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THE LINCOLN HUNTERS
by Wilson Tucker
Benjamin Steward, man of the 26th century, thought, as he watched the sun come up on May 30, 1856, over the prairie outside of Bloomington, Illinois, that this was his last sunrise.
Steward was violating a law of nature. For the second time he was visiting a place and a period where he had been before, and men of the 20th century knew that no object could twice return to a place in time without “cancelling itself out.”
In 2578, Steward had an exciting job. A “Character” for Time Researchers, his work was to travel back in time and get historical information for clients. He had, for example, been standing on the shore with the Indians when the Pilgrims rowed ashore from the Mayflower. Now he was involved in the pre-electoral furor of Bloomington, shortly before the Civil War.
Steward had been sent back 700 years to record a speech by Abraham Lincoln, and, because of an error on the part of the engineers who ran the time machine, it seemed likely he would be destroyed.
Would Steward escape and regain the 26th century? Would he die in an era 700 years before his own time? As he approaches zero hour, suspense mounts.
This is an engrossing and hair-raising tale by Wilson Tucker, author of THE LONG, LOUD SILENCE and TIME BOMB, in which both the world of 2578 and the United States of 1856 come convincingly alive, seen through the eyes of Steward, who knew more than merely one century.
THE LINCOLN HUNTERS
To the diligent, salutary Staff
of the Withers Public Library,
Bloomington, Illinois
Published simultaneously in Canada by
Clarke, Irwin & Company, Ltd., Toronto
Copyright 1958 by Wilson Tucker.
All Rights Reserved.
Printed in the United States of America
Contents
1 CAUSATION . . .
2 . . . AND EFFECT
3 SHOOT
4 LINCOLN’S LAND
5 RECALL
6 FUN AND GAMES
7 SECOND SHOOT
8 DESTINATION
9 LINCOLN SPOKE HERE
10 MISSING
11 QUEST FOR A NEEDLE
12 ALIBI
13 THE LAUGHTER OF RAMSES
14 LET THE END TRY THE MAN
Plausible impossibilities should be preferred
to unconvincing possibilities.
ARISTOTLE
1
Causation . . .
A PRIM and elderly gentleman with rocks in his repository was the causative agent. His name was Amos Peabody. He entered into a contract, and he made a special request—which was easily granted.
His signature on the contract (plus the payment of a sum of money) set a monstrous business machine into motion, and one of the least confounding consequences was the snipping of thirty minutes from ancient history. The machine was never aware of the loss.
Amos Peabody collected things—historical things.
One of his most prized possessions was an old, engraved boulder found by an excavating crew on the North Atlantic seaboard; the crew had been preparing the footings for a new sea-water refinery when the boulder turned up, impeding their progress. By chance, casual word of the discovery made its way to him and he purchased the object for his museum.
Amos Peabody also owned a cracked bell, a score or more of leathery scrolls, numerous clay tablets, and the remains of two antiquated flying objects: a winged aeroplane bearing the name Saint Louis, and a wingless spheroid which the ancients termed a Mouse. (Despite historical documentation, Peabody never fully understood how they flew.)
Peabody resembled his museum: a relic of the past.
His one-man institution was small and stuffed with the debris of other centuries, while he was equally diminutive in stature and possessed a mind filled with the glories of yesteryear. His clothing was too heavy and too warm for the benevolent climate—and more than a little out of date—but he would not change it. Peabody sternly disapproved of the ultramodern garments worn by the younger people, believing their garb verged on vulgar nudity. He clung to the conservative, fastidious cut of an earlier day and ignored the amused glances cast his way.
He ambled now across town on a warm, brilliant and sun-splashed morning, pleased with himself and pleased to be alive in the spring—the natural beginning of a new year. Peabody had long since passed the century mark and his aging body warned him he would not reach the second centurial milestone. Other men gained their second century of life easily; it was so common a thing that it no longer rated news space. But it was not for him, and he accepted his fate without particular regret.
Amos Peabody enjoyed walking, another antiquated habit, and the hour of his appointment gave him the leisure time for it. Frequently he would prowl the older streets of Inner Cleveland, searching out the houses and historical sites of times gone by.
He liked to say the younger generation, any and all of the younger generations, were weak-kneed milksops because of their fondness (or weakness) for riding everywhere. They rode even the shortest distances. Some of the younger men of his acquaintance would not walk around the block for their tobacco or liquor rations; instead they clung to their dinky little electric cars, which were everywhere. The streets were cluttered with the cars. But Amos Peabody walked because he liked the freedom of movement and the healthful exercise, because it was a good habit the ancients practiced, and because Inner Cleveland was basking under a wonderful spring sun.
At intersections, drivers hauled up short with elaborate, exaggerated manners to allow him to pass.
Peabody doffed his hat and bowed, knowing the gesture was only partly understood, and knowing that he was enjoying his mannerism as fully as they were enjoying theirs.
All too soon the impressive building that was his destination came into sight. He sighed a little, because the happy, ambulant journey seemed so short, so abruptly ended.
