Time Travelers Never Die Part 52

"Sure." Helen got her jacket from the closet. "I should be on my way anyhow." She patted Dave's shoulder in a comradely way and let herself out.

"Doctor," said Lake, "you've said you were home in bed at the time Dr. Shelborne's home burned. Is that correct?"

"Yes. That's right." When she'd asked her questions before, Dave had been annoyed. Now he felt queasy. Now he was, in a sense, the perp.

"Are you sure?"

The question hung in the sunlit air. "Of course. Why do you ask?" He could read nothing in her expression.

"Someone answering your description was seen near the town house at the time of the fire."

"It wasn't me me." Dave immediately thought of the man at the gas station. And he'd been driving Shel's car. With his vanity plate in front just in case anybody wasn't paying attention.

"Okay. I wonder if you'd mind coming down to the station with me, so we can clear the matter up? Get it settled?"

"Sure. Be glad to." They stood. "Give me a minute, okay? I need to use the washroom."

"Certainly," she said. There was one on the first floor, and she waited while he went into it.

He called Helen. "Don't panic," "Don't panic," she said. she said. "All you need is a good alibi." "All you need is a good alibi."

"I don't have have an alibi." an alibi."

"For G.o.d's sake, Dave. You've got something better. You have a time machine." time machine."

"Okay. Sure. But if I go back and set up an alibi, why didn't I tell them the truth in the beginning?"

"Because you were protecting a woman's reputation," she said. she said. "What else would you be doing at four o'clock in the morning? Get out your little black book." "What else would you be doing at four o'clock in the morning? Get out your little black book." The problem was that Dave didn't The problem was that Dave didn't have have a little black book. a little black book.

CHAPTER 42.

That old bald cheater, Time.

-BEN JONSON, THE POETASTER THE POETASTER

DAVE had been reasonably successful with women, but not so much that he needed to organize a data center. Not to the extent, certainly, that he could call one with a reasonable hope of finishing the night in her bed. Except maybe Katie, who would do it as a favor, but he didn't want to involve her in this. What other option was there? He could try to pick somebody up in a bar, but you didn't really lie to the police in a murder case over a pickup. had been reasonably successful with women, but not so much that he needed to organize a data center. Not to the extent, certainly, that he could call one with a reasonable hope of finishing the night in her bed. Except maybe Katie, who would do it as a favor, but he didn't want to involve her in this. What other option was there? He could try to pick somebody up in a bar, but you didn't really lie to the police in a murder case over a pickup.

Well, he'd have to come up with something. Meantime, he would need his car keys. He came out of the washroom, apologized to Lieutenant Lake for the delay, got his keys, and started out with her. "Oops," he said. And stopped, patting his rear pocket.

"What's wrong?"

"Let me get my wallet."

He went upstairs, into his bedroom, and used the converter to return to the night of the fire, to Thursday evening, when he'd been out with Katie. It was about seven hours before the town house burned.

He came back down into the den and let himself out. The garage, of course, was empty. He used the converter again to move forward to 12:30. He was home by then, and the lights were out in his bedroom.

He held his breath while the garage door rolled up. But everything stayed quiet. He opened the car door as quietly as he could, slid behind the wheel, started the engine, and backed out into the street.

HE wasn't going to find a credible woman wandering the streets, so he pulled over to the curb beside an all-night restaurant to think about it. He was in a run-down area lined with crumbling warehouses. A police cruiser slowed and eased in behind him. The cop got out, and David lowered the window. "Anything wrong, Officer?" he asked. The cop was small, black, well pressed. wasn't going to find a credible woman wandering the streets, so he pulled over to the curb beside an all-night restaurant to think about it. He was in a run-down area lined with crumbling warehouses. A police cruiser slowed and eased in behind him. The cop got out, and David lowered the window. "Anything wrong, Officer?" he asked. The cop was small, black, well pressed.

"I was going to ask you the same thing, sir. This is not a safe area."

"I was just trying to decide whether I wanted a hamburger."

"Yes, sir," he said. Dave could hear the murmur of the police radio. "Listen, I'd make up my mind, one way or the other. I wouldn't hang around out here if I were you."

Dave smiled, and gave him a thumbs-up. "Thanks," he said.

The policeman got back into his cruiser and pulled out. David watched his lights turn left at the next intersection. And he knew what he was going to do.

HE crossed over into New Jersey and drove south on Route 130 for about a half hour. Then he turned east on a two-lane. Somewhere around two thirty, he entered a small town and decided it was just what he was looking for. Its police station occupied a drab two-story building beside the post office. The Red Lantern Bar was located about two blocks away, on the other side of the street. crossed over into New Jersey and drove south on Route 130 for about a half hour. Then he turned east on a two-lane. Somewhere around two thirty, he entered a small town and decided it was just what he was looking for. Its police station occupied a drab two-story building beside the post office. The Red Lantern Bar was located about two blocks away, on the other side of the street.

