The area was as crowded as ever. The shops had retreated into malls. Clothes were lighter, brighter, more formfitting than in his time. Men and women both wore hats. Hairstyles for women were more formal. Among the men, he saw only one or two beards.
Two new skyscrapers had been added, giant towers dwarfing the old skyline. The ground shook briefly, signaling the passing of an underground train.
He rode one of the walkways, enjoying the warm air, his coat folded over one arm, and wandered into another hotel, the Shamrock. He stopped by the convenience store but saw no magazines or books. He would have liked to buy a chocolate bar, which were on plentiful display, but nobody seemed to be using paper money.
He wondered about himself. He’d be ninety-one now. There was a lot of talk about life extension during the first two decades of the century, but as of 2019 nothing much had happened. It was possible he was still charging around out there, playing tennis, living the good life. If that were true, the Shelborne of 2079 would remember that his younger self had visited Rittenhouse Square on this day. And he’d be here, somewhere, to say hello. Wouldn’t be able to resist that.
It was 11:03 A.M., May 12. A Friday. Okay. He made a mental note. I’ll be here.
He stopped walking. Waited. Looked around.
Nobody.
Of course, the area was crowded. The walkways were filled with people. Some shoppers. Some with kids. Many apparently on business. He’d be hard to find.
One thing he couldn’t help noticing: The downtown area was home to as many beautiful young women as ever. It looked as if civilization was moving along nicely.
Dave had it right.
HE got onto a northbound walkway, discovering in the process that they were referred to as “tracks.” What had once been Market Street was now a long canal, with tracks on either side. He stayed northbound and crossed on a bridge, headed for the old Parkway.
It was still there, although, aside from an electric train, there were no vehicles of any kind. It was strictly grass, trees, fountains, and benches. To the southeast, the original City Hall remained, and William Penn still stood guard over the city. At the opposite end, the Art Museum appeared unchanged. He wondered if the statue of Rocky was still there.
The Philadelphia Library, which had, in his time, been located on the north side of the Parkway, was now a museum. A larger, more imposing library had been constructed behind it. He got off the track and walked inside.
The bookshelves were gone. Well, he shouldn’t have been surprised at that. Even in his own time, books and magazines were disappearing. Booths equipped with display screens were everywhere. Most were occupied. He found an empty one and sat down.
The screen lit up. A message appeared: PLEASE PUT ON EARPHONES. He complied. A voice said, “Hello.”
“Hello,” he said.
“How may I help you?”
“Scientific advances of the past sixty years, please.”
The screen gave him a series of categories: ARCHAEOLOGY, ASTRONOMY, BIOLOGY, ELECTRONICS, GEOLOGY, MATHEMATICS, MEDICINE, PHYSICS, ZOOLOGY. “Please choose one.”
He stared at the screen. What would happen if he did a general search and entered his own name? What would he read about himself?
God, he was tempted.
“Sir, would you prefer alternative choices? Perhaps delineated more specifically?”
What had been happening in the world over these last sixty years? Was the nation at peace? Had we succeeded in getting rid of nuclear weapons? Had the religious fanatics gone away?
Did we still have elections?
“Sir?”
Most of all, he wondered what his own life had been like. He turned away from the screen and looked behind him, half-expecting to see an older version of himself coming toward him. Smiling at him. Reassuring him.
CHAPTER 18
There is nothing done by human hands that ultimately time does not bring down.
—CICERO, PRO MARCELLO
SHEL and Dave arrived in Alexandria during the late fall of 149 B.C., more than a century, according to Plutarch, before Julius Caesar invaded the area in his war against Ptolemy XIII and accidentally burned the Library down. “That’s probably not the way it happened, though,” said Shel, who’d read everything he could find on the subject. “It might have been the Christians who did it. Which would have been a few hundred years later.”
“Persecuting pagans.”
“That’s correct. They were demolishing everything associated with the old gods. Temples, statuary, manuscripts, anything they got hold of was burned or wrecked. The guy behind it here was, umm—”
“Theophilus,” said Dave. “He didn’t approve of pagans. But nobody’s really sure who was responsible. The Library might have survived as late as the seventh century.”
Shel checked a paper notebook. “Caliph Omar,” he said.
“Right. The story is that he thought the books would either contradict the Koran, in which case they should be destroyed, or they would agree, which would make them superfluous.”
“Never a shortage of idiots.”
The celebrated Alexandria Lighthouse commanded the mouth of the harbor. It was situated on the island of Pharos and connected to the main-land by a walkway. It would in time be declared one of the seven wonders of the ancient world. Like the Library, it would eventually vanish.
“Did Alexander really found this place?” Shel asked. “I couldn’t find anything definite.”
“That’s the legend. I don’t think anybody really knows.”
The anchor of the Library complex was the Museum, named for the Muses. It was a majestic structure, wide as a football field, and could easily have served as a temple. It was two stories high at the center, rising to five along its periphery. A silver dome rose over the roof.