Peabody did not pause to inspect the edifice, did not glance up at the blinding, flaring, twirling illuminated sign which hung across its face. He had been there before and knew it well, had turned his head a thousand nights to shut it out of his sight. That persistent, garish sign, bright enough to be visible for several miles in full daylight (and on clear nights it was readable to the fringes of Outer Cleveland) shouted to the world that this great building housed a renowned institution, a colossal business enterprise, a daring monopoly.
This was the home of Time Researchers.
Peabody left the streets of Inner Cleveland and the warm sunshine heralding the spring of 334 N.N.
He mounted the several marble steps and passed through an activated door which had opened for him. Peabody studiously ignored the motto carved in stone over the doorway (considering it plebeian) and managed not to see its bright duplicate hanging in the foyer. Cleansed and refrigerated air smote his face. It felt actually cold after the sunshine and he was unable to repress a shiver.
“Good morning,” a startled receptionist greeted him. She tried not to stare. “Do you have an appointment?”
Amos Peabody did stare, openly and with annoyance. They had changed receptionists since his last visit here. He disliked women who shaved their heads, and this one compounded the annoyance by having a shiny pate. It needed powdering.
“I do indeed,” he said, and wrote his name on a small slate. “I am to see Mr. Whittle.”
“One moment, please.”
Peabody waited patiently, well aware that few clients ever passed through those doors to fac
e the receptionist. Most people desiring research merely called in; the members of the weak-kneed generations wouldn’t dream of doing otherwise. To call in person would necessitate leaving the car at the curb and walking up the many steps, which was an idiosyncrasy reserved for simpletons, and Amos Peabody.
Peabody gloried in it. It was a part of his way of life, and it provided an excellent excuse for walking somewhere—anywhere. It was his personal touch.
The personal touch was not lost on Mr. Whittle.
Visitations by clients were a rare thing, and that gentleman hurried from his office to greet the museum director. (Whittle glanced meaningfully at the receptionist, warning her to remove the emotion from her face.)
He conducted Amos Peabody into a seldom-used consultation chamber, made him comfortable in an overly fussy manner, and switched on the consultation circuit. The tiny microphones were artfully concealed. An intercom hummed with quiet life as specialists scattered about the great building awaited their conversation.
Of necessity, or so Whittle believed, the interview was opened by him with the usual inane remarks about the weather and the intercontinental game scores. (“Isn’t it warmish for so early in the year? The climate is becoming decidedly warmer. Philadelphia is expecting a citrus crop this season, if you can believe it! That was a remarkable upset at the ball park last week, was it not?”) Peabody detested these time-wasting preambles, but he supposed that Whittle enjoyed them and so let the man ramble on. He suppressed the urge to fidget.
“Now, Mr. Peabody,” the executive said at last, “what interesting subject brings you here today?”
“I am a collector,” Peabody told him. “Historical objects and so forth.”
“Of course you are, sir, and I know the splendid reputation your museum enjoys in that field. There are not many private museums of note in the world today, and you are to be commended for your tenacity. If memory serves, I had the honor to wait on you at the time of your last visit. A little more than a year ago, was it not? Something about a rock, was it not?”
“It was fourteen months ago, lacking a week,” the collector replied testily, “and my object was called ‘The Plymouth Rock.’ You researched it for me.”
“To be sure, I remember it well. Tell me, Mr. Peabody, have you been enjoying your rock?”
Peabody tightened his lips. “How does one enjoy a rock?”
Whittle was momentarily nonplused, but quickly regained command of the interview.
“A splendid sense of humor, Mr. Peabody. But I daresay the rock gives you great satisfaction? I daresay our researches into the matter were quite thorough?”
“I was satisfied. Your people established a negative authenticity beyond a reasonable doubt.”
“Splendid! A satisfied client is our only goal, Mr. Peabody. Time Researchers values your testimonial. And now, sir, how may we serve you?”
Briefly thankful they had at last reached the business at hand, Peabody reached for his notebook.
“I am now interested in a matter of a lost speech,” he said. “Quite literally, the speech was lost to posterity. There are indications that it was not recorded in any form at the time of delivery, and that the persons who heard it were not able, afterward, to reproduce it. Someone did attempt to reconstruct it at a later date, but the attempt was disputed, ignored and forgotten.” Peabody sighed wistfully and concluded, “If it is possible, Mr. Whittle, I would like to have that speech.”
The executive beamed his professional smile.
“My dear sir, nothing is impossible to the craftsmen here at T-R. Or almost nothing.” (He was always uncomfortable at the memory of that Roman circus fiasco, and always fearful that news of it might leak out. That had been a major disaster.) “Who delivered the speech? When? Where?”
Peabody studied the notebook although he needn’t have done so; he was more than familiar with its contents. But if Whittle could prate about the weather, he could refer to his notes. It was a mild kind of retribution.
“A man named President Lincoln gave the address, in the year 1856. A most ancient day.”
At these words, the listening circuit came to life.
“The term president,” an anonymous voice said, “is a title of office, and not a person’s given name. A series of presidents reigned before the Second Revolution. The date mentioned is from the Old Nation. Correlation to current dating coming up. Please stand by.”
Peabody glared stonily at the intercom speaker. He thought the proffered information was so obvious as to be unworthy of repetition.
