“Isn’t she lovely this morning! What would your friend Bartlett say about this?”
Chaney noted the tiny line of disapproval above her eyes. “Her very frowns are fairer far, than the smiles of other maidens are.”
“Hear! Hear!” Saltus clapped his hands in approval, and stared back impudently at nearby diners who had turned to look. “Nosey peasants,” was his loud whisper.
Kathryn van Hise struggled to maintain her reserve. “Good morning, gentlemen, Where is the Major?”
“Snoring,” Arthur Saltus retorted. “We sneaked out to have breakfast alone with you.”
“And these other two hundred characters.” Chaney waved a hand at the crowded mess hall. “This is romantic.”
“These peasants aren’t romantic,” Saltus disagreed. “They lack color and Old World charm.” He stared bleakly at the room. “Hey — mister, we could practice on them. Let’s run a survey on them, let’s find out how many of them are Republicans eating fried eggs.” Snap of fingers. “Better yet — let’s find out how many Republican stomachs have been ruined eating these Army eggs!”
Katrina made a hasty sound of warning. “Be careful of your conversation in public places. Certain subjects are restricted to the briefing room.”
Chaney said: “Quick! Switch to Aramaic. These peasants will never catch on.”
Saltus began to laugh but lust as suddenly shut it off. “I only know one word.” He seemed embarrassed.
“Then don’t repeat it,” Chaney warned. “Katrina may have studied Aramaic — she reads everything.”
“Hey — that’s not fair.”
“I do unfair things, I retaliate in kind, Commander. Last night, I sneaked into the briefing room while you were all asleep.” He turned to the young woman. “I know your secret. I know one of the alternative targets.”
“Do you, Mr. Chaney?”
“I do, Miss van Hise. I raided the briefing room and turned it inside out — a very thorough search, indeed. I found a secret map hidden under one of the telephones — the red phone. The alternative target is the Qumran monastery. We’re going back to destroy the embarrassing scrolls — rip them from their jars and burn them. There.” He sat back with barely concealed amusement.
The woman looked at him for a space, and Chaney had a sudden, intuitive torment. He felt uneasy.
When she broke her silence, her voice was so low it would not carry to the adjoining tables.
“You are almost right, Mr. Chaney. One of our alternatives is a probe into Palestine, and you were also selected for the team because of your knowledge of that general area.”
Chaney was instantly wary. “I will have nothing to do with those scrolls. I’ll not tamper with them.”
“That will not be necessary. They are not an alternate target.”
“What is?”
“I don’t know the correct date, sir. Research has not been successful in determining the precise time and place, but Mr. Scabrooke believes it will be a profitable alternate. It is under active study.” She hesitated and dropped her gaze to the table. “The general location in Palestine is or was a site known as the Hill of Skulls.”
Chaney rocked in his chair.
In the long silence, Arthur Saltus groped for an understanding. “Chaney, what — ?” He looked to the woman, then back to the man. “Hey — let me in on it!”
Chaney said quietly: “Seabrooke has picked a very hot alternative. If we can’t go up there for the survey, our team is going back to film the Crucifixion.”
FIVE
Brian Chaney was the last of the four participants to return to the briefing room. He walked.
Kathryn van Hise had offered them a ride as they quit the mess hail and Arthur Saltus promptly accepted, scrambling into the front seat of the olive green sedan to sit close beside her. Chaney preferred the exercise. Katrina turned in the seat to look back at him as the car left the parking lot, but he was unable to read her expression: it may have been disappointment — and then again it may have been exasperation.
He suspected Katrina was losing her antipathy for him; and that was pleasing.
The sun was already hot in the hazy June sky and Chaney would have liked to go in search of the pool, but he decided against it only because he knew better than to be tardy a second time. As a satisfying substitute, he contented himself with watching the few women who happened to pass; he approved of the sharply abbreviated skirt that was the current style and, given another opportunity, would have included a forecast in his tables — but the stodgy old Bureau was likely to dismiss the subject matter as frivolous. Skirts had been climbing steadily for many years and now they were frequently one with the delta pants: a heady delight to the roving male eye. But with predictable military conservatism, the WAC skirts were not nearly as brief as those worn by civilians.
Happily, Katrina was a civilian.
The massive front door of the concrete building opened easily under his pull, moving on rolamite tracks. Chaney walked into the briefing room and stopped short at sight of the Major. A furtive signal from Saltus warned him to silence.
Major Moresby faced the wall, his back to the room and to Chaney. He stood at the far end of the long table, between the end of the table and the featureless wall with his fists knotted behind his back. The nape of his neck was flushed. Kathryn van Hise was busy picking up papers that had fallen — or been thrown — from the table.
Chaney closed the door softly behind him and advanced to the table, inspecting a stack of papers before his own chair. His reaction was one of sharp dismay. The papers were photo-copies of his second scroll, the lesser of the two Qumran scrolls he had translated and published. There were nine sheets of paper faithfully reproducing the square Hebrew lettering of the Eschatos document from its opening line to its close. If he didn’t know better, Chaney would have thought the Major was enraged at his temerity for tacking a descriptive Greek title on a Hebrew fantasy.
“Katrina! What are we doing with this?”
She finished the task of picking up the fallen pages and stacked them neatly on the table before the Major’s chair.
“They are a part of today’s study, sir.”
“No!”
“Yes, sir.” The woman slipped into her own chair and waited for Chaney and the Major to sit down.
The man did, after a moment. He glared at Chaney.
Chaney said: “Is this another of Seabrooke’s idiotic ideas?”
“The matter is germane, Mr. Chaney.”
“That matter is not germane, Miss van Hise. This has absolutely nothing to do with the Indic report, with the statistical tables, with the future surveys — nothing!”
“Mr. Seabrooke thinks otherwise.”
Angrily: “Gilbert Seabrooke has holes in his head; his Bureau has holes in its measuring jars. Please tell him I said so. He should know better than to—” Chaney came to a full stop and glared at the young woman. “Is this another reason why I was chosen for the survey team?”
“Yes, sir. You are the only authority.”
Chaney repeated the Aramaic word, and Saltus laughed despite himself.
She said: “Sir, Mr. Seabrooke believes it may have some slight bearing on the future survey, and we should be familiar with it. We should be familiar with every facet of the future that comes to our attention.”
“But this has nothing to do with a future Chicago!”
“It may, sir.”
“It may not! This is a fantasy, a fairy tale. It was written by a dreamer and told to his students — or to the peasants.” Chaney sat down, containing his anger. “Katrina: this is a waste of time.”
Saltus broke in. “More midrash, mister?”