Saltus was awake. He poked at Chaney. “You can fly to Florida in fifty hours — have a swim and still get back in time. Here’s your chance, civilian.”
“I can walk to Chicago in fifty,” Chaney retorted.
Their mission was to observe, film, record, verify; to gather as much data as possible on each selected date. Observations should also be made (and a permanent record left in the shelter) that would benefit the next man on his target. They were to bring in with them all exposed films and tapes but the instruments were to be stored in the shelter for the following man to use. A number of small metal discs each weighing an ounce would be placed in the vehicle before launch; the proper number of discs was to be thrown overboard before returning to compensate for the tapes and films being brought back.
Were there any questions?
Arthur Saltus stared at the engineer with sleepy eyes. Major Moresby said: “None at the moment, thank you.” Chaney shook his head.
Kathryn van Hise claimed their attention. “Mr. Chaney, you have another appointment with the doctor in half an hour. When you are finished there, please come to the rifle range; you really should begin weapons training.
“I’m not going to run around Chicago shooting up the place — they have enough of that now.”
“This will be for your own protection, sir.”
Chaney opened his mouth to continue the protest, but was stopped. The sound was something like a massive rubber band snapped against his eardrums, something like a hammer or a mallet smashing into a block of compressed air. It made a noise of impact, followed by a reluctant sigh as if the hammer was rebounding in slow motion through an oily fluid. The sound hurt.
He looked around at the engineers with a question, and found the two men staring at each other with blank astonishment. With a single mind they deserted the room on the run.
Saltus said: “Now what the hell?”
“Somebody went joyriding,” Chaney replied. “They’d better count the monkeys — one may be missing.”
Katrina said: “There were no tests scheduled.”
“Can that machine take off by itself?”
“No, sir. It must be activated by human control.”
Chaney had a suspicion and glanced at his watch. The suspicion blossomed into conviction and despite himself he failed to suppress a giggle. “That was me, finishing my test. I hit that kickbar by accident just an hour ago.”
Saltus objected. “My test didn’t make a noise like that. William didn’t.”
Chaney showed him the watch. “You said I went up an hour. That’s now. Did you kick yourself back?”
“No — we waited for the engineers to pull us back.”
“But I kicked; I propelled myself from here, from a minute ago.” He looked at the door through which the two men had run. “If that computer has registered a power loss, I did it. Do you suppose they’ll take it out of my pay?”
They were outside in the warm sunshine of a summer afternoon. The Illinois sky was dark and clouded in the far west, promising a night storm.
Arthur Saltus looked at the storm clouds and asked: “I wonder if those engineers were sweeping bilge? Do you think they really know what they’re talking about? Power surges and time paths and water that won’t leak?”
Chaney shrugged. “A hair perhaps divides the false from the true. They have the advantage.”
Saltus gave him a sharp glance. “You’re borrowing again — and I think you’ve changed it to boot.”
“A word or two,” Chaney acknowledged. “Do you recall the rest of it? The remaining three lines of the verse?”
“No.”
Chaney repeated the verse, and Saltus said: “Yes.”
“All right, Commander. That machine down there is our Alif; the TDV is an Alif. With it, we can search for the treasure house.”
“Maybe.”
“No maybes: we can. We can search out all the treasure houses in history. The archeologists and the historians will go crazy with joy.” He followed the man’s gaze to the west, where he thought he heard low thunder. “If this wasn’t a political project it wouldn’t be wasted on Chicago. The Smithsonian would have a different use for the vehicle.”
“Hah — I can read your mind, civilian! You wouldn’t go up at all, you’d go back. You’d go scooting back to the year Zero, or some such, and watch those old scribes make scrolls. You’ve got a one-track mind.”
“Not so,” Chaney denied. “And there was no year Zero. But you’re right about one thing: I wouldn’t go up. Not with all the treasure houses of history waiting to be opened, explored, cataloged. I wouldn’t go up.”
“Where then, mister? Back where?”
Chaney said dreamily: “Eridu, Larsa, Nippur, Kish, Kufah, Nineveh, Uruk…”
“But those are just old — old cities, I guess.”
“Old cities, old towns, long dead and gone — as Chicago will be when its turn comes. They are the treasure houses, Commander. I want to stand on the city wall at Ur and watch the Euphrates flood; I want to know how that story got into Genesis. I want to stand on the plains before Uruk and see Gilgamesh rebuild the city walls; I want to see that legendary fight with Enkidu.
“But more, I want to stand in the forests of Kadesh and see Muwatallis turn back the Egyptian tide. I think you’d both like to see that. Muwatallis was out-manned, out-wheeled, lacking everything but guts and intelligence; he caught Ramses’ army separated into four divisions and what he did to them changed the course of Western history. It happened three thousand years ago but if the Hittites had lost — if Ramses had beaten Muwatallis — we’d likely be Egyptian subjects today.”
Saltus: “I can’t speak the language.”
“You would be speaking it — or some local dialect — if Ramses had won.” A gesture. “But that’s what I’d do if I had the Alif and the freedom of choice.”
Arthur Saltus stood lost in thought, looking at the western cloudbank. The thunder was clearly heard.
After a space he said: “I can’t think of a blessed thing, mister. Not one thing I’d want to see. I may as well go up to Chicago.”
“I stand in awe before a contented man,” Chaney said. “The dust bin of history is no more than that.”
EIGHT
Brian Chaney was splashing in the pool the next morning before most of the station personnel had finished their breakfasts. He swam alone, enjoying the luxury of solitude after his customary walk from the barracks. The early morning sun was blindingly bright on the water, a contrast from the night just past: the station had been raked by a severe thunderstorm during the night, and blown debris still littered the streets.
Chaney turned on his back and filled his lungs with air, to float lazily on the surface of the pool. He was contented. His eyes closed to shut out the brightness.
He could almost imagine himself back on the Florida beach — back to that day when he loafed at the water’s edge, watching the gulls and the distant sail and doing nothing more strenuous than speculating on the inner fears of the critics and readers who had damned him and damned his translation of the Revelations scroll. Yes, and back to the day before he’d met Katrina. Chaney hadn’t been aware of a personal vacuum then, but when they parted — when this mission was finished — he would be aware of one. He would miss the woman. Parting company with Katrina would hurt, and when he went back to the beach he’d be keenly aware of the new vacuum.
He had been unnecessarily rude to her when she first approached him, and he regretted that now; he had believed her to be only another newspaper woman there to badger him. He wasn’t on civilized speaking terms with newspaper people. Nor did Chaney like to admit to jealousy — a childish emotion — but Arthur Saltus had aroused in him some response suspiciously close to jealousy. Saltus had moved in and boldly taken possession of the woman, another hurt.