Time Travelers Never Die - Jack McDevitt [61]
He got lost a couple of times, and the people he asked for directions kept trying to tell him how to get to the interstate. Life’s not an interstate, he thought. At least, not if you’re smart. The interstate’s all about getting someplace. Yeah. Life is roads with curves, and maybe somebody broken-down up ahead, and stopping for glazed donuts. And homes in the middle of nowhere. And attractive women in convenience stores.
A guy in a pickup beeped at him. They had a double line, and the guy couldn’t pass. So sometimes, he thought, you have to hit the gas. He did. They went around a curve, the road opened up, and the pickup roared past. The driver gave him the finger.
It didn’t matter. Nothing could wipe away the goofy grin that afternoon.
THERE was never any doubt that he’d tell Shel about the concert. Had to. And if Shel decided to confiscate the converter, never let him near it again, so what?
He pulled up in front of the town house during the late afternoon. Shel appeared at the door before he could ring the bell. “You look good,” he said.
“I feel good.”
They went inside and sat down in the den. While Shel got a round of drinks, Dave threw his feet up on a hassock. King of the world.
Shel took two glasses down out of the cabinet, put ice cubes in them, and turned around. “What’s going on?” he asked.
“Did you ever check the range?”
“Of the converter? Yes.”
“And?”
“It’s somewhere around thirty-six thousand years.”
“That’s a bit more than mine has. Probably depends on the power pack, right?”
“How do you know, Dave? You haven’t done that, have you? Gone back with the savages?”
“No. But I’ve gone downstream.”
“Forward.”
“Into the future, yes. And I’m happy to report everything turns out okay.”
“How do you mean?”
“No ice age. People are still there. I think. Doing okay.”
“Really?” Shel’s features darkened. “Dave, I wish you’d stop the nonsense. That’s irresponsible.”
“Who says? What’s the risk at that range?”
“I don’t know.” Shel bristled. “That’s what makes it dangerous.”
“Come on, Shel. Make sense.”
“Okay, then. You gave your word. And you broke it. You promised you wouldn’t do anything like that.”
Dave couldn’t remember making any such promise, but he let it go.
When Shel got no response, he went back to mixing the drinks. “So what did you see?”
Dave described the thick forest at the mountaintop. The lights. And the music.
“That’s it?”
“Shel, we’ve survived. Despite all the talk about climate change and runaway technology and loose nukes, we’re still here.”
“Well, that’s good. You didn’t happen to go over there, did you? To the concert?”
“No. I thought I’d just sit back and listen.”
“So all you know is that you heard music.”
“Yes.”
“Okay.”
“Why? What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. I just hope it’s us.”
“I doubt it was Martians.”
“Yeah. I’m sure you’re right, Dave.”
Damn. The mood had become a bit intense. “I probably better get going.”
“You didn’t get your drink yet.”
“Let it go.”
“Look, Dave, I’m sorry, but—”
“Let it go, Shel. I understand.” He stood up and unclipped the converter. Set it for the next jump. It would take him back almost three weeks to Saturday, December 15, the evening they’d come back from Selma.
“Set it for ten o’clock,” said Shel. “In the evening.”
That was a couple of hours after he’d left for the cabin.
NOTHING changed in the town-house den except that a magazine appeared on the coffee table, and the television was on in the living room. The big wall clock said 10:00 P.M. precisely.
Shel was parked in front of the television, but he was asleep. Dave sat down in one of the chairs, watched the show for a minute—it was a sitcom—let his head drift back, and closed his eyes.
“Dave.” Shel’s voice. “How long have you been here?”
“Just came in. I didn’t want to wake you.”
“Everything healed?”
“Far as I can tell.”
“Good. How about something to eat?”
“I’m not really hungry, Shel. I think I’ll just head home and get some sleep.”
“Okay. It’s good to have you back.” He got up, went over to the desk, and took out a key. “There’s a rental