had no weapons, and found the gooseberry. “What’s this?”

  “It’s part of the light-testing system.”

  Dad laughed again and appropriated that, too.

  Jake grabbed his father’s shoulder. “Dad, I’m telling you, there were two of them. One just came and went. He’s some kind of devil.”

  “And he went where?”

  “I don’t know. Just faded out when the dogs got after him.”

  “Shut up, Jake. You’re imagining things. You ever hear of a devil that’s scared of dogs?”

  Jake threw up his hands. “I don’t care. They—”

  “Shut up.” He pointed toward a clutch of trees about a hundred yards off. Away from the river. “You can go, mister. Property line’s a quarter mile that way. It’s marked. If I see you out here again, I’m going to put a ball in you. You understand that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. Good-bye.”

  “Can I have my property back?”

  Dad took out the converter and the gooseberry. Started fingering them.

  Please don’t turn anything on.

  He tossed them in Shel’s direction, but Shel let them hit the ground. Make no sudden moves when a gun is pointed at you. After a minute, Shel picked them up. He thought about using the converter, but he wasn’t sure what would happen if the weapon fired right after he pushed the button. Best to just walk away.

  He put the gooseberry in a pocket and kept the converter in his hand. The shotgun was still aimed at his feet. The hounds started toward him, but Dad stopped them with a word.

  Shel turned his back and started walking. Behind him, father and son were arguing. Jake was still trying to convince his father that Shel was not human.

  WHEN he reached the property line, he looked back and saw that they were gone. As were the dogs. Good. Time to go home.

  Poor Dave. He’d looked scared to death when he’d seen the shotgun.

  He pushed the button and the daylight started to fade. Then it came back.

  He tried again. This time nothing at all happened.

  CHAPTER 22

  Older men declare war. But it is youth that must fight and die. And it is youth who must inherit the tribulation, the sorrow, and the triumphs that are the aftermath of war.

  —HERBERT HOOVER, JUNE 27, 1944

  DAVE had had enough surprises. From now on, when he was traveling, he’d keep a finger on the button and be prepared to move out at a moment’s notice.

  He was bleeding, and he was going to need shots. His inclination was to go right back after Shel. But there was no reason he couldn’t go for repairs first.

  Twenty minutes later, he limped into an emergency room. They gave him tetanus and antibiotics and whatever else he needed, and stitched him. On the way back to the town house, he bought a pair of binoculars.

  He reset the converter to take him back to the farm five seconds after he’d left it. And to position him a hundred yards west of the confrontation.

  A gun might have been a good idea, too, in case he had to deal with the animals again. But he didn’t want to shoot the dogs, and in fact had handled a firearm only once, at a range. And that had been at least ten years ago.

  HE made the transit lying down, so he emerged flat on the ground. Shel still had his hands up. The dogs seemed to be under control, and the kid was still holding the shotgun. Then he saw someone else coming, an older guy from the direction of the farmhouse. When he arrived, he took over the conversation and the gun.

  Once or twice, one or the other of the farmers glanced in his direction, but he was reasonably sure he couldn’t be seen at this distance. And he was upwind, so the dogs would not be likely to pick up his presence.

  They talked for a few minutes. The guy with the shotgun did most of the talking. He picked something off the ground. The converter. He talked some more. Took something else from his captive. Probably the gooseberry. Eventually, he tossed both units toward Shel, who let them drop.

  And they apparently told him he could go. Shel picked up the equipment, turned, and began walking away. The two farmers watched for a minute or two before taking the dogs and starting back toward the farmhouse.

  Dave stayed down until they were safely inside. The dogs peeled off into the barn. Then he reset the converter, instructing it to take him forward five minutes. And deposit him, if he had his distances worked out correctly, about fifty yards in front of Shel.

  “WE’VE got to work out a better way of doing this,” said Shel. “How’s your leg?”

  “Okay. I’ve been to the hospital.” He kept an eye on the barn. No sign of the animals.

  There was a dirt road directly ahead. And a marker, a gray rock, painted with the words PRIVATE PROPERTY.

  Somebody was approaching on horseback. Guys laughing and talking. Three horsemen came around a curve.

  The lead rider had a tangled beard. He must have been eighty,
a guy who was all elbows and knees. When he saw Dave and Shel, he reined in beside them. “You fellas okay?”

  “Yes,” said Shel. “Thanks. We’re fine.”

