Time Travelers Never Die - Jack McDevitt [23]
Damn. It still annoyed him, remembering Lenny walking three guys in the seventh to give it all back. His father wouldn’t like it, wouldn’t approve, but in the end he’d give in. He had to, because he’d been doing it himself.
And there was also going to be the matter of explaining where Michael Shelborne had been the last eleven days. But, ultimately, it wasn’t Shel’s problem.
This would be a weekend to celebrate. Maybe with Helen. He hadn’t asked for her phone number—should have done that—but he found it easily enough in the directory.
It was late in the week to call and try to set up a Saturday date. But another possibility suggested itself.
That evening, he took the converter into the park and, when he was alone, used it to return to the previous night. Wednesday. Then he called her on his cell phone.
She picked up on the fifth ring. “Hello?”
“Helen? This is Shel.”
“Who?”
“Adrian Shelborne. From the Devil’s Disciples.”
“Oh, yes. Of course. How are you, Shel?”
“I’m fine. I hope I’m not disturbing you.”
“No. I was just reading the paper.”
“Helen, I enjoyed meeting you last night.” Was that right? Had it only been the night before? “I was wondering if I could talk you into having dinner with me Saturday?”
“It’s nice of you to ask, Shel. But I already have a commitment.”
“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.” For a few moments neither spoke. Then Shel continued: “How about next week?”
“Sure,” she said. “I think I can manage that.”
AT twenty to nine, Thursday evening, he was parked in front of the TV, watching Heavy Hitters, a political show with people yelling at one another over, mostly, trivia. Whom could the ordinary people believe? Who was being inconsistent on the issues? Shel was grateful it was an off year for elections.
He imagined what time travel could do for the media. Take a camera crew back and record what a given candidate had actually done or said. (They’d probably need a court order for that sort of thing.) And for specials, they could record the Caesar assassination. Or Alexander routing the Persians and their war elephants at—Where was it?—Guagamela? They could interview St. Augustine, talk about how it felt to be a god with Amenhotep, and settle the world’s religious arguments once and for all. They could interview Richard III. (“And what did you think of how Shakespeare portrayed you?”) They could talk with Columbus on the way to the New World, and get the native reaction as the galleys appeared on the horizon. He loved the possibilities.
The moderator on Heavy Hitters was trying to get one of the experts to quiet down long enough for someone else to say something.
The show that would really draw the ratings would be the talk show from the future. Tomorrow’s News Today. Imagine how many people would tune in to watch that. Shel pictured himself as host.
He checked his watch. It was 8:47.
A car pulled up outside. Doors opened and closed. Laughter. Then the car pulled away.
“Love in Bloom” sounded. He picked up. “Hi, Dad,” he said. “You’re early.”
“Shel?” A woman’s voice.
“Yes. Who is it, please?”
“Charlotte.” His cousin. “Have you heard anything new about your father?”
“Nothing yet, Charlotte. Listen, let me get back to you. Just a few minutes. I’m expecting a call.”
“But you haven’t heard anything? I wondered because you answered sort of funny.”
“No. I think I got confused, Charlotte. Listen. I’ll call you right back.” He disconnected and put the phone down on the coffee table. Beside the connector. The calibrator. Whatever the damned thing was called. And he started thinking how he’d explain it to Charlotte. And Jerry. And everybody else.
Maybe it wasn’t just his father’s problem at that.
HEAVY Hitters was running commercials. Take this to increase your sexual prowess.