Time Travelers Never Die - Jack McDevitt [28]
“Yes, we do.” The driver pulled over and they got in. “Seventy-sixth Street and Fifth Avenue, driver,” he said.
“Why? What’s going on there?”
“We’re going to meet someone.”
“We know somebody here?”
“We will, shortly.”
They got out across the street from Central Park. Shel gave the driver a dollar. “Keep the change,” he said.
The driver thanked him and pulled away.
Dave shook his head. “Where’d you get the money?”
“Always come prepared.”
“But how’d you do it?”
“I came back last night with a few old coins. Played the races. Won a long shot.”
“You won a long shot?”
He grinned. “It’s pretty easy when you have a time machine. And it gave me plenty of spending money.”
Dave grinned. “So who are we going to see? Noel Coward? George M. Cohan? Ethel Merman? Al Jolson?”
“Just be patient.”
It was cold. “I should have worn a heavier coat.”
“Next time we—Wait a minute. This might be him now.”
“Who? Where?”
A taxi was slowing down across the street. It pulled alongside the curb and stopped. A man wearing a topcoat and bowler got out. He paid the driver and began looking for a chance to cross.
He was overweight, in his late forties or early fifties, and he looked lost. There was something familiar about him, but Dave couldn’t place him. He’d probably turn out to be a character actor in movies of the period. Of which Dave had seen very few.
The cab pulled away.
“Do you recognize him?” asked Shel.
“I’ve no clue. Who is he?”
“Watch. But no matter what happens, do not intervene.” He placed a restraining hand on Dave’s shoulder.
The man waited for his chance to cross. Traffic was two-way along the avenue. But he was looking to his right. The wrong way. Dave watched with horror as the man shifted his weight and prepared to step into the street.
Shel’s grip tightened. “Habit,” he said. “And he doesn’t look like the most patient guy in town.”
He lurched out directly in front of an oncoming sedan. The driver plowed into him, then hit the brakes. People screamed and brakes screeched. The car dragged him about twenty feet. It left him crumpled and moaning near the curb.
Somebody ran into the street waving at the traffic to stop. A couple of people hurried to the victim’s aid.
“Who is it?” Dave was out of patience.
Shel sighed. “Winston Churchill.”
THEIR view was blocked by the crowd. Horns blared. The driver got out and ran back, bleating that he didn’t mean it, he was sorry. “Are you all right?” he demanded of the victim. His voice rose over the crowd in a wail. Within minutes they heard sirens, and a police car arrived. One officer got out and ran to a call box. His partner took charge of traffic, allowing only one lane to move at a time.
A second police car pulled up. One of the officers hurried toward the victim while the other tried to push the crowd back. And, finally, an ambulance. Medical people, ambulance attendants, whatever they called them in 1931. They jumped out, examined the fallen Churchill, and after a few minutes they lifted him carefully onto a stretcher. They spoke briefly with one of the officers, then put him into the ambulance. Two of the attendants got in with him and, escorted by a police cruiser, it left.
“You knew it was going to happen,” Dave said.
“Sure.”
“Why didn’t we stop it?”
“That’s what my father was concerned about. That somebody would meddle somewhere and create a problem.”
“Like how? Churchill survived. What could we have changed?”
“Probably nothing. But we don’t really know. Anyway, no harm was done.”
“No harm? He looked as if he’d broken something.”
“Two cracked ribs and a scalp wound. I think he develops pleurisy later because of this. But he was lucky. In any case, we know the accident happened. If we’d tried to prevent it—”
“—We get heart attacks—”
Shel shrugged. “I don’t know.”
They stood quietly watching the remaining policemen interviewing the driver and a bystander. “So we just watch,” said Dave. “We can go back to Dealey Plaza, but we can’t do anything. Shel, I don’t think I’m going to care much for this line of work.”
“Dave, I thought you