Time Travelers Never Die (32 page)

“She’s just trying to protect her rear end,” said Shel. “In case it doesn’t turn out well.”

“Is there any real doubt in your mind?”
asked Keller.

 

 

“NO.”
Shel was adamant. “We don’t do anything like that. Let them sort it out themselves.”

Dave was frustrated. “Look: We’ve been saying all along that eventually we’ll destroy the converters. Okay, we can admit our part in this and do a demonstration. Then throw them into the Atlantic.”

“No.”

“Why not? The stuff we brought back is priceless.” They now had more than forty plays, histories, speculations, philosophical documents. They were piling up. “But what good are they if nobody accepts them?”

“I’ll tell you why not. Right now, everybody thinks time travel’s a fantasy. So we prove them wrong, and every physicist on the planet’s going to try to figure out how it’s done. No. If they decide to declare everything a hoax, then so be it.”

“But what’s wrong with it? If they figure it out, and a few of them try to abuse it and end up in the ocean, so what?”

“That’s nickel-and-dime stuff, Dave. Whether there’s really a cardiac principle, I don’t know. It certainly seems as if there is. And if so, and hundreds of converters show up, it might be subject to overload.”

“You’re talking black magic, Shel.”

“Am I? Okay: We’re also talking about a world in which people can travel into the future and bring home the news. Tomorrow’s news, today. What happens when people find out in advance when they’ll die? What their lives are going to amount to? What happens to science if we can just ride into the future and bring back all the answers? What happens to the Phillies when we know in advance what the pennant races will look like for the rest of the century?

“No. We leave it alone.”

They were in the town house, and Shel was seated on his sofa with a collection of classical architectural drawings in his lap. It was a copy of the original plan for the Temple of Zeus at Olympia. The document, later stored at Alexandria, had been signed by Libon, the architect. The plans marked off the space reserved for the majestic statue of Zeus, which would be done by Pheidias.

“So what do we do now?”

“Send the lady some more work. Why not one each from Aeschylus, Euripides, and Aristophanes? And we might include one or two of Hero dotus’s commentaries. Nobody’s ever seen those before.”

“I’ll tell you,” said Dave, “what’ll blow their minds: The memoirs of Thales of Miletus.”

“The scientist?”

“More than that, Shel. He was the guy who
invented
science. Not much is known about him except that he wanted people to look for rational explanations for everything. But nobody realizes he’d left behind a series of journals. They might be the most valuable thing we have.”

“Okay,” he said. “Let’s send them to her. And you know, there’s someplace else I’d like to visit.”

“What did you have in mind?”

Outside, there was a squeal of brakes and angry voices. Somebody yelled something about kids in the street.

Shel paid no attention. He was still looking down at the schematic for Zeus at Olympia.

 

 

THAT
weekend, they went back to Alexandria and spent a couple of hours talking with Aristarchus. They expressed their appreciation for his assistance and told him how grateful the future world was to recover so much of Alexandria’s treasures. Ultimately he asked the question that must have been on his mind since the beginning: “Do you visit other times and places, as well?”

“Yes,” Shel said.

“Ancient Egypt?”

It seemed odd to be sitting in Alexandria in 149 B.C. listening to someone bring up
ancient Egypt
as if it were a remote time. But of course, he was thinking one or two thousand years before his own era. “If we wished, we could go there.”

“Where else
do
you go?”

“This is the earliest time we’ve visited,” said Shel, whose Greek had improved considerably.

“I see. But you
could
go back earlier?”

“Oh, yes.”

“And, if I may—”

“Yes, Aristarchus?”

“I must confess I’d like very much to visit
your
world. Is that possible?”

“Let me think about it,” said Shel. “It would require some preparation.”

“I would be extremely grateful.”

“Of course,” said Shel. “We’ll try to arrange it.”

“I wonder, also, whether any of our dramas have been staged yet? In your time?”

“Not yet,” said Shel. “Unfortunately, we’re having a problem getting people to accept the authenticity of the documents.”

“How could that happen? Surely they know where you got them.”

“No, they don’t.” Shel tried to explain, but it was too complicated for his Greek, and Dave took over. When he’d finished, Aristarchus sat quietly stirring the herbal drink he’d ordered.

“So the future is not quite as welcoming as you said.”

“No,” said Shel. “I may have exaggerated.”

Aristarchus laughed. “Take me there, and I will vouch for their authenticity.”

Dave broke into a broad grin. “You’d be the hit of the season on
Down the Line
.”

“And what is that?”

“A forum.”

“I can see that the action is not practical.”

“Probably not.”

“I could give you a signed statement.” This time all three laughed. “So what will they do with the books?”

