He failed utterly to understand Seabrooke’s interest in the second scroll.
Every scholar recognized it as midrash; there had been no controversy over the second scroll and had it been published alone he would have escaped the notoriety. He thought Gilbert Seabrooke something of a lunatic to even introduce it into the briefing room. There was no meat here for the survey. There was nothing in the Eschatos relating to the coming probe of the turn of the century; the story was firmly rooted in the first century before Christ and did not look or hint beyond 70 A.D. Actually it didn’t peer beyond its own century. It made no claim or pretense to genuine prophecy as did, say, the Book of Daniel — whose scribe pretended to be alive about five hundred years before he was born, only to betray himself by his faulty grasp of history. Gilbert Seabrooke was reading imaginary lines between the lines, grabbing at rays of yellow light and the droppings of dragons.
One of the three telephones rang.
Kathryn van Hise jumped from her chair to answer and the three men turned to watch her.
The conversation was short. She listened carefully, said Yes, sir three or four times, and assured the caller that the studies were proceeding at a satisfactory pace. She said Yes, sir a final time and hung up the instrument. Moresby was half out of his chair in anticipation.
Saltus said: “Well, come on, Katrina!”
“The engineers have concluded their testing and the vehicle is now on operational status. Field trials will begin very soon, gentlemen. Mr. Seabrooke suggested that we take the day off as a token of celebration. He will meet us at the pool this afternoon.”
Arthur Saltus yelled, and was halfway to the door.
Brian Chaney dropped his copy of the Eschatos scroll into a wastebasket and prepared to follow him.
He looked to the woman and said: “Last one in is a wandering Egyptian.”
SIX
Brian Chaney came up from a shallow dive and paddled to the edge of the pool; he clung to the tiled rim for a space and attempted to wipe the gentle sting of chlorine from his eyes. The sun was hot, and the air warmer than the water. Two of his companions played in the water behind him while a third — the Major — sat in the shade and stared solemnly at a chess board, waiting for anyone to come along and challenge him. The pieces were set out. The recreation area held a few others beside themselves but none seemed interested in chess.
Chaney glanced over his shoulder at the pair playing in the water, and felt the smallest pain of jealousy. He climbed from the pool and reached for a towel.
Gilbert Seabrooke said: “Afternoon, Chaney.”
The Director of Operations sat nearby under a gaudy beach umbrella, sipping a drink and watching the bathers. It was his first appearance.
Chaney stretched the towel over his back and ran across the hot tiles. “Good afternoon. You’re the red telephone.” They shook hands.
Seabrooke smiled briefly. “No; that’s our line to the White House. Please don’t pick it up and call the President.” A wave of the hand extended an invitation to the other chair beneath the umbrella. “Refreshments?”
“Not just yet, thanks.” He studied the man with an open curiosity. “Has someone been carrying tales?” His glance went briefly to the woman in the water.
Seabrooke’s smooth reply attempted to erase the sting. “I receive daily reports, of course; I try to keep on top of every activity on this station. And I’m quite used to people misunderstanding my motives and actions.” Again the smallest of stingy smiles. “I make it a practice to explore every possible avenue to attain whatever goal is in view. Please don’t be upset by my interest in your outside activities.”
“They have no relation to this activity.”
“Perhaps, and perhaps not. But I refuse to ignore them for I am a methodical man.”
Chaney said: “And a persistent one.”
Gilbert Seabrooke was tall, thin, taut, and looked like that well-known fellow in the State Department — or perhaps it was that other fellow who sat on the Supreme Court. He wore the carefully cultivated statesman image. His hair was silver gray and parted precisely in the middle, with the ends brushed backward at a conservative angle; his eyes appeared gray, although upon closer inspection they were an icy blue-green; the lips were firm, not used to laughter, while the chin was strong and clean with no hint of a double on the neckline. He carried his body as rigidly erect as a military man, and his pipe jutted out straight to challenge the world. He was Establishment.
Chaney had vague knowledge of his political history.
Seabrooke had been governor of one of the Dakotas — memory refused to reveal which one — and was only narrowly defeated in his bid for a third term. The man quickly turned up in Washington after the defeat and was appointed to a post in Agriculture: his party took care of its faithful. Some years later he moved to another post in Commerce, and after several years he dropped into a policy-making office in the Bureau of Standards. Today he sat beside the pool, directing everything on station.
Chaney asked: “How’s the battle going?”
“Which battle?”
“The one with the Senate subcommittee. I suspect they’re counting the dollars and the minutes.”
The tight lips quavered, almost permitting a smile. “Eternal vigilance results in a healthy exchequer, Chaney. But I am having some little difficulty with those people. Science tends to frighten those who are infrequently exposed to it, while the practitioners of science are often the most misunderstood people in the world. The project could be different if more imagination were brought into play. If our researches were directly connected to the hostilities in Asia, if they would result in practical military hardware, we would be drowning in funds.” A gesture of discontent. “But we must fight for every dollar. The military people and their war command priority.”
Chaney said: “But there is a connection.”
“I said this would be different if more imagination were brought into play,” Seabrooke reminded him dryly. “At this point, imagination is sadly lacking; the military mind often does not recognize a practical use until that use is thrust under the nose. You may see an application and I believe I see one, but neither the Pentagon nor the Congress will recognize it for another dozen years. We must pinch pennies and depend upon the good will of the President for our continued existence.”
“Ben Franklin’s rocking chair didn’t catch on for the longest time,” Chaney said. But he saw a military application, and hoped the military never discovered it.
Seabrooke watched the woman in the water, following her lithe form as she raced away from Arthur Saltus.
“I understand that you experienced some difficulty in making up your mind.”
Chaney knew his meaning. “I’m not an unduly brave man, Mr. Seabrooke. I have my share of brass and bravado when I’m standing on familiar ground, but I’m not a really brave man. I doubt that I could do what either of those men do every day, in their tours of duty.” A tiny fear of the future turned like a worm in his mind. “I’m not the hero type — I believe discretion is the better part of valor, I want to run while I’m still able.”