The Lincoln Hunters

by Wilson Tucker

  Evelyn hesitated. “That is almost familiar.”

  Steward pulled on the cigar before he answered. “The treason trials of the Glenrock family. One parent, one daughter, three sons. In the year Five of our glorious New Nation.”

  “Oh, yes. Of course.”

  “Of course,” he repeated. “The hearts of the valiant brothers stopped beating in unison. The old man and his daughter lived a day or two longer. Long enough, at any rate, for the girl to spout that brave and foolish line. A pity it isn’t hacked onto a monument somewhere.” He deliberately dropped cigar ashes on the polished floor and watched them whirl away, sucked up by unseen vacuums. Idly, he wondered what would happen if he dropped a shoe.

  “I went out to see him hanged, drawn and quartered, which was done; he looking as cheerful as any man in such position.”

  “Benjamin, don’t be gruesome. The Glenrocks were executed by a firing squad.”

  “Ah, so. A shortage of rope, I expect.”

  The woman’s troubled glance rested on his enigmatic face and she wondered if he was speaking disrespectfully. His voice hinted at sly mockery. It was so difficult to judge the Characters correctly; they frequently behaved as if they belonged to another species—or to no species at all—rather than to the present day and age. Without consciously trying, they sometimes gave the impression they were fugitives or exiles from another race, another sphere. She was quite positive some of them mocked her world, and yet it was their world as well.

  Mr. Whittle constantly entertained doubts about some of them, as did she. It was disconcerting to realize suddenly, by reason of a peculiar glance or an oddly turned phrase, that the Characters were in a sense timeless. That they sometimes regarded her with the same timeless detachment they bestowed on long-dead persons in history. The Characters appeared to mark little or no difference between their contemporaries and their ancestors. Indeed, if T-R were able to research the future, the Characters would undoubtedly look upon tomorrow’s man as artlessly as they viewed yesterday’s bones. They held themselves a breed apart, pretending to be untouched by time and not rooted in it.

  Evelyn found Benjamin Steward peering at her through a curtain of Kipling smoke.

  The data sheet reclaimed her hasty attention.

  “The village at that time,” she went on, “knew no mechanical devices beyond the simple transportation and food-preparation machinery. There is no source of electrical energy. Your crew will be equipped with self-operated pocket recorders which, of course, must be concealed at all times. The Library will furnish you your vocabulary and the photograph; I understand the costume is completed and ready for a fitting. There will be a very small amount of personal jewelry, and something of value to barter for a supply of local currency.”

  Evelyn folded her hands on the desk. “And that is all I have, really. I wish you luck, Benjamin. Remember our motto.”

  “Our motto,” he responded, “is for the birds. But thanks, Evelyn. You’re a peacheroo.”

  “I feel certain that is a compliment.”

  Steward dropped his voice to a barely audible level. “Meet me tonight-at the same place—and I’ll explain what it is. In five juicy flavors.”

  Evelyn smiled at the reference-which he had previously explained—and at a very pleasant memory the phrase and the explanation recalled to mind; but she shook her head. “I don’t believe you will be free this evening. The engineers are plotting a twenty-four hour completion.” She moved her head to read the chronometer. “You are scheduled for six forty-five and there are still many things to do.”

  “Fiddlesticks. You know how engineers are—they’ll tack on a plus-or-minus three weeks just to play safe. The plus-or-minus covers a multitude of ignorant sins.”

  “No, Benjamin, not this evening. The librarian and the doctor are waiting for you now.”

  “The doctor!” He jerked upright with indignation. “Not more shots?”

  “Of course,” Evelyn said.

  “Now, look here, I’ve already been inoculated for everything from Aaron’s scorbute to zymosis—any zymosis in the medical dictionary!” And he shot up a sleeve to reveal a many punctured arm. “My battle scars; count them. The ancients had ten thousand diseases, give or take a dozen, and I’ve got the antidote for each and every one of them. In both arms, both legs, and both cheeks. I don’t need any more. Lincoln can’t have a new virus—he just isn’t that clever!”

  “The doctor will be waiting,” Evelyn said firmly.

  “You’re a hard woman; you’ll make a hard wife.”

  Evelyn studied the man thoughtfully. “Benjamin, it would not be wise to permit that to grow out of hand. I have thoroughly enjoyed our dates, as you call them, but I anticipate nothing beyond that. I know you quite well, so well that I know you would not look with sympathy upon a six-months’ trial marriage contract.”

  “Quite right,” he heartily agreed. “When I marry thee, fair maid, it will be for keeps.”

  “I am certain of that. And I will accept your rain mark.”

  “Rain check,” he corrected.

  “Thank you. And now, Benjamin, I believe the Library is waiting. Miss Breen has your material. Your shoot has been assigned to chamber B; please be on time; precisely six forty-five. I will locate your crew and meet you there before departure.”

  “That,” he said, “is as plain as a pikestaff.” He crushed out the cigar, lifted his foot, and watched the debris scuttle across the floor. The routing gave rise to an afterthought. “Evelyn—are the vacuums strong enough to carry off a shoe?”

