Rebel in Time

'It does. So what is wrong with that?'

'Everything. It's all a lie. The colonel's kinfolk appear to all be white trash, and he has had nothing to do with them since he left home. You might say that they are all spongers and grafters, with the whole lot on welfare as far as we can find out.'

'So what's wrong with that? Local boy makes good. It's an American success story.'

'Not quite. McCulloch has worked very hard to conceal this background from everyone — including those same relatives. Just once, as far as we can discover, one of them found him and paid a visit. A first cousin came to see him when he was stationed at Fort Dix. McCulloch gave him such a beating that the man was in the hospital for three weeks. At first there was talk of a lawsuit, but the cousin dropped the charges and went home. Rumour at the time had it that a large sum of money changed hands to shut him up.'

'I'm beginning to like your colonel less and less. What else have you found out?'

'That in the last year he has had some new interests that just don't fit his past history. You'll remember that he never read, never bought a book, never went to the movies or even looked at television. That all changed quite suddenly. He began to buy books, to go to libraries and museums. I am very curious to know why. The FBI is feeding all the details that we can uncover into a computer, to see if we can uncover trends, topics, interests of some kind that might explain what he was doing. And in about one hour I have an appointment that may help to clarify things.' Troy held up a letter.

'The police have been intercepting all of McCulloch's mail. This letter arrived in the morning delivery today. A curator at the Smithsonian wants to see him at once, about matters of the utmost urgency. He obviously doesn't know that McCulloch is missing. I made an appointment in his name.'

'None of this makes sense,' the admiral said, looking into the bowl of his pipe as though seeking to find an answer there.

'No — not yet. But it will. It is just a matter of fitting all of the parts together and seeing the pattern that they make.'

Now, sitting in the stuffy waiting room in the Smithsonian Institute, Troy wished that the answers were as obvious as he made them sound when he was talking to the admiral. But they would be, they had to be. The answer might be incredible — but it would be clear.

'Mr Dryer will see you now,' the secretary said. Troy stood and went in. He was not in uniform, but instead was wearing a dark suit under his raincoat.

'You're not Colonel McCulloch!' Dryer said, drawing back. He was a beanpole of a man, tall and thin, with his well-worn jacket hanging from him in loose folds. His neck was wrinkled and wattled with age, his white hair a loose cloud around his head. This picture of advanced senility was relieved only by his dark eyes, as clear and penetrating as a youth's.

'No, I'm not. My name is Harmon. My work…'

'I really don't care what your work is, Mr Harmon. What I have to discuss with the colonel is confidential. Please return to him and tell him that he must come himself, in person. He will know why.'

'I would like to know the reasons why myself, Mr Dryer. Here is my identification. The colonel is under investigation at the moment. We hope that you will aid us in that investigation. If you are in any doubt I have an extension in the Pentagon for you to call…'

'I have no doubts, no doubts at all, young man. My work deals with military documentation and I know the real thing when I see it. Could you tell me what the investigation concerns?'

'I'm sorry, but that part is classified. But I can assure you that Colonel McCulloch will not be able to see you at the present time. All of his mail goes to the police department. They forwarded your letter to me.'

Dryer pressed his hair down as he nodded; it sprang back as soon as he released it. 'Well, I shan't push you any more on that. But it sounds more drastic than anything that I wanted to discuss with him. I just wanted to point out to the colonel that certain documents he borrowed were library file copies and that, strictly speaking, they should not have been removed from this building. But exceptions are made, of course, to a military man of his rank, considering the nature of our collection.'

'May I ask what that is?'

'The Technological Archives of the United States Army. We have grant money from both private industry and the military. Our facilities are not open to the public, though any qualified researcher may have access. And military officers as well, of course.'

'May I ask what the archives contain?'

'Books, models and documents relating to the history of American military technology — from the birth of our nation right up to today. We are rather proud of our rifled flintlocks, some rare specimens, as well as the working drawings of the research that preceded the development of the first tanks…'

'I do agree, quite impressive. But could you tell me what Colonel McCulloch's interest was?'

'History of small arms. He was a serving infantry officer so that is understandable. He is really quite knowledgeable in this area, and I speak with authority when I say…'

'Yes, Mr Dryer, of course.' Troy had the horrible feeling that if he didn't interrupt he would be in this chair, getting lectured to, for the rest of his life. 'But what exactly was it that the colonel took and did not return?'

'Blueprints. Of the Sten-gun. The 9 millimetre Sten machine carbine, Mark Two, to be exact.'

'I've never heard of it.'

'No reason that you should. It hasn't been manufactured for over forty years. But it is well known in military circles, while the blueprints do have a certain historical value. I want them returned at once. If they are returned nothing will be said about the matter. But you must understand, abduction of historical documents is no laughing matter.'

'No. It certainly isn't,' Troy agreed. Neither is murder. But how did this ancient gun fit in? 'Do you know why the colonel was interested in this specific weapon?'

'No particular reason, I am sure. I told you he was interested in all weapons of this type. He was also enthusiastic about comparing various weapons, and has many times pointed out to me characteristics I would never have noticed, things that he saw when he actually had them in his hands. I sincerely hope this present difficulty will be…'

'Excuse me, I'm sorry to interupt, but you say he held the weapons? Do you have models here?'

'Not models, sir, the real thing. The Army has donated many obsolete weapons, private collectors as well.'

Perhaps looking at this old popgun might help to explain McCulloch's interest. And yes, Dryer would be happy to show it to him. 'They are not intended for public display,' he explained, unlocking a door and leading Troy into the darkened depths of the building. It smelled of dust and oil. 'We do prepare displays for museums and the like, when we have the financing, using our duplicates, of course. We have more than one example of many of our weapons, so in this way we can preserve the best specimens. Down here, please.'

Rows of metal bins vanished off into the darkness. There were labels on the shelves that Dryer peered at closely as he walked. He stopped in front of a shelf and pointed.

'Here we are. Now I'll just unwrap it.' He picked up a bundle of stained canvas and carefully opened it. The weapon inside was thick with preserving cosmoline. He turned it over as he examined it. 'No, not this one,' he said, carefully rewrapping the bundle. 'That is an interesting variation, the silenced version, did yeoman service during the Korean War. The one that we want is here…'

Dryer was suddenly silent as he picked up a length of canvas, then dropped it again. He poked into the darkness of the bin, then stepped back.

'What's wrong?' Troy asked.

'I can't understand this. I put it away myself. I know I did. But it's gone. How could that have happened?'