Free Time Travelers Never Die by Jack McDevitt

woman’s voice.
    “Yes. Who is it, please?”
    “Charlotte.” His cousin. “Have you heard anything new about your father?”
    “Nothing yet, Charlotte. Listen, let me get back to you. Just a few minutes. I’m expecting a call.”
    “But you haven’t heard anything? I wondered because you answered sort of funny.”
    “No. I think I got confused, Charlotte. Listen. I’ll call you right back.” He disconnected and put the phone down on the coffee table. Beside the connector. The calibrator. Whatever the damned thing was called. And he started thinking how he’d explain it to Charlotte. And Jerry. And everybody else.
    Maybe it wasn’t just his father’s problem at that.
     
     
    HEAVY Hitters was running commercials. Take this to increase your sexual prowess. Take that to get rid of arthritic knees. The moderator returned, posed against the standard background of the Capitol dome, inviting everyone to be with him tomorrow when his special guest would be Elizabeth Staple, who was head of the House Judiciary Committee. Then he was gone, and the nine o’clock show, The News Room , started, with its discordant theme that suggested the world was going mad. Host Bob Ostermaier appeared behind his desk with a handful of papers. “Tonight,” he said, “Washington has a brand-new sex scandal involving a senator who’s spent most of his career running on family values.”
    Shel turned it off.
    He sat in the sudden stillness. He could hear music somewhere.
    It was two minutes after nine.
    He picked up the phone, put it in his pocket, and went out to the garage. Fifteen minutes later, he pulled into his dad’s driveway. Under the basket. The house was dark, save for the security lights.
     
     
    HE waited an hour. He sat in the car with the converter on the seat beside him and the cell phone in his pocket, and he realized he’d done the wrong thing. Shouldn’t have caved in. Should have insisted he be allowed to go along. But of course he’d always caved in to his father.
    He took out the cell phone and punched in Dave’s number. It was late, but that was what friends were for.
    Dave was in a restaurant somewhere. “Hello, Shel,” he said. He took a minute to speak to someone else. Then he was back. “Anything wrong?”
    “Yeah. You teach Greek and Latin.”
    “More or less.”
    “How’s your Italian?”
    “It’s okay. Maybe a little shaky. Why? You headed for Rome?”
    “Dave, are you doing anything Saturday morning?”
    “I’ll be on the run. What’s wrong?”
    “I’ve got a problem.”
    “What do you need, Shel?”
    “I want to show you something.”

CHAPTER 7
    Americans generally do the right thing, after first exhausting all the available alternatives.
    —WINSTON CHURCHILL
     
     
     
     
    DAVE was at one of those stages in his life where nothing special was happening. He’d gotten bored with classroom work. He spent most of his evenings grading papers, preparing seminars, and watching old movies on TV. There were a few women drifting around the fringes. But none for whom he could work up any passion.
    Except Helen. His heart fluttered every time he saw her. Every time he thought about her.
    She’d been the reason he’d hesitated when Shel asked about Saturday morning. She usually ate a late Saturday breakfast at the Serendip on Cleaver Street. He’d seen her there occasionally and had planned to run into her. Accidentally, of course. Why, Helen, nice to see you. He’d liked her for a long time, but her reaction to him had always been not exactly cool, but indifferent. He’d asked her out a few times, but she’d always found a reason why she couldn’t manage it. Next time maybe, she’d told him. But the message was clear enough: Take the hint, Dave. He was accustomed, though, to pretty much getting his way with women. If he stayed with it, he was sure he could win her over.
    Discovering that Shel was on her track had come as something of a shock. He should have informed Shel that