It was built of white marble and polished stone. The surrounding grounds were filled with statuary and fountains and greenery. A pair of colonnades connected it to three buildings of comparable grandeur though of more modest dimensions. “This is my father’s kind of place,” said Shel.
They wore togas and sported beards again. Two of Dave’s female friends had complained about the beard, suggesting he was getting pretentious. Helen had simply raised her eyebrows and asked Shel whether he and Dave had a bet going. They strolled quietly through the complex, marveling that the ancients were capable of such magnificent architecture. Seeing artists’ representations, and seeing the real thing, constituted vastly different experiences.
The grounds were filled with visitors. Some appeared to be scholars. Children played variations of tag and threw balls around while their mothers watched. As Shel and Dave approached the Museum, a group of teenagers made their exit, descending the marble steps. There was an older woman with them. A teacher, possibly. They looked relieved, happy to be outside again. And Shel thought how some things never change.
Two statues, each about twenty feet high, flanked the approach: a winged female and a bearded deity who must have been Jupiter. Shel paused to admire them, trying not to gape. “Wish we could get one of them home,” he said.
“We could try transporting one,” said Dave. “See if the converter would take it.”
“Are you serious?”
“No. Not really. They belong here.”
At the front entrance of the Museum, the steps mounted to a portico. Massive columns supported the roof.
There were more carved gods in the portico. Shel recognized Apollo. And Mercury, with his winged heels. And two females. One had a bow slung over her shoulder. That would be Diana. Her companion was older. Probably Hera.
The front doors were massive, maybe three times Shel’s height. They were adorned with more deities, as well as warriors, triremes, chariots, vines, and trees. Two of the doors were ajar.
They passed inside.
THERE was a cluster of large rooms. Halls, really. Lush carpets covered the floors. The walls were dark marble, decorated with oil paintings of warships and scholars p
oring over scrolls and beautiful women watching the moon rise and couples making love. Narrow columns screened walkways around the perimeters of the rooms. Tables and chairs were everywhere. Men and women sat reading in some areas and carried on meetings in others. Wide windows in walls and ceilings admitted sunlight. A librarian was stationed behind a long, curved counter.
Shel felt self-conscious in his toga. It was a bit too long, and too wide. He decided he’d have it taken in when they got back to Philadelphia. “You have any idea where we go from here?” asked Dave.
“I’d say the information counter. Let’s go check out your Greek.”
The librarian was a young man, barely twenty, extremely thin, with brown hair and brown eyes. He smiled and said something.
“Hérete,” said Dave. “En érgon tou Sophocléous zitoúmen.”
“Poíon akrivós, kírie?”
“Éhete katálogon ton iparxónton?”
Shel understood some of it. Dave had told him they were looking for one of the Sophoclean plays. Which one? And Dave had asked whether there was a list.
“There are catalogs over there.” The librarian pointed toward a table. “If you know what you’re looking for, I believe we have every play extant.” A woman approached and placed a scroll on the counter. She glanced up at Dave and smiled.
The outside of the scroll was marked. If Shel’s spoken Greek was shaky, his ability to read text was nonexistent. “Dave, can you tell what it is?”
Dave tried to look without seeming unduly curious. “It’s number eleven of The Journals of Themistocles.”
“Themistocles? He was . . . ?”
“The guy who saved Greek civilization during the Persian Wars. But I don’t think there’s any record of a journal.”
The librarian picked up the scroll, made a note in a ledger, and looked at Dave, who had not moved. “Is there anything else, sir?”
“Yes,” said Dave. “Do you know if Aristarchus is available? We’d like very much to speak with him.”
“And your name, sir?”
“Davidius. We’re visiting scholars.”
“Very good. Do you have an appointment?”
“No, we don’t.”
“All right. Let me see if he’s available.” He signaled a teenage girl and sent her to make the query. “It’ll take a few minutes. Where will you be?”
“Looking at the catalogs.”
The catalogs were in scroll form, works listed by title and by author. Dave zeroed in on Sophocles, and Shel took out his notebook.
“Incredible,” Dave said.
“What?”
“He was right. They must have all his plays. There are more than a hundred of them listed here.”
Shel couldn’t make anything out of the Greek characters.
“Here’s the Achilles.” David ran his finger down the list. “Theseus. Odysseus in Ithaca.” He gave a silent cheer and raised a fist in triumph.
“Good.” It was a pleasure watching Dave get excited. Shel thought he was going to explode.
“The Troilus.”
“Dave, is it possible the other ones got lost because nobody really cared?”
Dave paid no attention. “The Last Labor,” he said. “Probably Hercules.”
“What else is there?”
“The Hawks. Parnassus. Hey, here’s an interesting one.”
“What’s that?”
“Circe. And one I’m not sure how to translate.”
“Try.”
“Hours in Flight. No. Time Passing. Maybe Last Days. And Andromache at the Gate.” He couldn’t take his eyes off the list. “And Leonidas.”
Shel was fingering his gooseberry, which they’d use to get the pictures. “Which ones do we want to start with?”
