“When was that?”
“I believe 1604. It was one of the things that got the professor in trouble with the Church.”
“Why?”
“Because the new star did not move through the sky like the moon. So he said it was farther away than the moon.”
“And . . . ?”
“It was like the stars. It remained in a single place, and moved across the sky with them. He declared it was a star. A new one.”
“Why would that have created a problem?” asked Dave.
“Aristotle does not allow for an ongoing creation. You cannot have new stars. It is not supposed to happen.”
“And Michael Shelborne was here then?”
“He was in Padua also. It was, I believe, where they first met.”
Dave looked at Shel. “What do you think?”
“That sounds like the way he would do things. Why pop by Arcetri when you can be in town for a supernova?” He looked out the window at the statue of Mary. And the tablet: RIPOSI IN PACE. “Father, of what did he die? Do you know?”
“I assume it was of old age, signore.”
“Old age?”
“He was not young.”
“How old would you say he was?”
“He must have been in his eighties.”
THEY stopped at a caffé for a drink and some dinner. And to get out of the sun. The menu was posted on the wall. It was midafternoon, and the place was almost empty. Shel commented there were no sandwiches on the menu.
“I don’t think they’ve been invented yet,” said Dave. The waitress brought two cups of cool wine. “We could go back and watch the supernova,” he continued. “Catch your father when he first arrived.”
“And do what?”
“Take him home.”
“If it really was him, he died here.”
Dave hesitated. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to answer that.”
“Maybe it doesn’t matter,” said Shel. “I don’t know. I just don’t know the rules.”
Dave took a long pull on his wine. “I hate to point this out, compagno, but he’s already changed a few things. By his presence here, how could he not?”
Their waitress was back. She looked good. Black hair, brown eyes, big smile. They decided to try the eggplant, baked with mozzarella cheese. And refill the cups.
When she’d gone, Dave leaned across the table. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“How can I?”
“That’s my point. There’s already been a disruption. The time stream, whatever that is, has already been thrown off course. Hell, for all we know, you might have a couple of siblings here. Maybe even that young lady who just took the order.”
“I’m my own grandpa.”
“It’s possible.”
“Look, Dave, I’m not a physicist. I don’t know. My father didn’t know. Maybe we’ll go back home and discover Italy’s ruling the world. But I’m not excited about going to see him in Padua, a day or two after he’d arrived, and telling him what we know.”
“Maybe he already knows.”
“How do you mean?”
“Look, this is wild stuff. But maybe the Michael Shelborne in 1604 had already visited this time. Hell, he might have seen the marker himself. Or maybe he googled himself before he came.”
“That’s goofy, Dave.”
“You think time travel isn’t goofy? Anything goes.”
The waitress returned with more dark wine and utensils.
“This whole thing scares me,” Shel said.
“I think we should just go home and forget it.”
“No,” he said. “What did you say at Selma? I can’t just walk away from it.”
CHAPTER 25
I now believe that television itself, the medium of sitting in front of a magic box that pulses images at us endlessly, the act of watching TV, per se, is mindcrushing. It is soul-deadening, dehumanizing, soporific in a poisonous way, ultimately brutalizing. It is, simply put so you cannot mistake my meaning, a bad thing.
—HARLAN ELLISON, STRANGE WINE
THEY returned to the villa with the green shutters, set the converters to keep them in the same location, but to take them back seven years. They arrived on a sunny morning in the spring of 1633. Birds sang while five or six children ran in circles through a field. A light breeze was coming out of the west. The house looked much the same, except that the east wing was missing. A later addition, apparently. A middle-aged man was clipping a fern. He saw them approaching, wiped his hands on a cloth, and came forward. “Ah, signori, may I help you?”
“Hello,” said Dave. “We understand this is the home of Signore Shelborne?”
“Why, yes,” he said. “It is. Did you wish to see him?”
“If you will.”
“Does he know you’re coming?”
Dave looked toward Shel. “This is Adrian Shelborne,” he said. “He is Professor Shelborne’s son.”
Shel felt something closing over him. Please let us be wrong—
“Ah, Signore Shelborne.” He bowed. Tasted the name. “Eccelénte. I am Albertino. And I do believe the master will be delighted to see you.” He led the way to the front door. “He has spoken of you many times.”
God. But Shel kept his smile in place. “How is he? How is his health?”
“He’s quite well, sir, thank you.” He opened the door for them and stood aside. Albertino was short, with a full face and black curly hair. Probably in his fifties which, in this age, was well along. “Please go in, gentlemen.”
They followed him into a spacious, comfortable living room with several armchairs and a sofa and a pleasant view of the town. A full bookcase stood near the door. Oil paintings adorned the walls: a landscape, two portraits of young women, and one of a passenger vehicle drawn by a team of horses. Potted plants stood on a shelf and on a small side table. The servant addressed Dave: “May I ask your name, sir?”
“David Dryden.”
“Thank you. I’ll tell Dr. Shelborne you’re here.”
He left the room, headed toward the back of the house through a pair of double doors. Shel could barely restrain himself from following. Especially when he heard voices in the rear and, a moment later, hesitant footsteps. He was on his feet when his father, supported by a cane, entered the room.
