Time Travelers Never Die - Jack McDevitt [47]
He was guiding Dave toward a cell that held a prisoner who must have weighed four hundred pounds. “Yeah, Charlie,” said the prisoner, “put him in here.”
Charlie smiled at Dave. “What do you think, Dryden? Want to stay with Arky here? No?”
Arky delivered some comments about Dave’s racial preferences, reached through the bars, and laughed when Dave kept his distance.
Charlie shook his head. “You do have a way of gettin’ people riled,” he said. “Better put you in a cell by yourself.”
The cell had two cots. He sank onto one, hoping he hadn’t broken a rib.
HE’D been in the cell about five minutes when Charlie and another officer returned. “You’re sure?” asked the new cop.
“Absolutely, Al. You can look for yourself.”
Al took a quick look around. “Makes no sense.”
“I don’t know nothin’ about it.”
“Okay. I guess you’re right. But where the hell’d he go?”
“You check the break room?”
“Yeah. It’s the first place I looked. Harvey said he thought he was coming back here.”
“If so, he never got here.”
They left. Fifteen minutes later, they were both back looking at Dave. “This the one?” said Al.
“That’s him.”
Charlie began unlocking the door. “Get up, Dryden,” said Al.
“What do you want?”
“Just do what I tell you. Get up.”
They opened the cell door and held it for him. Dave climbed painfully to his feet and limped out. His knee had begun hurting, too. Al took him back to the booking area, and he was shown into a side office, where the woman who’d done the inventory waited, along with a guy wearing bars. The sheriff.
“Mr. Dryden.” The sheriff had a permanent scowl. He looked worn-out, tired of putting up with troublemakers. The bag with Dave’s belongings lay on the desk in front of him, as well as a copy of the inventory. “You had something with you that you described as a ‘game box.’ ”
“Yes, I did. Nothing’s happened to it, has it?”
The sheriff ignored the question. “What exactly is it?”
“What do you mean?”
“Let me put it this way. Is it valuable?”
“Yes.”
“Why? What was the damned thing?”
Dave shivered at his use of the past tense. “It’s an experimental device I was working on,” he said.
“What kind of experimental device?”
“It helps people learn languages.”
The sheriff’s eyes grew hard. “Who exactly are you, Mr. Dryden?”
“My name’s David Dryden.”
“What do you do for a living?”
“I’m a language teacher.”
“Mr. Dryden, I’d like not to waste either your time or mine. I wonder if you’d explain why you’re carrying fake documents?”
“My driver’s license?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s hard to explain.”
“Try.”
“It’s a bogus license.”
“I can figure that out for myself. Did you lose your license?”
“Yes.”
“Why?
“Drunk-driving offenses.”
“It figures. But if you’re going to buy a bogus license, how in hell can you be so dumb about the birth date?” He looked at it and shook his head—1989.
“That was the way they did it. I didn’t notice it until I got home. The guy who made the thing got in trouble and took off, so I never got it fixed.”
“What’s your real name?”
“Dryden is my real name.”
“Are you a communist, by any chance?”
“No, sir.”
“You say that game box is valuable.”
“Yes, it is.”
“How valuable?”
“A lot. It’s hard to put a price on it.”
“You know, Dryden, things are going to go a lot easier for you if you tell us the truth now. About whatever’s going on.”
“There’s nothing going on.”
“Okay. Have it your way.”
He signaled for one of the cops to open the door. “Take him back inside.”
As David was leaving, the sheriff turned to the inventory officer and lowered his voice. “Any sign yet of Jay?”
“Nothin’, Sheriff. I’ll let you know as soon as he shows up.”
CHAPTER 13
Do not say things. What you are stands over you the while, and thunders so that I cannot hear what you say to the contrary.
—RALPH WALDO EMERSON, LETTERS AND SOCIAL AIMS
SHEL lost track of Dave. The victims, still choking on tear gas, lay broken and bleeding in the roadway. The crowd began to