“The date,” he replied to the unseen researcher, “was seven hundred and twenty-two years ago. Correlation is redundant.”
“Ah,” Whittle interposed smoothly, “the Old Nation. A very interesting period, fraught with historical charm. Imagine it, more than seven hundred years ago! A lost speech! You labor in a fascinating field, Mr. Peabody.” (His agile mind was already counting money.)
“A field cluttered with ignorance and redundancy,” the collector retorted. He extended empty hands in a symbol of helplessness. “I have no more information than that, I am sorry to say, for mine is also a field of enormous vacancies. The Second Revolution, Mr. Whittle, destroyed much that was noble and good in our heritage. Meaning no disrespect to the Emperor nor his ancestors, of course.”
“Of course. I am sure the Emperor regrets these things.”
“I find it sad, painful. Vast treasuries of bygone years were reduced to rubble. Destroyed. Forgotten. Our own history is now a patchwork affair. Political questions aside, Mr. Whittle, great crimes were committed in the wanton destruction of so many historical objects.”
Whittle nodded his sympathy.
“I know well what you mean, sir. Time and again, we here at T-R have been called upon to search an era only a few hundred years distant. The excesses of the Second. Revolution destroyed priceless data scarcely a stone’s throw away. A few lifetimes. How, then, may we expect your Lincoln material of seven hundred years ago to have survived?” (Inwardly, Whittle was not displeased. T-R profited greatly by the destruction of information.)
“Yes,” Peabody agreed gloomily. “Yes.”
He fingered the notebook, and returned to the business at hand.
“I do not know the location of the delivery of this speech, although I would suppose it occurred in the Old Nation’s capitol.” And he glared once more at the mechanical speaker, daring it to interrupt. “That would be the city-state of Washington.”
Whittle placed the tips of his fingers together and nodded solemnly.
Amos Peabody closed and pocketed the notebook.
“Frankly, Mr. Whittle, the museum desperately needs this new material. As you may have heard, the curators of some of the leading South American institutions are organizing a field trip to this country, for the express purpose of inspecting private museums such as mine. I had a call from a government official a bit ago.” Peabody squirmed at the memory of the call. “The official was most insistent that our museums offer newer and better exhibits than those now on display in South America. He talked about national pride. In point of fact, he suggested that my collection suffered from staleness; that it lacked quantity as well as freshness. And he hinted rather broadly that my license would suffer close scrutiny if I failed to impress the visitors.”
“Oh, Mr. Peabody, I hope not!”
“You hope not,” the collector echoed dispiritedly. “I dare not. The loss of the license would close the museum. I would be unemployed. Do you know what follows unemployment, Mr. Whittle?”
Whittle knew what followed unemployment, but he preferred not to think about it. The matter was distasteful to a gentleman of breeding and position. The government had a most efficient, if brutal, answer to the unemployment problem. And poor Peabody was well along in years for that sort of thing.
The two men sat in silence for minutes, awaiting the considered word of the consultation circuit. The many specialists were already at work.
Far below
them, underground, in one or more of the vast storage chambers, men and machines searched with deft assurance through the monstrous masses of accumulated data; the men guiding and the machines moving swiftly and obediently to extract the desired information. This was one facet to the huge business enterprise. Local research was T-R’s secondary function, keyed to perfection. The Time Researchers had the answer to almost every question, and were as important to daily life as the news dispensers. This search, like most others, required several minutes because of the very size of the files.
Time Researchers was a unique institution in many ways. It was the only one of its kind in the world. It enjoyed the profitable monopoly because no other person or corporation was sufficiently wealthy to conduct similar activities, and because there was available nowhere else the unlimited electrical power necessary to operate. But most important, it was the only one of its kind in the world because its engineers had painstakingly worked out the principles of operation—and those secret principles were jealously guarded. Imitators and competitors were nonexistent.
Time Researchers served the world, for a fee, never declining a reasonable (and potentially profitable) request. Now and again the great monopoly inadvertently changed the world (as witness the receptionist in the lobby). The current style of dress among the younger women was a typical example of the mighty, mechanistic Homer nodding. Shaved heads, revealing bodices, and the nearly nude torso: that had been discovered in ancient Egypt and gleefully resurrected by the present generation.
Amos Peabody did not approve.
The circuit broke the silence. Men and machines had completed their duties for the moment.
“Abraham Lincoln,” the anonymous researcher spoke from his distant cubby. “Born, 1809. Death by assassination, 1865. Twice elected president of the Old Nation. Lincoln’s lost speech, so called, was a political address delivered to an assembly of five hundred people, on May twenty-ninth, 1856. (All dates are, of course, Old Nation dates.) A revolt of the populace was imminent, over the issue of slavery of human beings. Lincoln, not yet a president, is said to have delivered a fiery speech denouncing slavery. At this point two opposing schools of thought are evident. The first holds that his speech was so provoking, so impassioned, that no reporter was able to concentrate on the task of recording his words. Similarly, his listeners could not afterward agree on what was said. The opposing school contends that the speech was nothing more than a rabble-rousing harangue, unworthy of recording.
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