Dave was reluctant to answer. “Ignore them, probably,” he said. “For the time being.”

Aristarchus sighed. “It’s almost as if the Library will be destroyed a second time.”

“No.” Shel’s eyes blazed. “The books will survive. One way or another, they will. You have my word.”

The director looked out his office window at the sky. It was night, and the Lighthouse cast its beam out to sea. “Before you came, it is what I thought, too.”

Rejoice! We’ve won!

 

 

 

 

ATLANTIC
Online
carried a story by a prominent Greek scholar stating that the Kephalas Papers, as the plays had become known, were clearly a fraud.
“It is impossible to imagine that anyone,”
it read,
“could confuse these pathetic impostures with classical drama. (Dr. Kephalas), no doubt, has allowed her enthusiasm to cloud her judgment. One can only hope that she will soon step back and allow reason to prevail.”

Others were similar in tone. The
New York Times
thought the plays had no merit, and one “
had to be an idiot
” to think seriously that the hand of Sophocles had produced “
such mundane nonsense
.”

The
Washington Post
agreed, calling the plays imbecilic. The
Inquirer
said they were simply “
sad impersonations
.”

Aspasia was roundly criticized for promoting the hoax.
“It boggles the mind,”
said the
Wall Street Journal
,
“that a scholar of Ms. Kephalas’s reputation could be so completely taken in.”
That Aspasia had been skeptical from the start was not mentioned.

She had left English translations of the
Achilles
and the
Leonidas
up at her Web site, along with a plea for the person or persons who had provided the plays to come forward.
“If these are genuine, you owe it to the world to establish that fact.”

 

 

THE
commotion had died down somewhat when Shel called Dave with another project in mind.
“I want to take a look at the Temple of Zeus. At Olympia. Can I talk you into coming along?”
Dave had known the invitation was imminent.

“When?”

“How about tomorrow?”
It was a Friday afternoon.

“Sure,” he said. “What time?”

“I’ll be there.”

He had a date that night with Marie Rendell, a dark-eyed beauty that he’d met in a bookstore. He took her to a high-school concert, at which one of Marie’s cousins, a twelve-year-old whose name was also Marie, played the piano competently. David went to the event expecting the worst and was surprised at the abilities of the kids.

Afterward, they had a drink, and she charmed him with an electric smile. “What do you do in your spare time, Dave?” she said. “When you’re not teaching?”

“I read a lot. And I enjoy live theater.”

She looked at him curiously. “You’re laughing, Dave.”

“No, I’m not.”

“What is it, really? Are you a hit man? Do you work for the CIA? What?”

“No. I lead a quiet life.”
Though tomorrow I’m going to drop by a Greek temple.

 

 

DAVE
stored his costumes upstairs in a walk-in closet. He went up, picked out one of the robes that he thought had a Hellenic flavor, brought it downstairs, and shook the wrinkles out. When he was finished, he carried it out to the car, folded it carefully, put it in the backseat, and started for Shel’s.

THE
temple was located on a modest rise of land. Shel and Dave stood beneath a cluster of olive trees, watching a small group of people mounting three steps onto the portico, where they passed between columns and disappeared inside.

A series of sculpted figures stood in the gallery.

“Pelops and Oenomaos,” said Shel, indicating two males apparently confronting each other. “And that’s Zeus in the center.”

“Who are Pelops and Oenomaos?”

“Pelops wanted to marry Oenomaos’s daughter. Her father didn’t like the idea, so they agreed to race. Winner would get the prize.”

“Why didn’t Oenomaos simply say no?”

“Don’t know. Maybe it wasn’t culturally correct. Anyhow, one version of the story is that Pelops bribed one of the father’s people to sabotage the chariot. In any case, it fell apart during the race, Oenomaos was killed—”

“—And the couple lived happily ever after.”

“Some of the Greek tales are a bit strange.”

They climbed onto the portico, walked from end to end, admiring the statuary. And finally, they went inside.

Dave caught his breath. The statue of Zeus, still famous in the third millennium even though long gone, dominated the interior. It was magnific ent, painted predominantly in silver and blue, and it stood about four stories high.

“The temple will be here for a thousand years,” said Shel. “Then it’ll be hit by an earthquake. And what’s left will sink into floodwaters. It’ll get lost, and will be forgotten until it’s rediscovered in the eighteenth century.”

The people who’d preceded them inside stood quietly, their heads bowed. There were others, two women in a dark corner, a man in military garb holding a helmet under his arm, and a group of teens gazing up at Zeus.

Oil lamps provided an amber luminescence. Other sculpted figures occupied niches in the walls. Dave couldn’t make out everything in the uncertain light, but he saw grapes and swords and wings.