Time Travelers Never Die - Jack McDevitt [67]
“We could try transporting one,” said Dave. “See if the converter would take it.”
“Are you serious?”
“No. Not really. They belong here.”
At the front entrance of the Museum, the steps mounted to a portico. Massive columns supported the roof.
There were more carved gods in the portico. Shel recognized Apollo. And Mercury, with his winged heels. And two females. One had a bow slung over her shoulder. That would be Diana. Her companion was older. Probably Hera.
The front doors were massive, maybe three times Shel’s height. They were adorned with more deities, as well as warriors, triremes, chariots, vines, and trees. Two of the doors were ajar.
They passed inside.
THERE was a cluster of large rooms. Halls, really. Lush carpets covered the floors. The walls were dark marble, decorated with oil paintings of warships and scholars poring over scrolls and beautiful women watching the moon rise and couples making love. Narrow columns screened walkways around the perimeters of the rooms. Tables and chairs were everywhere. Men and women sat reading in some areas and carried on meetings in others. Wide windows in walls and ceilings admitted sunlight. A librarian was stationed behind a long, curved counter.
Shel felt self-conscious in his toga. It was a bit too long, and too wide. He decided he’d have it taken in when they got back to Philadelphia. “You have any idea where we go from here?” asked Dave.
“I’d say the information counter. Let’s go check out your Greek.”
The librarian was a young man, barely twenty, extremely thin, with brown hair and brown eyes. He smiled and said something.
“Hérete,” said Dave. “En érgon tou Sophocléous zitoúmen.”
“Poíon akrivós, kírie?”
“Éhete katálogon ton iparxónton?”
Shel understood some of it. Dave had told him they were looking for one of the Sophoclean plays. Which one? And Dave had asked whether there was a list.
“There are catalogs over there.” The librarian pointed toward a table. “If you know what you’re looking for, I believe we have every play extant.” A woman approached and placed a scroll on the counter. She glanced up at Dave and smiled.
The outside of the scroll was marked. If Shel’s spoken Greek was shaky, his ability to read text was nonexistent. “Dave, can you tell what it is?”
Dave tried to look without seeming unduly curious. “It’s number eleven of The Journals of Themistocles.”
“Themistocles? He was . . . ?”
“The guy who saved Greek civilization during the Persian Wars. But I don’t think there’s any record of a journal.”
The librarian picked up the scroll, made a note in a ledger, and looked at Dave, who had not moved. “Is there anything else, sir?”
“Yes,” said Dave. “Do you know if Aristarchus is available? We’d like very much to speak with him.”
“And your name, sir?”
“Davidius. We’re visiting scholars.”
“Very good. Do you have an appointment?”
“No, we don’t.”
“All right. Let me see if he’s available.” He signaled a teenage girl and sent her to make the query. “It’ll take a few minutes. Where will you be?”
“Looking at the catalogs.”
The catalogs were in scroll form, works listed by title and by author. Dave zeroed in on Sophocles, and Shel took out his notebook.
“Incredible,” Dave said.
“What?”
“He was right. They must have all his plays. There are more than a hundred of them listed here.”
Shel couldn’t make anything out of the Greek characters.
“Here’s the Achilles.” David ran his finger down the list. “Theseus. Odysseus in Ithaca.” He gave a silent cheer and raised a fist in triumph.
“Good.” It was a pleasure watching Dave get excited. Shel thought he was going to explode.
“The Troilus.”
“Dave, is it possible the other ones got lost because nobody really cared?”
Dave paid no attention. “The Last Labor,” he said. “Probably Hercules.”
“What else is there?”
“The Hawks. Parnassus. Hey, here’s an interesting one.”
“What’s that?”
“Circe. And one I’m not sure how to translate.”
“Try.”
“Hours in Flight. No. Time Passing.