But that wasn’t the only hurt.
His trigger finger was sore, stiff, and his shoulder hurt like sin; they had assured him it was a light rifle but after an hour of firing it, Chaney wholly disbelieved them. Even in his sleep the bullying figure of the Major stood over him, needling him: “Squeeze it, squeeze it, don’t yank — don’t jerk — squeeze it!” Chaney squeezed it and four or five times out of ten managed to hit the target. He thought that remarkable, but his companions did not. Moresby was so disgusted he tore the rifle from Chaney’s grasp and put five shots through the bull’s eye in the space between one breath and the next.
The hand gun was worse. The Army model automatic seemed infinitely lighter when compared to the rifle, but because he could not use his left hand to lift and steady the barrel he missed the target eight times out of ten. The two good shots were only on the rim of the target.
Moresby muttered: “Give the civilian a shotgun!” and stalked away.
Arthur Saltus had taught him camera techniques.
Chaney was familiar with the common hand cameras and with the mounted rigs used in laboratories to copy documents, but Saltus introduced him to a new world. The holograph camera was new. Saltus said that film had been relegated to the cheap cameras; the holograph instruments used a thin ribbon of embossed nylon which would withstand almost any abuse and yet deliver a recognizable picture. He scoured a nylon negative with sandpaper, then made a good print. Adequate lighting was no longer a problem; the holograph would produce a satisfactory picture taken in the rain.
Chaney experimented with a camera strapped to his chest, with the lens peering through a buttonhole in his jacket where a button should be; there was another that fitted over his left shoulder, with the lens appearing to be a lodge emblem attached to his lapel — a remote cable ran down the inside of his coat sleeve and the plunger nestled in the palm of his hand. A fat belt buckle held a camera. A bowler hat concealed a camera. A folded newspaper was actually a motion picture camera in camouflage, and a smart looking attaché case was another. Microphones for the tape recorders — worn under the coat, or in the pocket — were buttons or emblems or tie clasps or stays tucked inside shirt collars.
He usually managed a decent picture — it was difficult to produce a poor one with the holograph instruments, but Saltus was often dissatisfied, pointing out this or that or the other thing which would have resulted in a sharper image or a more balanced composition. Katrina was photographed hundreds of times during the practice. She appeared to endure it with patience.
Chaney expelled a burst of air and started to sink. He flipped over on his stomach and swam under water to the edge of the pool. Grasping the tiled rim, he hauled himself out of the water and stared up in surprise at the grinning face of Arthur Saltus.
“Morning, civilian. What’s new in ancient Egypt?”
Chaney peered past him. “Where is — ?” He stopped.
“I haven’t seen her,” Saltus responded. “She wasn’t in the mess hall — I thought she was here with you.”
Chaney wiped his face with a towel. “Not here. I’ve had the pool to myself.”
“Hah — maybe old William is beating our time; maybe he’s playing chess with her in a dark corner somewhere.” Saltus grinned at that thought. “Guess what, mister?”
“What now?”
“I read your book last night.”
“Shall I run for cover, or stand up for a medal?”
“No, no, not that one. I’m not interested in those old scrolls. I mean the other book you gave me, the one about the desert tribes — old Abraham, and all. Damn but that man made some fine pictures!” He sat down beside Chaney. “Remember that one of the Nabataean well or cistern or whatever it was, down there at the foot of the fortress?”
“I remember it. Well built. It served the fortress through more than one siege.”
“Sure. The guy made that one with natural lighting. No flash, no sun reflectors, nothing, just natural light; you can see the detail of the stonework and the water level. And it was on film, too — he wasn’t using nylon.”
“You can determine that by examination?”
“Well, of course! I can. Listen, mister, that’s good photography. That man is good.”
“Thank you. I’ll tell him next time I see him.”
Saltus said: “Maybe I’ll read your book someday. Just to find out why they’re shooting at you.”
“It doesn’t have pictures.”
“Oh, I can read all the easy words.” He stretched out his legs and stared up at the underside of the gaudy beach umbrella. A spider was beginning a web between the metal braces. “This place is dead this morning.”
“What’s to do? Other than a rousing game with the Major, or another session at the rifle range?”
Saltus laughed. “Shoulder hurt? That will wear away. Say, if I could find Katrina, I’d throw her into the pool and then jump in with her — that’s where the action is!”
Chaney thought it wisest not to answer. His gaze went back to the sun-bright waters of the pool, now empty of swimmers and slowly regaining placidity. He remembered the manner in which Saltus had played there with Katrina, but the memory wasn’t a pleasant one. He hadn’t joined in the play because he felt self-conscious for the first time in his life, because his physique was a poor one compared to the muscular body of the Commander, because the woman seemed to prefer the younger man’s company to his. That was hurtful to admit.
Chaney caught a quick movement at the gate.
“The Major has found us.”
Major Moresby hustled into the recreation area and strode toward the pool, seeking them. Halfway across the patio he found them beneath the umbrella and turned hard. He was breathing heavily and his face flushed with excitement.
“Get up off your duff!” he barked at the Commander. And to Chaney: “Get your clothes on. Urgent. They want us in the briefing room now. I have a car waiting.”
“Hey — what goes?” Saltus was out of the chair.
“We do. Somebody has made the big decision. Damn it, Chaney, move!”
“The field trials?” Saltus demanded. “The field trials? This morning? Now?”
“This morning, now,” Moresby acknowledged. “Gilbert Seabrooke brought the decision; they roused me out of bed. We’re moving up, after all!” He turned on Chaney. “Will you haul your ass out of that chair, civilian? Move it! I’m waiting, everybody is waiting, the vehicle is cranked up and waiting.”
Chaney jumped from the chair, heart pounding against his rib cage.
Moresby: “Katrina said to use the car. You are not to waste time walking, and that is an order.”
Chaney’s reflexes were slower, but he was already racing for the bath house to change. They ran with him. “I’m not walking.”
“Where are we going?” Saltus demanded breathlessly. “I mean when? When in Joliet? Did you get the word?”
“Katrina gave the word. You won’t like it, Art.”
Arthur Saltus stopped abruptly in the doorway and Chaney collided with him.
“Why won’t I like it?”
“Because it’s a political thing, a damned political thing, after all! Katrina said the decision came down early this morning from the White House — from him. We should have expected something like that.”
Slow repeat: “Why won’t I like it?”
Moresby said with disdain: “We’re going up two years to a date in November. November 6, 1980, a Thursday. The President wants to know if he’ll be re-elected.”
Arthur Saltus stared in open-mouthed astonishment. After a space of disbelief he turned to Chaney.
“What was that word again, mister? In Aramaic?”
Brian Chaney told him.