“Do you know
when
?”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you know precisely when and where in the seventeenth century he was planning to go?” He frowned. “Listen to me. I sound like a nut.”
Shel managed a pained smile. “No,” he said. “Only that he would go to see Galileo.”
“Well, you have a time machine. Why don’t you go back and ask him?”
“I’ve already done that. I don’t think I can do it again.” They were standing with a crowd at an intersection, waiting for the light to change. It did, and the crowd started across. A car making a turn tried to push its way through. There was some yelling.
“Why can’t you?” asked Dave.
“It’s complicated. But he says if I create a paradox, bad things will happen.”
“What kind of bad things?”
“Heart attacks, maybe.”
“What?”
“He lost a partner during an experiment. The event’s over. I can’t go back and change it.”
“Shel, I can’t believe you’re willing to buy that story.”
“After what I’ve seen these last couple of days, I’m inclined to be cautious.”
DAVE
would remember that moment the rest of his life. Crossing the street, the traffic, the people, Shel talking about heart attacks. “You know,” he said, “it sounds as if your father’s one of those mad scientists.”
“I guess you could say that.”
“Who else knows?”
“Nobody. He wanted it kept quiet.” They were still walking. Toward the Imperial and
Laugh Parade
. He noticed a familiar name among the cast members. Ed Wynn.
Incredible.
They walked, and stopped, and looked around. And walked again. They stopped at another traffic light. “Just installed,” Shel said.
“What is?”
“The lights. They were just starting to use them.”
“Hard to imagine New York without traffic signals.”
“They’ve also just finished the Empire State Building.” Somebody blew a horn and, as if on cue, the light changed. They started across and turned right onto Third Avenue. “Will you do it?” Shel asked. “Will you help me?”
How could he not? “After we bring him back,” Dave said, “is that going to be the end?”
“
If
we bring him back—” Shel shook his head. “If he didn’t come back on his own—”
“—It doesn’t mean something happened to
him
. The device, the converter, might have broken down.”
“That’s what I’m hoping.”
“I mean, if the Inquisition or somebody had grabbed him, he can get out just by punching a button, right?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. So it has to be the converter. I don’t think you have anything to worry about.”
“I hope so.” They were moving again, passing an Italian restaurant. Dave wondered how many of the businesses on that block would still be around in 2018. In
his
time. “Shel,” he said, “I still can’t believe this is happening.”
Shel stopped a couple of women and asked if they had the correct time. It was, one of them said, consulting a watch she took from her purse, a quarter after ten.
Shel adjusted his own watch and flagged down a passing cab.
“Do we have an appointment?” asked David.
“Yes, we do.” The driver pulled over and they got in. “Seventy-sixth Street and Fifth Avenue, driver,” he said.
“Why? What’s going on there?”
“We’re going to meet someone.”
“We
know
somebody here?”
“We will, shortly.”
They got out across the street from Central Park. Shel gave the driver a dollar. “Keep the change,” he said.
The driver thanked him and pulled away.
Dave shook his head. “Where’d you get the money?”
“Always come prepared.”
“But how’d you do it?”
“I came back last night with a few old coins. Played the races. Won a long shot.”
“You won a long shot?”
He grinned. “It’s pretty easy when you have a time machine. And it gave me plenty of spending money.”
Dave grinned. “So who are we going to see? Noel Coward? George M. Cohan? Ethel Merman? Al Jolson?”
“Just be patient.”
It was cold. “I should have worn a heavier coat.”
“Next time we—Wait a minute. This might be him now.”
“Who? Where?”
A taxi was slowing down across the street. It pulled alongside the curb and stopped. A man wearing a topcoat and bowler got out. He paid the driver and began looking for a chance to cross.
He was overweight, in his late forties or early fifties, and he looked lost. There was something familiar about him, but Dave couldn’t place him. He’d probably turn out to be a character actor in movies of the period. Of which Dave had seen very few.
