Time Travelers Never Die - Jack McDevitt [62]
It was a black Bangalore. A torpedo. Dave got in and drove to his home on Carmichael Drive. It was good to be back.
HE knew how the Eagles game had turned out Sunday, so he spent much of the day at the gym and the pool. On Monday, two days after the Selma experience, he was back in class. It was an odd feeling to sit up there on the edge of his desk, as he often did, knowing that at that very moment he was at the cabin waiting for his wounds to heal. His first period was Greek. Twelve kids who claimed to be interested, more or less, in Homer and the classical dramatists. “Aristophanes invented comedy,” he told them. “He was the first guy we know of to go for laughs. And Sophocles”—he took a moment to look out at the sky—“gave us better theater than Shakespeare.”
They were shocked. No one had ever said anything like that to them before. Shakespeare was, of course, the name before which all heads bowed. But he could see they agreed. Not that Sophocles was so good, probably, but that Shakespeare was overrated.
Suzy Klein, a wide-eyed African-American, flashed a smile. Knew it all the time. But she asked why he would say that.
“He has all the power of the Bard,” said Dave. “But it’s concentrated on a smaller stage. Remember Aristotle?”
“Sure,” said Suzy, while the other kids leaned forward.
“What did he say about unity?”
“Ummm.” She looked uncertain.
A hand went up in back. Roger Gelbart. “What did he say, Roj?”
“Use the minimum number of characters necessary to carry the action. In Sophocles, the conflict involves, at most, a handful. In a Shakespearean play, you need a scorecard.”
“What about time?”
Another hand. “The action should take place over the shortest possible time span. Preferably the length of the play itself.”
“Good.” He’d begun to think how it would be to go back to classical Athens, circa 420 B.C. And see Antigone performed under the stars.
He could actually do it. Although it was hard to imagine Shel consenting. Maybe if they were able to locate his father and bring him back, get rid of the urgency, maybe then he could be persuaded.
SHEL laughed when he mentioned it indirectly, talking about how much fun it would be to take his students on a field trip to Athens in the fifth century B.C., to watch a performance, say, of Medea.
“Your students understand Greek?” Shel asked.
“More or less.”
“Do they?”
“Not very well, actually.”
“That’s what I figured.” He grinned. “A trip like that, though, would seriously shake up the academic community.”
“And, I suspect, a few parents.”
“Dave,” Shel said, “I found something that might help us find my father.”
“What’s that?”
“I did a search of his computer. He’s like you, always had a taste for the classical age. When we used to travel in Greece and Syria, I don’t remember how many times he’d show me a site where there was nothing but rubble and explain how it had been a temple to Juno or somebody. It upset him that the Christians, when they took over the empire, destroyed so much of its architecture. And its literature.”
“So where are you going with this?”
“He’d been collecting notes for a long time on Aristarchus.”
“Who is . . . ?”
“He was the head librarian at Alexandria in its heyday.”
“Your father was—is—a physicist.”
“My dad is a Renaissance guy.”
“Okay. That’s interesting. Aristarchus was at one time the keeper of the world’s knowledge. So, what—”
“There’s a better than fair chance that when my father found himself with a time-travel capability, Aristarchus is the guy he’d have gone to have lunch with. Even more than Galileo.”
“How long was he there? At the Library?”
“About six years. From 153 B.C. to about 147. Anyhow, I’m going to go back and ask. I’m going to try to learn a little Greek. So it’ll be a while.” He hesitated. “Will you come?”
“Sure, I wouldn’t miss it. But I have a condition.”
“Okay.”
“Most of the work by the Greek playwrights has been lost. Do you know, for example, how many of Sophocles’ plays survived?”
Shel had no idea.
“Seven.”
“That doesn’t sound bad.”
“Out of more than