The world fell away.
He was an old man.
Shel had to look closely to be sure it was his father. His hair had turned white, and his skin was pale and creased. He wore a beard now.
Michael limped forward, gait uncertain, and put his arms around his son. “Adrian,” he said, “is it really you?”
“Dad—What happened?”
“I had an accident. Adrian, it’s so good to see you.”
“Good to see you, Dad.” They embraced again, then pushed apart to look at each other.
“My God,” said the old man, “I never expected to see you again.”
They clung to each other. Albertino came in but stood off to one side, pretending that nothing unusual was happening.
Then Michael turned irritable. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“Neither should you. Do you have any idea what we’ve been through? Everybody thinks you’re dead.”
“I’m sorry about that.” Michael eased himself into a chair. Then glanced at Dave. In Italian, he asked, “Do I know you?”
Dave replied in English: “I’m Dave Dryden, Professor.”
“Oh, yes.” He turned a withering eye on Shel. “So much for keeping things quiet.”
“I won’t say anything,” said Dave.
Michael nodded without taking his eyes off his son. “Let’s hope not.” He signaled for Albertino to leave them. “Do you realize what you’ve done, Adrian?”
“No, Dad. As a matter of fact, I don’t know what I’ve done. Maybe you should explain it to me.”
“Sit,” he said. “It took you a long time. Coming after me.”
“I didn’t know where to look. All you told m
e was ‘Galileo.’ ”
“Oh.” He smiled. “Did I do that?”
“Yes.” It was almost a shriek. “You’ve been here—what?—thirty years?” The question hung in the air.
“And you were in Alexandria.”
His lips curved into a wistful smile. “I went there first, right after you left the house.” He stopped. Had to think. “Or maybe it was Cicero first.”
“Cicero?”
“During the period when they were trying to stop Caesar.” He shook his head. “No, I went to the Library first. I made several trips that night before I came here.”
“Dad, I wish we’d known where you were. We could have—”
Let it go. “It hasn’t been a bad life.”
“I’m sure.” Shel cast a contemptuous look around the interior. No power. No phone. No TV.
“Look, I’m glad to see you, son. You know that. And I’m sorry if I seem ungrateful.”
“What happened?” asked Shel. “Why didn’t you come back?”
“I’d have gone back had I been able. My God, it feels strange to have you here.”
“Dad—”
“You and Dave can stay awhile, right? Spend some time with me. There’s a lot to see. But when you go home—”
“Yes . . . ?”
Michael hesitated. “When you go home, I want you to take the instruments apart. Get rid of them.”
“You’re going back with me, Dad.”
“Adrian, no. I’m happy here.”
“What?”
“I’ve been here a long time. This is my home. I’ve a good life here. Much better than I ever had working at Swifton.”
“Dad, that’s crazy. This place is primitive.”
“Not really. You’re right, in a way. Civilization’s just getting started. But this is where it’s happening.”
“Come on, Dad. You’re talking like a crazy man. The truth is, we’ve just come from your grave site.”
It was an accusation. A heavy silence settled on the room. Michael sighed. “I’m sorry to hear it. It’s one of the temptations with the converter, isn’t it? You can always move forward and find out what happens tomorrow. That’s not necessarily a good thing.”
“Dad—”
“Don’t give me any details. Please.”
“Dad, I want to get you out of here.”
“It feels so strange to be speaking your kind of English again.”
“Why did you do it? Why’d you stay here? You promised you’d come back. And call me. You remember that?”
“I remember.”
“So what happened?”
“There was an accident.”
“How? Did the converter break? Power pack run down? What?”
He looked tired. Looked as if thinking about it wore on him. “Adrian, it’s designed to find a solid surface, reasonably horizontal, so you don’t materialize, say, thirty feet off the ground.”
“And . . . ?
“When I came here, it was December—”
“You came for the supernova.”
“You know about that?”
“Yes.”
“Very good. Anyway, I came out on a frozen pond. On the surface. I found myself standing on ice.”
“And . . . ?”
“This is Italy, son. Ice tends to be thin. I fell through into the water. Could have drowned. Anyhow, the converter got wet. The power pack died. And I’ve been here since.”
Shel was getting annoyed. And scared. “All right. But it’s over now. I can’t believe you’d really want to stay here.”
“But I do.” His words carried conviction. “How’s everything back home? How’s Jerry?”
“Jerry’s fine. Nothing’s changed. What would you expect? It’s only been a few months since you left.”
“Ah, that’s right. It’s not easy to keep track of the details.”
“To say the least, Dad.”
“Does Jerry know?”
“No.”
“Okay. Leave things as they are.”
“That’s hard on him, Dad.”
“I know. But I don’t see an alternative.” He cleared his throat. “We were never that close anyway. He won’t miss me.”
The house looked okay. The walls appeared to be walnut; the bookcase was carved and polished, the furniture comfortable. “You seem to have done reasonably well for yourself.”
“Life is good. I could have used a dentist a couple of times. But other than that, yes, I’ve been content here.”