The cab pulled away.
“Do you recognize him?” asked Shel.
“I’ve no clue. Who is he?”
“Watch. But no matter what happens, do not intervene.” He placed a restraining hand on Dave’s shoulder.
The man waited for his chance to cross. Traffic was two-way along the avenue. But he was looking to his right. The wrong way. Dave watched with horror as the man shifted his weight and prepared to step into the street.
Shel’s grip tightened. “Habit,” he said. “And he doesn’t look like the most patient guy in town.”
He lurched out directly in front of an oncoming sedan. The driver plowed into him,
then
hit the brakes. People screamed and brakes screeched. The car dragged him about twenty feet. It left him crumpled and moaning near the curb.
Somebody ran into the street waving at the traffic to stop. A couple of people hurried to the victim’s aid.
“Who is it?” Dave was out of patience.
Shel sighed. “Winston Churchill.”
THEIR
view was blocked by the crowd. Horns blared. The driver got out and ran back, bleating that he didn’t mean it, he was sorry. “Are you all right?” he demanded of the victim. His voice rose over the crowd in a wail. Within minutes they heard sirens, and a police car arrived. One officer got out and ran to a call box. His partner took charge of traffic, allowing only one lane to move at a time.
A second police car pulled up. One of the officers hurried toward the victim while the other tried to push the crowd back. And, finally, an ambulance. Medical people, ambulance attendants, whatever they called them in 1931. They jumped out, examined the fallen Churchill, and after a few minutes they lifted him carefully onto a stretcher. They spoke briefly with one of the officers, then put him into the ambulance. Two of the attendants got in with him and, escorted by a police cruiser, it left.
“You knew it was going to happen,” Dave said.
“Sure.”
“Why didn’t we stop it?”
“That’s what my father was concerned about. That somebody would meddle somewhere and create a problem.”
“Like how? Churchill survived. What could we have changed?”
“Probably nothing. But we don’t really know. Anyway, no harm was done.”
“No harm? He looked as if he’d broken something.”
“Two cracked ribs and a scalp wound. I think he develops pleurisy later because of this. But he was lucky. In any case, we know the accident happened. If we’d tried to prevent it—”
“—We get heart attacks—”
Shel shrugged. “I don’t know.”
They stood quietly watching the remaining policemen interviewing the driver and a bystander. “So we just watch,” said Dave. “We can go back to Dealey Plaza, but we can’t do anything. Shel, I don’t think I’m going to care much for this line of work.”
“Dave, I thought you’d react that way. So let’s do something.”
“What? What can we possibly do now?”
They walked back to 76th Street, looking for a cab. It took a few minutes, but one finally pulled over. “Driver,” Shel said, “Lenox Hill Hospital, please.”
“What are we going to do? Get him some flowers?”
“You’re a hard man, David.”
Dave closed his eyes and sank back in the seat. “Why are we going to the hospital? That
is
the one they’re taking him to, right?”
“Yes.” He fished some bills out of his pocket. “We’re going to do a good deed.”
THE
taxi let them off in front of the emergency room. They went inside, where the injured Churchill sat in a clunky-looking wheelchair at a reception counter. A middle-aged woman was doing paperwork for another patient. Seven or eight other people were in the waiting room.
“We’re not going to tell him who we are, are we?” asked Dave.
“No. No, that wouldn’t be a good idea.”
Churchill was obviously in pain. A male attendant stood beside him.
The receptionist completed some paperwork and, finally, it was his turn. She took a piece of paper out of a stack and turned in his direction. “Name, please.”
“Winston Churchill,” he said in a barely discernible voice.
“Address?”
“I’m a British statesman.”
She looked up from the form. “I see. Do you have an address in the United States, Mr., um, Churchill?”
“Use the British consulate.”
Patiently: “What is
their
address, please?”
“I really do not know, madam.” Churchill tried to get more comfortable, but twisted something and cried out.
