Time Travelers Never Die - Jack McDevitt [29]
“What? What can we possibly do now?”
They walked back to 76th Street, looking for a cab. It took a few minutes, but one finally pulled over. “Driver,” Shel said, “Lenox Hill Hospital, please.”
“What are we going to do? Get him some flowers?”
“You’re a hard man, David.”
Dave closed his eyes and sank back in the seat. “Why are we going to the hospital? That is the one they’re taking him to, right?”
“Yes.” He fished some bills out of his pocket. “We’re going to do a good deed.”
THE taxi let them off in front of the emergency room. They went inside, where the injured Churchill sat in a clunky-looking wheelchair at a reception counter. A middle-aged woman was doing paperwork for another patient. Seven or eight other people were in the waiting room.
“We’re not going to tell him who we are, are we?” asked Dave.
“No. No, that wouldn’t be a good idea.”
Churchill was obviously in pain. A male attendant stood beside him.
The receptionist completed some paperwork and, finally, it was his turn. She took a piece of paper out of a stack and turned in his direction. “Name, please.”
“Winston Churchill,” he said in a barely discernible voice.
“Address?”
“I’m a British statesman.”
She looked up from the form. “I see. Do you have an address in the United States, Mr., um, Churchill?”
“Use the British consulate.”
Patiently: “What is their address, please?”
“I really do not know, madam.” Churchill tried to get more comfortable, but twisted something and cried out.
“Be careful, sir,” she said. “Try not to move around too much.”
He cleared his throat. “Madam, I was injured out there this evening. I’m in considerable pain. Would it be possible to administer something to alleviate my situation? Perhaps some chloroform?”
“We’ll try to help you, Mr. Churchill. How do you wish to pay?”
“Can’t we settle that later?”
“I’m sorry, sir. But we require payment in advance.”
With his teeth clenched, Churchill fumbled in his pockets. Came out with a few dollars. “How much did you want?”
The receptionist glanced at the money. “Mr. Churchill, this is insufficient.”
“All right,” he said. “Call the Waldorf. My wife is there. She’ll bring some money over.”
Shel turned to Dave and handed him a wad of bills. “You do it,” he said.
Marvelous. He took the money, whispered thanks to Shel, and strode to the counter. “Mr. Churchill,” he said, “I’d like to help, if I may.” He held the bills up for the receptionist to see. “Please get some assistance for this gentleman. Quickly.”
Churchill’s eyes looked up at him. And for the first time, Dave saw the future prime minister. “Why, thank you, sir,” he said. The voice was a shadow of the one Dave remembered from the World War II audios. The one that challenged Hitler and spoke to the world in its darkest moment. “I am in your debt, sir.”
“I think we are in yours, Mr. Churchill.”
CHAPTER 8
It cannot be maintained that dressing has in this or any country risen to the dignity of an art. At present men make shift to wear what they can get. Like shipwrecked sailors, they put on what they can find on the beach, and at a little distance, whether of space or time, laugh at each other’s masquerade.
—HENRY DAVID THOREAU, WALDEN
THE converter brought them back to David’s house, six seconds after departure. It was still just before nine Saturday morning.
“Thanks, Dave,” said Shel. “I appreciate your coming.”
Dave was still having a problem grasping what had happened. “My God,” he said, “are you serious? I still don’t believe it.”
“I know. I doubt you’ll ever get used to it.” He held out his hand for the converter, which was still attached to Dave’s belt.
“You don’t want me to hold on to it?”
“It wouldn’t be a good idea, Dave.”
“I wouldn’t lose it.”
“Dave.”
“Or misuse it.”
“Not a good idea. Not that I don’t trust you, but—”
“Okay.” He unclipped it and handed it over. “When are you going after your father?”
“I want to give it a little time. No point in my going back there if I can’t speak Italian.”
“Maybe you should try Ben Franklin first.