“Dad—”
“Adrian, I’m on the edge of the Enlightenment. And I know who the players are.”
“But people always know who the players are.”
“No, they don’t. It usually takes a couple of generations to figure that out. Contemporaries only know the authority figures and the loudmouths. And the people born into power. But it takes perspective to know who’s carrying the load. Nobody here has a clue who Johannes Kepler is. All they know about Galileo is that he’s a teacher who got in trouble with the Inquisition. I doubt anyone’s heard of Francis Bacon. Even in Britain, nobody really knows him. He’s just a guy with a funny name.”
“How’ve you managed to live?” asked Shel.
“In the beginning, I became a field hand. I worked in shops. Been a waiter. When I came here, Santo Pietro took me in. Eventually, I founded a company that promoted the use of table utensils.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Twenty years ago, they didn’t have them. People ate with knives and their fingers.” He smiled. “Ah, the good old days.”
“And,” said Shel, “you got into the transportation business.”
“You know about that, too? Good, you’ve done your homework.”
“Dave found it.”
“I see. There’s a lesson to be learned, Adrian.”
“Which is?”
“Time is flexible. Or did we talk about this before?”
“We did.”
“Okay. Stay away from paradoxes. Otherwise, it appears you can influence history. Become part of it.”
“How do you define a paradox?”
He considered the question. “Where you make an event known to have occurred impossible.” He laughed. It was a hearty, good-h umored reaction. The guy was seriously happy. “What you do becomes part of history. Your part in it, in a sense, was always there. I’ve always been a factor in this era. And yes, I made my money in the development of stage lines among central Italian cities. What you must do is avoid shooting your ten-year-old grandfather.” Shel and Dave smiled. “I mean it,” he said. “Avoid the irreparable act.”
Michael commented that his visitors must be hungry. But nobody was, so he simply had Albertino bring out some wine. “I can’t resist asking,” he said finally. “Where else have you been?”
THEY stayed through the night. The beds were soft, and Shel was surprised to discover indoor plumbing, including a flush toilet and a shower. “They’re in common use,” said Michael, in the morning.
“You could use some air-conditioning.”
Michael glanced over at Dave, who was busily looking elsewhere. “You’re spoiled,” he said.
“I know.” Shel sat back. They’d just had a superb breakfast of bacon and eggs and the largest pieces of toast he’d ever seen. “Dad,” he said, “seriously, I’d like not to hear any more talk about happy times in the Renaissance. The cavalry’s here. I want you to come home with us.”
“I can’t do that, son.”
“You talked about a dentist. You could probably use a physical. In any case, you can’t stay here.”
“Why not?”
“Because this isn’t where you belong.”
“You said you saw my grave ahead somewhere.”
“It’s one more reason we want to get you out of here.”
“If I go back with you—”
“Yes?”
“Who’s in the grave?”
“I don’t know. Does it matter?”
; “You want to talk about paradoxes. I’m not sure what would happen if you tried to take me back.” He refilled his glass. “Anyhow, I don’t want to go.”
“Dad—”
“I mean it. I like it here. You might find it hard to believe, but it’s a much more social climate than you have at home.”
“Dad, this is getting off track.”
“No, it isn’t. People here spend time together. They visit. They talk to one another. There’s always a party somewhere. Back in Philly, they all watch TV. Or sit at a computer. I don’t want to go back to that.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Do I look as if I’m kidding? Adrian, listen to me.” It seemed as if Dave were no longer in the room. “No matter what I do now, I’m near the end of my life. I’ve been here thirty years, give or take. Look at me. You can barely recognize me. How do we explain that to the people at the lab? To my customers? My neighbors?” He took a deep breath. “I don’t need all that. Let it go.”
“Dad, I can’t just walk away from you.”
“You’re going to have to.”
“No, I don’t.” He looked down at the converter. “I can go back to the year of the supernova. What was it? 1605?”
“Close. It was 1604.”
“Okay. And I’ll pick you up there. After the converter got wet. I suspect you’d welcome a rescue.”
“Yes, I would have. I’ll admit that was a bad time. But please do not do it. Don’t even think about it.”
“Why not?”
“Haven’t you been listening?”
“Hell with it. We do what we have to.”
“And if you do, you go back there and pick me up on the ice, assuming you’re able to do it at all, which I doubt, what do you think happens to me?”
“What do you mean?”
“Me, Adrian. The Michael Shelborne who’s spent a lifetime in Italy, who’s living the good life right now near Florence. What happens to me?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re proposing a scenario in which I never existed. You take me back in 1604, and I’m gone. My years here don’t exist anymore. Do me a favor. Just leave it alone.
“And stop feeling sorry for me. Listen, Adrian, I have talked politics with Ben Jonson and Connie Huygens. Played chess with Tom Hobbes. Gone horseback riding with Descartes. I showed up at a party one night and Claudio Monteverdi was playing the viol. I knew John Milton when he was a teenager. I’ve talked about the human condition with John Donne. I was in the Globe for the opening performance of King Lear. And I should add that Florence has some of the loveliest and most talented young women I’ve ever seen. And you want to take me away from them?”
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