Time Travelers Never Die - Jack McDevitt [92]
“And . . . ?
“When I came here, it was December—”
“You came for the supernova.”
“You know about that?”
“Yes.”
“Very good. Anyway, I came out on a frozen pond. On the surface. I found myself standing on ice.”
“And . . . ?”
“This is Italy, son. Ice tends to be thin. I fell through into the water. Could have drowned. Anyhow, the converter got wet. The power pack died. And I’ve been here since.”
Shel was getting annoyed. And scared. “All right. But it’s over now. I can’t believe you’d really want to stay here.”
“But I do.” His words carried conviction. “How’s everything back home? How’s Jerry?”
“Jerry’s fine. Nothing’s changed. What would you expect? It’s only been a few months since you left.”
“Ah, that’s right. It’s not easy to keep track of the details.”
“To say the least, Dad.”
“Does Jerry know?”
“No.”
“Okay. Leave things as they are.”
“That’s hard on him, Dad.”
“I know. But I don’t see an alternative.” He cleared his throat. “We were never that close anyway. He won’t miss me.”
The house looked okay. The walls appeared to be walnut; the bookcase was carved and polished, the furniture comfortable. “You seem to have done reasonably well for yourself.”
“Life is good. I could have used a dentist a couple of times. But other than that, yes, I’ve been content here.”
“Dad—”
“Adrian, I’m on the edge of the Enlightenment. And I know who the players are.”
“But people always know who the players are.”
“No, they don’t. It usually takes a couple of generations to figure that out. Contemporaries only know the authority figures and the loudmouths. And the people born into power. But it takes perspective to know who’s carrying the load. Nobody here has a clue who Johannes Kepler is. All they know about Galileo is that he’s a teacher who got in trouble with the Inquisition. I doubt anyone’s heard of Francis Bacon. Even in Britain, nobody really knows him. He’s just a guy with a funny name.”
“How’ve you managed to live?” asked Shel.
“In the beginning, I became a field hand. I worked in shops. Been a waiter. When I came here, Santo Pietro took me in. Eventually, I founded a company that promoted the use of table utensils.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Twenty years ago, they didn’t have them. People ate with knives and their fingers.” He smiled. “Ah, the good old days.”
“And,” said Shel, “you got into the transportation business.”
“You know about that, too? Good, you’ve done your homework.”
“Dave found it.”
“I see. There’s a lesson to be learned, Adrian.”
“Which is?”
“Time is flexible. Or did we talk about this before?”
“We did.”
“Okay. Stay away from paradoxes. Otherwise, it appears you can influence history. Become part of it.”
“How do you define a paradox?”
He considered the question. “Where you make an event known to have occurred impossible.” He laughed. It was a hearty, good-h umored reaction. The guy was seriously happy. “What you do becomes part of history. Your part in it, in a sense, was always there. I’ve always been a factor in this era. And yes, I made my money in the development of stage lines among central Italian cities. What you must do is avoid shooting your ten-year-old grandfather.” Shel and Dave smiled. “I mean it,” he said. “Avoid the irreparable act.”
Michael commented that his visitors must be hungry. But nobody was, so he simply had Albertino bring out some wine. “I can’t resist asking,” he said finally. “Where else have you been?”
THEY stayed through the night. The beds were soft, and Shel was surprised to discover indoor plumbing, including a flush toilet and a shower. “They’re in common use,” said Michael, in the morning.
“You could use some air-conditioning.”
Michael glanced over at Dave, who was busily looking elsewhere. “You’re spoiled,” he said.
“I know.” Shel sat back. They’d just had a superb breakfast of bacon and eggs and the largest pieces of toast he’d ever seen. “Dad,” he said, “seriously, I’d like not to hear any more talk about happy times in the Renaissance. The cavalry’s here. I want you to come home with us.