Time Travelers Never Die - Jack McDevitt [17]
The Devil’s Disciples had gone to see Arms and the Man Tuesday evening. Early Wednesday morning, around two thirty, he’d experienced the event, whatever it was. He’d spent all day Wednesday getting home. It was now Thursday morning.
Except that it wasn’t. His computer indicated it was still Wednesday. He stuck his head in Bill Shanski’s office, across the hall. “Bill,” he said, “what day is this?”
“Wednesday,” said Bill, with his usual vacuous smile.
“You sure?”
“All day long.”
HE tried to bury himself in his work, assembling a sales presentation for a new data-control system. He’d never dealt with a therapist, always thought that therapists were for the weak-minded, that talking to an outsider about problems was a waste of time and money.
But he didn’t have much choice. He opened the yellow pages, picked a psychologist, and made an appointment. “You should come in tomorrow,” said the female voice on the phone after he’d explained the problem, “for an appraisal.”
He’d never really had a physical problem other than once going to a hospital after he’d crashed into an infielder chasing a fly ball. The possibility that he was suffering from a mental problem left a cold knot in his stomach. He went through a dozen cups of coffee. (He usually had about two.) And, as if the day hadn’t produced enough shocks, Linda came in on her way out to lunch to tell him she’d just had a weird phone call. Two of them, in fact.
“About what?”
“A guy claiming to be you, Shel.”
Shel was starting to get out of his chair, but with that news he slid back down. “What did he say?”
“He said he was sorry he hadn’t been able to get to work today.” She shook her head. “He sounded just like you.”
Shel just stared at her.
“If this is some kind of joke, Shel, I don’t appreciate it.”
It was enough. He told her about his appointment with Dr. Benson. And then said he was going home.
“I think that’s a good idea. Why don’t you stay home until you’re feeling better.”
HE tried to call Dave, but all he could get was his voice mail. He’d probably be in class, so the phone was in his desk.
He skipped dinner. Had no appetite. He tried to read. Tried to watch some TV. Got on the computer for a while. But it was hard to think about anything other than what was happening to him.
He went back to the bookcase. Took down Hands on the Past, by C. W. Ceram. One of his favorites when he was growing up.
Hands on the Past.
It consisted of accounts of the early archaeologists. He thought of his father’s passion for history. How he’d disappeared from a locked house. And Shel wondered if, somehow, he had in the same manner disappeared from his house Tuesday night?
The idea was crazy. But it was too coincidental not to have some validity. In any case, there could be no harm running a test. As long as he was careful.
He picked up one of the three Q-pods, sat down on the sofa, opened the lid, and entered Galilei. When it asked where he wanted to travel, he hesitated. Keep it simple: Here.
DATE?
Today.
TIME?
On his Wednesday morning experiment, he’d asked for 3:00 P.M. It certainly hadn’t been three o’clock in the afternoon when he’d opened his eyes in the Allegheny National Forest. It had been more like midmorning.
But it might have been three o’clock GMT.
Greenwich Mean Time? Maybe that was it.
He’d sat in this same sofa after Dave brought him back. The Q-pod had asked him RETURN? and he’d replied yes. Maybe the Q-pod had taken him back, not to where he started, but to when. Two thirty Wednesday morning. My God. Was that possible?
If it were true, then it had been Shel himself on the phone to Linda this afternoon, calling from the Sheffield Chevron. Or was it yesterday afternoon? His head was starting to spin.
He tried calling Dave again. Still got the voice mail. The whole idea was preposterous. But it was time to find out. Where did he want to go?
There was one way to settle it: He could stay in the town house, but take himself to the