  “You look lost.” The other two, one white, one black, nodded to each other. Sure do. Out in the middle of nowhere, no means of transportation, problem here somewhere. “Where you boys headed?”

  “Bordentown.”

  “Well, you’re there. But it’s a long walk into town. You want a ride?”

  Dave wasn’t sure he knew how to climb onto the back of a horse. “Sure,” said Shel.

  Shel, Dave knew, had ridden camels in Egypt while traveling with his father. If you could climb onto a camel, he thought, you could climb onto a horse easily enough. But Dave had never been on one in his life. One of the riders saw his discomfort, smiled, and offered a hand.

  Shel prudently waited until Dave was safely on board before climbing up himself. Twenty minutes later, they dismounted in front of a pleasant green-and-white house on the edge of town. They knocked but got no answer.

  “Let’s go forward a few hours,” said Shel. “Give them time to get home.”

  “They might be in the next county,” said Dave. “Two weeks would be better.”

  Dave left, and Shel pressed the button. Nothing happened.

  He tried again. This time it worked.

  A woman answered the door. “We’d heard,” said Shel, “that Thomas Paine was staying here. Is that by any chance correct?”

  She frowned. “Who are you, please?”

  A young man appeared behind her. “I heard my name. Were you looking for me?”

  “Mr. Paine,” said Shel. “We’re headed for Pennsylvania to join General Washington’s army.”

  Dave winced. He wished Shel would calm down a bit.

  “We heard you were here as we were passing through,” Shel continued, “and we hoped you wouldn’t find it an imposition if we stopped to express our appreciation. For what you’ve done. For the cause.”

  Dave hadn’t been aware that Shel was planning to concoct the story, but he was getting used to his fabrications. It was Selma again.

  They were standing on the porch of Joseph Kirkbride’s home, in the early evening of Thursday, October 9. Paine looked embarrassed by the adulation, but Shel was enjoying himself. “I suspect the day will come,” he continued, “when you will be remembered as the voice of the Revolution.”

  Paine was lean, informal, relaxed. Dave, expecting a firebrand, was surprised. “Thank you, gentlemen,” he said. “I appreciate your going out of your way to come here. And I need not say how pleased I am that you’re going to join General Washington’s force. They need good men.”

  A larger, heavier man appeared in the doorway behind him. He bestowed a disapproving look on Paine but kept his voice level: “Maybe your friends would like to come in, and join us for a drink.”

  “Of course,” said Shel. “We’d love to, wouldn’t we, Dave?”

  Dave had a bad feeling. But the door swung wide. Paine and Shel went inside, into a parlor. When Dave hesitated, he found himself looking at a musket. “Really,” said the big man, “I insist.”

  Shel glanced back, and the weapon swung in a short arc to include him, too. His jaw dropped.

  Paine also seemed surprised. “You think they’re spies, Joe?” he asked.

  “I don’t know.” He waved Dave into the parlor. It was a pleasant room, paneled with oak. Three thick linen-covered armchairs and a couch were arranged around the walls. A table, complete with three cups, stood in front of the couch. The woman who had answered the door had backed well out of the line of fire. “It’s all right, love,” Joe said. “These gentlemen are friends. Aren’t you?”

  “You bet,” said Dave.

  Shel tried to look indignant. “What would spies want with Bordentown?”

  It might have been the wrong thing to say. “Bordentown isn’t very popular with the redcoats,” Joe said. “Or with the traitors who support them. Especially when Mr. Paine is in town.” He signaled them to sit down. On the sofa. He looked at Paine. “Tom, who knew you were coming here?”

  “Nobody, Joe.”

  He swung back to Shel. “Why don’t you tell us how you found out he was here?”

  Shel couldn’t very well say he’d googled it. “It’s common knowledge.”

  “I don’t think so.” Joe stayed on his feet. “I assume you know what happens to spies?”

  “We’re not spies,” said Shel.

  “Good. Tell us who you are.”

  “My name’s Adrian Shelborne. This is David Dryden. We’re both from Philadelphia. We made the trip here specifically to see Mr. Paine.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we wanted to meet him. Because he’s made a major contribution to the Revolution. That’s the truth.”

  “Okay,” said Paine. “I’d like to accept your story. But it is a little hard to believe. So why don’t you tell me how you knew where to find me?”

  Shel was straining for an answer.

