“Your esteemed self,” Dakota said.
“Well, if that’s the case, follow me to my study so we can talk.” Edgar Burroughs led Dakota through the spacious residence.
“How are your parents getting along?” Burroughs asked as they entered the study. There was a desk and a number of chairs, maps, bookcases filled with books, and a couple of seascape paintings by one of the oriental masters from the previous century.
“They do very well. Hawaii has been good to them. And to me.”
Burroughs clapped Dakota on the shoulder. “This calls for a drink!” Burroughs stepped to a small table with a decanter of amber liquid, half full, and a couple of glasses. Dakota took the nearest seat.
Burroughs turned to look at Dakota as he poured. He frowned.
“What is it?” Dakota asked.
“You should be much younger. The Hawaiian climate must not be so good for you. Don’t get me wrong. The tan becomes you. But you have...aged. You appear to be my age, and I know you to be at least ten years younger.”
“That’s one of the things we might discuss. You see, I have traveled through time.”
“What’s that you say?” Burroughs very nearly spilled the glass of whiskey, but he corrected himself and handed Dakota the glass. “That’s not possible!”
“Neither is traveling to the Moon, like my mother and father did before I was born.”
“Nor traveling to Mars, I suppose you migh
t say.” Burroughs took the leather chair opposite Dakota. “It seems you have a story to tell me.”
“Yes,” Dakota said. “But, business comes first.”
“Business? What business?”
“I have learned that you are writing a book. A book about the trip to Mars. I have reason to believe that it will be well received.”
“I have been writing a book. How the devil did you know? I haven’t told anyone, to be sure. In fact, I’ve just finished it.”
“May I see the manuscript?” Dakota asked.
“Certainly.” Burroughs stood and walked to his writing desk. He returned with a sheaf of papers three inches thick and handed it to Dakota.
“Under the Moons of Mars. Well, that’s a decent title. Um, do you mind?”
“Oh, of course. Read away.”
Dakota leafed through the manuscript as Edgar Burroughs paced. Finally, he sat down and waited. Dakota paused to read whole passages of the text, then leafed quickly forward until something else struck him. Finally, he shuffled the manuscript back together.
“Well?” Burroughs asked.
“It’s a fine book, I’m sure.”
“What were you looking for?”
“References to my father, my mother, the Argent, Pat Garrett and Avi Rathmandu, not to mention John Carter and Ian, Bixie, Guthrie and myself. I see that I made the trip in vain. We’re not in there. Well, I should say most of us aren’t. John Carter is definitely there, and Princess Dejah Thoris. All the rest is...”
“Fiction?” Burroughs asked.
“Yes. Fiction. I thought to avoid any...potential problems with the agents who assailed us on our last voyage. As far as the world is concerned, Billy the Kid must remain dead. They live in paradise, Edgar. I would not see that despoiled.”
“Nor would I. Nor would I.” Burroughs took a drink and Dakota followed suit, tossing off most of his glass at one whack. “Tell me, Edgar, why didn’t you write the true story of what happened?”
“Why, I did, Dakota. I wrote it as my heart dictated it. You see I loved her. Princess Dejah Thoris. But she wasn’t for me. I see that now. But there is a part of me that will always hold her in my heart. I’m afraid that will be the case until my dying day.”