Time Travelers Never Die - Jack McDevitt [144]
BUT, for Dave, there was still something missing. And eventually he figured out what it was.
At the end of a long night in Tiberius’s Rome, they’d decided to try a Roman bath. It became a fairly risqué experience for two people from Philadelphia. The bath grounds were home to a statue of a female warrior, which they’d paused to admire on the way out. She was complete with helmet and sword. It was well past midnight when they stood before it beneath a full moon. “It’s magnificent,” said Katie.
“It’s Minerva.”
“I’ll bet,” she said.
When they reappeared at Dave’s place, Katie commented that Americans had lost the ability to enjoy themselves.
“We watch television,” Dave said.
Her eyes were shining. “So what’s for tomorrow night?”
“You make the call, Katie.”
“Me? I don’t know what’s out there. If you want, I’d be content to go back to the bath.”
“What would your mother say, love?”
“I think she’d want you to produce another one of those Q-pods.” She squinted at him. “You okay, Dave? That wasn’t too much for you, was it?”
“No. I’m good.”
“So why—?”
“Why what?”
“You don’t seem very turned on by the evening.”
“Yeah.” He sat down, and she dropped onto the sofa beside him.
“What’s the problem?”
Dave still wanted to tell the world. Conversations with Caesar. An evening with Attila. (Well, no, that had never really happened.) Lunch with Abner Doubleday.
“Lunch with who?”
“Never mind. Look, Katie, it kills me to have done all this stuff and not be able to do anything with it.”
“I know,” she said. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what to advise.”
“I’ve been thinking about it.”
“And?”
“The only thing I can think of is to use the material. But put it in novel form. Tell the story. The whole story. As if it were fiction.”
“That’s not a bad idea, Dave. Can you write a novel?”
“With what I’ve seen? Are you kidding?”
“Then do it,” she said. “Otherwise, you’ll never have any peace. Do you have a title?”
“I thought maybe Time Travelers Never Wait in Line.”
“That’s cute.”
“It’s true.”
“I suppose it is.”
“But you don’t like it?”
She shrugged. “It’s cute. I don’t especially like cute.”
“You have a better one?”
“Ummm. If I were doing it—”
“Yes?”
“I’d call it Minerva by Moonlight.” She sat for a minute, waiting for a reaction. But none came. “Is there something else?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said. “I have a promise to keep.”
CHAPTER 45
The end crowns all,
And that old common arbitrator, Time,
Will one day end it.
—WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, TROILUS AND CRESSIDA
OCTOBER 1, 1950, was a pleasant, sun-filled day. A crowd had overflowed Ebbets Field in Brooklyn for the season-ending showdown between the charging Dodgers and the Phillies, whose seven-and-a-half-game lead, during the previous two weeks, had shrunk to a single game.
The score was tied 1-1 in the bottom of the ninth, and the Dodgers had runners at first and second with nobody out when Duke Snider rifled a line drive single to center.
Down front in a box seat, Michael Shelborne stood up with the crowd. They thought the winning run was coming home as Cal Abrams rounded third. But Michael knew better.
Richie Ashburn threw a strike, and catcher Stan Lopata blocked the plate and made the tag. The crowd roared its disapproval, and somebody behind him said, “Hey, we’ve still got two on.”
Michael leaned over, smiled at his son, and spoke under his breath: “It won’t matter, kid.”
IN 1934, Helen sat on the enclosed deck of their recently purchased Cape Cod villa, looking out at the ocean, which was bright and sun-swept and looked as if it went on forever. Like time. This was a Helen that Dave would have been slow to recognize. She was thirty years older, and if she had aged well, she was nevertheless no longer the loose-limbed beauty he had known.
There was movement behind her, and she turned to see Shel and his father materializing within