He parked in a lighted spot close to the police station, walked to the bar, and went inside. It was smoky and subdued, reeking with dead cigarettes and stale beer. Most of the action was near the dartboard.

He settled in at the bar and commenced drinking scotch. He stayed with it until the bartender suggested he'd had enough, which usually wouldn't have taken long. But that night his mind stayed clear. Not his motor coordination, though. He paid up, eased off the stool, and negotiated his way back onto the street.

He turned right and walked methodically toward the police station, putting one foot in front of the other. When he got close, he added a little panache to his stagger, tried a couple of practice giggles, and lurched in through the front door.

A man with corporal's stripes came out of a back room.

"Good evening, Officer," he said, with exaggerated formality and the widest grin he could manage, which was then pretty wide. "Can you give me directions to Atlantic City?"

The corporal shook his head. "Do you have some identification, sir?" "Yes, I do," Dave said. "But I don't see why my name is any business of yours. I'm in a hurry."

"Where are you from?" His eyes narrowed.

"Two weeks from Sunday." David looked at his watch. "I'm a time traveler."

LIEUTENANT Lake was surprised and, Dave thought, disappointed to learn that he had been in jail on the night of the fire. She said that she understood why he'd been reluctant to explain, but admonished him on the virtues of being honest with law-enforcement personnel. Lake was surprised and, Dave thought, disappointed to learn that he had been in jail on the night of the fire. She said that she understood why he'd been reluctant to explain, but admonished him on the virtues of being honest with law-enforcement personnel.

When she'd left, he called Helen. "Let's go rescue your boyfriend."

CHAPTER 43.

Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang- -WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, SONNET 73

"THE question you are really asking, Simmias, is whether death annihilates the soul." Socrates looked from one to another of his friends. question you are really asking, Simmias, is whether death annihilates the soul." Socrates looked from one to another of his friends.

Simmias was young and clear-eyed, like most of the others, but subdued in the shadow of the prison house. "It is an important matter," he said. "There is none of more importance. But we were reluctant-" He hesitated, his voice caught, and he could go no further.

"I understand," said Socrates. "You fear this is an indelicate moment to raise such an issue. But if you would discuss it with me, we cannot very well postpone it, can we?"

"No, Socrates," said a thin young man with red hair. "Unfortunately, we cannot." This, Dave suspected, was Crito.

Despite Plato's account, the final conversation between Socrates and his disciples did not take place in his cell. It might well have begun there, but they were in a wide, utilitarian meeting room when Helen and Dave arrived. Several women were present. Socrates, then seventy years old, sat at ease on a wooden chair, while the others gathered around him in a half circle.

"I don't see him," Helen said, seconds after they'd entered.

Neither did Dave. That was a surprise. Shel had indicated several times that he wanted to partic.i.p.ate in the final Socratic discussion.

Socrates was, at first glance, a man of mundane appearance. He was of average height, for the time, and clean-shaven. He wore a dull red robe, and, considering the circ.u.mstances, he maintained a remarkable equanimity. And his eyes were extraordinary, conveying the impression that they were lit from within. When they fell on Dave, as they did from time to time, he imagined that Socrates knew where he'd come from and why he was there.

Beside him, Helen writhed under the impact of conflicting emotions. She had been ecstatic at the chance to see Shel again. When he did not arrive, she looked at Dave as if to say that she had told him so and settled back to watch history unfold.

She was, Dave thought, initially disappointed in that the event seemed nothing more than a few people sitting around talking in an uncomfortable room in a prison. And speaking Greek, at that. It was as if the scene should somehow be scored and ch.o.r.eographed and played to m.u.f.fled drums. She had read Plato's account before they left. Dave tried to translate for her, but they eventually gave it up. She explained that she could get most of the meaning from her prior knowledge and the nonverbals. "When?" she whispered, after they'd been there almost an hour. "When does it happen?"

"Sunset, I think."

She made a noise deep in her throat.

"Why do men fear death?" Socrates asked.

"Because," said Crito, "they believe it is the end of existence."

There were almost twenty people present. Most were young, but there was a sprinkling of middle-aged and elderly persons. One wore a hood. His beard was streaked with gray, and he had intense dark eyes. He gazed sympathetically at Socrates throughout, and periodically nodded when the philosopher hammered home a particularly salient point. There was something in his manner that suggested a young Moses.

"And do all men fear death?" asked the philosopher.

"Most a.s.suredly, Socrates," said a boy, who could have been no more than eighteen.

Socrates addressed the boy. "Do even the brave fear death, Cebes?"

