Time Travelers Never Die - Jack McDevitt [65]
Center City didn’t look any different. He stopped in front of a variety shop and peered through the plate-glass window at a stack of Inquirers. Should he buy one? The headline said something about Saudi Arabia.
But it was dangerous. Best let it go. He moved on. Decided he should get serious. Visit the future, or don’t. What would Philadelphia look like in sixty years? A few minutes later, he decided what the hell, walked into a clothing store, found a place in back where he couldn’t be seen, set the converter for spring, 2079, and pressed the button again.
HE arrived inside a hotel lobby. Several people were staring at him. He tried to smile back. Do this all the time. A tall, awkward-looking guy shook his head at a woman. “You’re crazy, Laura,” he said.
Shel hurried out through an automatic door. Walnut Street was gone, replaced by moving walkways and broad lawns. Rittenhouse Square was still there, now somehow the center of a lush garden. Birds sang, and the central fountain in the park still worked, sending a bright cascade into the air. Kids fed the squirrels, and pigeons perched atop a sculpture of arms, legs, eyes, and flashes of light, a work right out of Dalí.
The area was as crowded as ever. The shops had retreated into malls. Clothes were lighter, brighter, more formfitting than in his time. Men and women both wore hats. Hairstyles for women were more formal. Among the men, he saw only one or two beards.
Two new skyscrapers had been added, giant towers dwarfing the old skyline. The ground shook briefly, signaling the passing of an underground train.
He rode one of the walkways, enjoying the warm air, his coat folded over one arm, and wandered into another hotel, the Shamrock. He stopped by the convenience store but saw no magazines or books. He would have liked to buy a chocolate bar, which were on plentiful display, but nobody seemed to be using paper money.
He wondered about himself. He’d be ninety-one now. There was a lot of talk about life extension during the first two decades of the century, but as of 2019 nothing much had happened. It was possible he was still charging around out there, playing tennis, living the good life. If that were true, the Shelborne of 2079 would remember that his younger self had visited Rittenhouse Square on this day. And he’d be here, somewhere, to say hello. Wouldn’t be able to resist that.
It was 11:03 A.M., May 12. A Friday. Okay. He made a mental note. I’ll be here.
He stopped walking. Waited. Looked around.
Nobody.
Of course, the area was crowded. The walkways were filled with people. Some shoppers. Some with kids. Many apparently on business. He’d be hard to find.
One thing he couldn’t help noticing: The downtown area was home to as many beautiful young women as ever. It looked as if civilization was moving along nicely.
Dave had it right.
HE got onto a northbound walkway, discovering in the process that they were referred to as “tracks.” What had once been Market Street was now a long canal, with tracks on either side. He stayed northbound and crossed on a bridge, headed for the old Parkway.
It was still there, although, aside from an electric train, there were no vehicles of any kind. It was strictly grass, trees, fountains, and benches. To the southeast, the original City Hall remained, and William Penn still stood guard over the city. At the opposite end, the Art Museum appeared unchanged. He wondered if the statue of Rocky was still there.
The Philadelphia Library, which had, in his time, been located on the north side of the Parkway, was now a museum. A larger, more imposing library had been constructed behind it. He got off the track and walked inside.
The bookshelves were gone. Well, he shouldn’t have been surprised at that. Even in his own time, books and magazines were disappearing. Booths equipped with display screens were everywhere. Most were occupied. He found an empty one and sat down.
The screen lit up. A message appeared: PLEASE PUT ON EARPHONES. He complied. A voice said, “Hello.”
“Hello,” he said.