  Dave kept his hand close to the converter so he could clear out on short notice. “Let me, Shel,” he said. “All right, we promised we wouldn’t say anything. We had a hard time persuading him to tell us, and he was afraid we’d show up here and take a lot of your time.”

  Joe’s eyes got hard. “Who?”

  “John Kearsley.”

  “Dr. Kearsley?” said Paine. “You know him?”

  “We’re old friends.”

  “How did he know where I was?”

  “He didn’t say. Probably through Dr. Franklin. I was talking with him, telling him how much I admired your work, and he let it slip that you were going to be here.”

  Paine thought it over. “It’s possible.” He looked over at Joe. “When I was coming in from England, three years ago, I came down with typhus. On the ship.” His eyes looked momentarily far away. “I don’t think we’ll need the musket, Joe.”

  “Who’s Dr. Kearsley?” asked the woman.

  “A friend of Ben’s. When I was sick, he took care of me. Took me into his home for several weeks.”

  “Is that generally known?” asked Joe.

  “I don’t think so. Ben knew.” Paine shrugged. “Anyhow, I don’t think we need be concerned. These men don’t look dangerous to me.”

  Joe lowered the weapon, placed it inside a cabinet, and closed the door. Then he sat down, and Paine introduced his hosts, Melissa and Joseph Kirkbride. Melissa was an attractive woman, with light brown hair wrapped in a bun, and expressive blue eyes. Whenever they turned toward Paine, they shone with pride.

  Joe never did quite warm up to Shel and Dave. He watched them carefully and looked ready to challenge them at a moment’s notice.

  But Shel paid no attention. And a conversation that Dave thought would last four or five minutes stretched out for an hour. Mrs. Kirkbride produced blueberry muffins and tea, and they discussed the condition of the Continental Army, and the difficulties facing the British in putting down a rebellion that was becoming more widespread every day. Paine, however, admitted that he did not have high hopes for the success of the Revolution.

  “Why not?” asked Shel.

  “Resources. We have no money to speak of. Our major advantage is the weakness of British leadership. They don’t know what they’re doing, but, in the long run, it might not matter.”

  “By the way.” Shel went into his casual mode as he fished several photographs of his father from his pocket. “You might be interested in these.”

  Paine looked at the pictures. Handed them to Melissa and Joe. “What are these?”

  “Photographs. It’s a new science. Still at an experimental stage.”

  “Brilliant,” Paine said. “I’ve never seen anything like them.”

  “Do you by any chance recognize the man?”

  He shook his head. “No. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him before. Why? Should I know him?”

  “He’s one of the researchers. He said he met you onc
e in London. But it’s of no concern.”

  The conversation wandered back to Franklin. Shel pretended to be acquainted with him, “slightly.” He held up his hands in a self-deprecating manner. “I don’t really see him often.”

  “No,” said Paine. “I rather think he’s busy these days.”

  “By the way,” Shel said, “I enjoyed the most recent of the Crisis essays.”

  Paine tried to look modest. “Well,” he said, “it’s encouraging to think it might be having an effect.”

  “I especially liked your comment to General Howe at the end.” He looked at Kirkbride. “I assume you’ve read it, sir.”

  “Of course.”

  “Pointing out that Howe is nothing more than a tool of a—how did you put it?—a miserable tyrant, and that he has an obligation to stand up for the truth. And, for that matter, for his troops, who are being killed off daily because the king’s an idiot. Brilliant, sir.”

  “I didn’t say that last part, Shel.”

  “You implied it, Tom. You don’t mind if I call you Tom.”

  “No, of course not.”

  “It’s all there. People in power need to speak up when authority gets abused. Unfortunately, even in democracies, sometimes they sit back and let the idiots run things.”

  Paine was enjoying one of Mrs. Kirkbride’s biscuits. “I’m sure it would get abused. If there were any democracies.”

  “We have one here, sir.”

  “Not yet.”

  Dave couldn’t resist jumping in: “Dr. Franklin was wondering whether you’ve been making any progress with your history of the Revolution?”

  “At the moment, I’m preoccupied, sir. But I’m keeping a journal. It’ll happen eventually.”

  “Good.”

  Dave knew, of course, that it would not. Paine would be preoccupied for a lifetime.

  “I’m also thinking about writing a treatise on religion.”

  “Really? That would be interesting.”

  “I hope not to offend either of you gentlemen, but unbridled faith creates enormous problems. And generates stupidities that leave me breathless.” He shook his head. “It’s on my mind because we had two incidents here during the past few weeks.”