“Be careful, sir,” she said. “Try not to move around too much.”
He cleared his throat. “Madam, I was injured out there this evening. I’m in considerable pain. Would it be possible to administer something to alleviate my situation? Perhaps some chloroform?”
“We’ll try to help you, Mr. Churchill. How do you wish to pay?”
“Can’t we settle that later?”
“I’m sorry, sir. But we require payment in advance.”
With his teeth clenched, Churchill fumbled in his pockets. Came out with a few dollars. “How much did you want?”
The receptionist glanced at the money. “Mr. Churchill, this is insufficient.”
“All right,” he said. “Call the Waldorf. My wife is there. She’ll bring some money over.”
Shel turned to Dave and handed him a wad of bills. “You do it,” he said.
Marvelous. He took the money, whispered thanks to Shel, and strode to the counter. “Mr. Churchill,” he said, “I’d like to help, if I may.” He held the bills up for the receptionist to see. “Please get some assistance for this gentleman. Quickly.”
Churchill’s eyes looked up at him. And for the first time, Dave
saw
the future prime minister. “Why, thank you, sir,” he said. The voice was a shadow of the one Dave remembered from the World War II audios. The one that challenged Hitler and spoke to the world in its darkest moment. “I am in your debt, sir.”
“I think we are in yours, Mr. Churchill.”
CHAPTER 8
It cannot be maintained that dressing has in this or any country risen to the dignity of an art. At present men make shift to wear what they can get. Like shipwrecked sailors, they put on what they can find on the beach, and at a little distance, whether of space or time, laugh at each other’s masquerade.
—HENRY DAVID THOREAU,
WALDEN
THE
converter brought them back to David’s house, six seconds after departure. It was still just before nine Saturday morning.
“Thanks, Dave,” said Shel. “I appreciate your coming.”
Dave was still having a problem grasping what had happened. “My God,” he said, “are you serious? I still don’t believe it.”
“I know. I doubt you’ll ever get used to it.” He held out his hand for the converter, which was still attached to Dave’s belt.
“You don’t want me to hold on to it?”
“It wouldn’t be a good idea, Dave.”
“I wouldn’t lose it.”
“Dave.”
“Or misuse it.”
“Not a good idea. Not that I don’t trust you, but—”
“Okay.” He unclipped it and handed it over. “When are you going after your father?”
“I want to give it a little time. No point in my going back there if I can’t speak Italian.”
“Maybe you should try Ben Franklin first.”
“I think Galileo’s our best bet.”
“Okay. You’ll have to take some language lessons.”
“That’s the plan.”
“Good. Now, when you’ve done that, and you’re ready to go—”
“Yes?”
“I’m invited, right?”
“Of course. It’s why I came. You
will
come—”
“Sure.”
“Okay. I’ll call you when I’m ready.” He started for the door.
“Shel, one more question. What happens if we materialize in midair? Does the thing always set you on the ground?”
“It wasn’t something I thought to ask. We can put it to him when we find him.” He opened the door. Paused. “Dave, thanks.”
“Sure.”
“And don’t forget: Tell nobody, right?”
“Absolutely.”
“It won’t be easy. I want to talk about this to everybody I know.”
“I hear you. That was once in a lifetime out there tonight.”
SHEL
was dead right. Dave wanted to call everybody. Old friends, his folks, his occasional girlfriend Katie Gibson, the guys on his bowling team, his department chairman at the university. Listen, Professor, you won’t believe this, but guess where I was earlier today. Or no, that wasn’t quite correct. Guess where I was one night in 1931, well before you were born. And who I talked to.
He should have brought something back. And remembered that he had. He reached into his pants pocket and retrieved it: a receipt from Lenox Hill Hospital for an amount that would barely pay a decent restaurant tab today. Dated December 13, 1931.
Looking as if it had been issued within the last hour.
Tomorrow he’d buy a frame. That baby was going to hang over his desk.