Cebes thought it over. "I have to think so, Socrates."

"Why, then," asked Socrates, "do the valiant dare death? Is it perhaps because they fear something else even more?"

"The loss of their honor," said Crito.

"Thus we are faced with the paradox that even the brave are driven by fear. Can we find no one who can face death with equanimity who is not not driven by fear?" driven by fear?"

Moses stared at Helen. Dave moved protectively closer to her.

"Of all men," said Crito, "only you seem to show no concern at its approach."

Socrates smiled. "Of all men," he said, "only a philosopher can truly face down death. Because he knows quite certainly that the soul will proceed to a better existence. Provided he has maintained a lifelong pursuit of knowledge and virtue, and has not allowed his soul, which is his divine essence, to become entangled in concerns of the body. For when this happens, the soul takes on corporeal characteristics. And when death comes, it cannot escape. This is why cemeteries are restless at night."

"How can we be sure," asked a man in a blue toga, "that the soul, even if it succeeds in surviving the trauma of death, is not blown away by the first strong wind?"

It was not intended as a serious question, but Socrates saw that it affected the others. So he answered lightly, observing that it would be prudent to die on a calm day, then undertook a serious response. He asked questions which elicited admissions that the soul was not physical and therefore could not be a composite object. "I think we need not fear that it will come apart," he said, with a touch of amus.e.m.e.nt.

One of the jailers lingered in the doorway throughout the long discussion. He seemed worried, and at one point cautioned Socrates against speaking too much, or getting excited. "If you get the heat up," he said, "the poison will not work well."

"We would not wish that," said Socrates. But he saw the pained expression on the jailer's face, and David thought he immediately regretted the remark.

Women arrived with dinner, and several stayed, so that the room became more crowded. In fact, no doors were locked, and no guards, other than the reluctant jailer, were in evidence. Phaedo, who is the narrator of Plato's account, was beside Dave. He whispered that the authorities hoped profoundly that Socrates would run off. "Davidius," he added, "they did everything they could to avoid this. There is even a rumor that last night they offered him money and transportation."

Socrates saw them conversing, and he said, "Is there something in my reasoning that disturbs you?"

Dave had momentarily lost the train of the discussion, but Phaedo said, "Yes, Socrates. However, I am reluctant to put my objection to you."

Socrates turned a skeptical gaze on him. "Truth is what it is. Tell me what disturbs you, Phaedo."

He hesitated, and Dave realized he was making sure of his voice. "Then let me ask," he said in a carefully neutral tone, "whether you are being truly objective on this matter? The sun is not far from the horizon and, although it grieves me to say it, were I in your position, I also would argue in favor of immortality."

"Were you in his position," said Crito, with a smile, "you would have taken the first ship to Syracuse." The company laughed together, Socrates and Phaedo as heartily as any, and the strain seemed broken for the moment.

Socrates waited for the room to quiet. "You are of course correct in asking, Phaedo. Am I seeking truth? Or trying to convince myself? I can only respond that, if my arguments are valid, then that is good. If they are false, and death does indeed mean annihilation, they nevertheless arm me to withstand its approach. And that, too, is good." He looked utterly composed. "If I'm wrong, it's an error that won't survive the sunset."

Simmias was seated immediately to the right of Moses. "I for one am convinced," he said. "Your arguments do not admit of refutation. And it is a comfort to me to believe that we have it in our power to draw this company together again in some place of G.o.d's choosing."

"Yes," said Crito. "I agree. And, Socrates, we are fortunate to have you here to explain it to us."

"Anyone who has thought about these issues," said Socrates, "should be able to reach, if not truth, at least a high degree of probability. And I would add, whatever validity may attach to our speculations, that the critical lesson to be taken away from this hour is that the lives we know are not forever. Live well. Enjoy what time is given you. It is a magnificent gift."

Moses seemed weighed down with the distress of the present calamity. Still, he continued to glance periodically at Helen. Now, for the first time, he spoke: "I very much fear, Socrates, that within a few hours there will be no one left anywhere in h.e.l.las, or anywhere else, for that matter, who will be able to make these matters plain."

"That's Shel Shel's voice," Helen gasped, straining forward to see better. The light was not good, and he was facing away from Helen and David, his features hidden in the folds of his hood. Then he turned and looked openly at Helen, and smiled sadly. His lips formed the English words h.e.l.lo, Helen h.e.l.lo, Helen.

She was getting to her feet.

At that moment, the jailer appeared with the poisoned cup, and the sight of him, and the silver vessel, froze everyone in the chamber. "I hope you understand, Socrates," he said, "this is not my doing."

"I know that, Thereus," said Socrates. "I am not angry with you."

"They always want to blame me me," Thereus said.