A middle-aged man in orange robes joined them and addressed Dave: “I understand you are Davidius? Do I have that right?” He was too young to be Aristarchus, who would have been in his sixties.
“That’s correct. This is my associate, Shel Shelborne.”
“Pleased to meet you. I’m Clovian. One of the librarians.” He looked at Shel. “An unusual name, sir. May I ask where you are from?”
“Philadelphia,” said Shel.
“I never heard of it.”
Dave could see Shel struggling, so he broke in: “It’s a long way from here.”
“Britain?”
“Farther than that.”
“Really? How long will you be staying in Alexandria?”
“Only a few days.”
“I see. Do you have a book with you? If you do, we’d like very much to see it. And possibly, with your permission, make a copy.”
“No. I’m sorry. We didn’t bring one along.”
“Pity. But all right. It’s not a problem. Had you planned to look at any of our books?”
“Yes, we did.”
“Of course. But before we can allow you to do so, you’ll have to join the Library.”
“We’d be pleased to do that.”
“There’s no charge.” He handed each of them a sheet of paper. “Please print your name, your profession, and tell us where you can be reached. And date and sign.”
Clovian wandered off while they filled in the requested information. Shel signed his and frowned.
“What?” asked Dave.
“What’s the date?”
“Let’s find out.” They got up and went to the desk, where the young librarian was leafing through the ledger. He looked up. “Sorry about the wait,” he said. “We haven’t heard anything yet. It will take a while.”
“Okay. Can you tell me today’s date?”
He took a moment to think. “Hathyr seventeen.”
The form also needed a year. Shel could see Dave consider the matter. There was no way to ask. Finally, he scribbled a date and handed the paper back. Shel did likewise.
The librarian squinted at the forms, looked as if he had a question. But then he shrugged, opened a drawer, and dropped the documents inside. “Thank you, friends. By the way, I’ve heard of the University of Pennsylvania.”
“It’s well-known.”
“Yes. Well, it’s an honor to have you here. Which book did you wish to see?”
Shel looked at Dave. You call it. “Achilles,” said Dave.
The librarian nodded and went into the back room.
“Do we have any idea what year it is?” asked Shel.
“Thirty something year in the reign of Ptolemy VI.”
The librarian returned with a scroll. “You understand you may not take it out of the building.”
“Yes. Of course.”
“I’ll notify you when we hear from the director.”
THEY took the scroll into a side room, sat down at a table, and unrolled it. Shel looked at the Greek characters, and his level of frustration rose. “I’m never going to be able to read this,” he said. “What’s it about? When he kills Hector?”
“Give me a few minutes. Let me look at it.”
They were alone in the room. Shel got up, circled the table a few times, and went back out into the main library area. He stood admiring the art, observing the visitors, and trying not to look out of place. Sixty or so people were scattered around the tables and visible in the side rooms. A couple of elderly men near a rear entrance argued quietly about something. Two gray-haired women and a girl who was about sixteen were seated in modern-looking armchairs, all absorbed in their reading. (It was an odd thing: Shel had always thought of the ancient world the way Hollywood portrays it: a place inhabited by warriors, elderly philosophers, and maidens who need rescuing. Somehow, older women had been missing, and he’d never visualized teens in armchairs.)
A middle-aged man carried a scroll to the desk. The librarian made a note, they spoke briefly, and the man turned and left. The librarian carried the scroll into the back room.
Eventually, Shel went back and sat beside Dave. “I’m working on it,” Dave said, without looking up. “It’s Achilles trying to make peace at Troy.”
“Okay.”
“After Hector’s death.”
Shel cleared his throat.
“What?” said Dave.
“Why don’t we read the rest of it at home?”
“Oh. Sure. Okay.”
Shel handed him the gooseberry, which combined an imager, a telephone, a flashlight, a game player, and a recording and storage device. He went back to the beginning of the scroll.
“Here,” said Shel, “let me hold it flat.”
Dave raised the lid of the device, the red power lamp blinked on, and the screen brightened. A half dozen icons flashed across the screen, and finally the words, Ready to go, big guy. He activated the imager and started to record.
They took three pictures of each section, just to be safe. Explanations might be awkward, so they both kept an eye on the doorway in case someone came in. When they’d finished, they took Achilles back to the desk and returned it to the librarian.
“That was quick,” he said.
Dave nodded. “We were just doing some research.”
“I see. Do you teach literature?”
“Theater.”
“Excellent. It’s good to know there are still dedicated people out there. Kids today need all the help they can get. Nobody asked me, but I think the world is going downhill.” He shook his head sadly. “How do you like our library?”
“Asyngrito,” said Shel, showing off his skills. Unequaled. Without parallel. “You’d never guess how much,” he said in English.
The librarian smiled. Said something Shel didn’t catch. Looked amused.
Dave checked his notes. “Might we see Odysseus in Ithaca?”
“Yes. Of course.”
“Why don’t we try to move it along,” said Shel in English.
Time Travelers Never Die Page 17