  “You might try an experiment.”

  He considered that and then shook his head. “I’d probably lose the shoe, and the engineers wouldn’t approve of that. They’re high-strung chaps you know; a barefooted visitor might unnerve them.”

  “Good luck, Benjamin. And be careful.”

  Steward vacated the chair and drifted lazily across the room to a door opening upon the corridor. He paused there and glanced over his shoulder for a final inspection.

  Evelyn remained seated, hands folded atop the desk. Her anatomical structure was at its Egyptian best, for she was sufficiently female to know when to sit erect and still. Her skirt dipped down primly to cover the tops of her feet. She was smiling pleasantly.

  Steward winked and pushed through the door.

  Evelyn watched him go. He was one of the nicest Characters, and one of the few romantics in the profession. He was the only one she cared to date—quaint term that that was. Benjamin had found it in some forgotten age and carried it home to her. Dating was fun.

  But he was also the Character most frequently discussed in the higher echelons of the company, and that troubled her. She knew, if he did not, that his continued usefulness and future employment hung in a precarious balance; any day or any field trip could be his last. The company carried his name on a secret gray-list.

  A tragic accident and Benjamin’s efforts on behalf of his clannish guild were responsible for the talk and the endangerment of his job. Either one was a serious offense to company thinking, while the two combined pushed him almost beyond the pale. Because of the accident, and because of Benjamin’s subsequent agitation, minimum crews had been increased from two to four men on any project entailing an element of doubt.

  Evelyn returned to her work, fervently hoping he was not one of those men of doubtful loyalty who caused Mr. Whittle so many anxious moments. Mr. Whittle could easily break that hairline separating the gray-list from the black, and Benjamin would be done.

  3

  SHOOT

  IN THE LIBRARY , the Character was given a large envelope which contained the idiomatic tables and a concise summary of the historical period he was scheduled to visit. The summary embraced a span of a hundred years, narrowing down to concentrate upon the particular date and the particular event germane to the assignment.

  As usual, the abstract ceased abruptly ES near as possible to the target date itself. That was standard operating procedure desi
gned to protect the Character and the assignment. It would not do for a man in the field to know the events of coming weeks or even years—his tongue might slip. To retain his value as a Character, he must be as wise, and as ignorant, as the local people around him.

  The briefing could be read later. Steward tucked the envelope under his arm and passed on to another room where tailors were waiting to fit him. The costume was not particularly interesting and not unlike period clothing he had worn on previous assignments. The coat and trousers were of plain-cut heavy cloth, and did not match each other. The hat was low, flat across the crown, and had a wide brim. The shoes were more like boots. He recognized the ensemble as being designed for adverse weather conditions rather than style and attention. It was the kind of clothing a practical prairie man would wear for protection against hard rains and bad winters.

  He was given an ornate gold ring in which were set two precious stones—something of value to barter for a supply of local currency. For his personal use, and to help complete the costume, he received a large and heavy pocket watch. The tailors had cut an authentic pocket into the trousers to contain the timepiece. They supplied a watch chain and showed him how to fasten it to his belt.

  And, ready for the ultimate eventuality, he had to strip down and then dress himself in period underwear. He found the garment itchy and confining, but was partially mollified to discover he need not wear a restrictive necktie over the soft shirt. The shirt collar concealed a miniature microphone in the folds of the cloth.

  Carrying the coat and the envelope, Steward left the Library suite and made his way to the lounge. The big room held only one other occupant, a costumed woman studying her material. Steward nodded, and stared at her costume.

  “Queer-looking thing,” he commented.

  “It’s called a polonaise,” she told him.

  “How many petticoats?”

  “Four.”

  He grunted. “And they’ll shoot you smack-dab into the middle of summer.” He twisted, scratched and then twisted again. “You ought to see the monstrosity I’m wearing.”

  The coat had not been pressed, so Steward folded it into a pillow and lay down on the floor—he found it easier to study that way. Lighting a cigar, he examined the opening page of the historical summary and then put it aside to scan the vocabulary. Picturesque words and phrases delighted him; collecting and using them amounted to a hobby. In every age, he made it a practice to gather as many colloquialisms as the ear could catch; and now and again he would be enchanted to find that some smartly turned phrase had attained true immortality—or at least, the immortality of many centuries.

  Music hath charms to soothe the savage breast was one such example. He had encountered that phrase four centuries after its birth, with but one word changed. And The world is mine oyster was another, an astonishing line which was now almost one thousand years old. Here, now, in Mr. Lincoln’s day, was This nigger’s ribs. That was a new one to him and he wondered at the exact meaning. And what might a Free-soiler be? Or a Know-nothing? They possessed a certain surface value which suggested their true meanings, but he knew better than to accept such values prior to meeting them head on in the field. What might this nigger’s ribs possibly mean? A Free-soiler could be a citizen with the peculiar liberty to dirty anything he wished, or a farmer unshackled from slavery, or the term might be a vicious epithet.

  Steward read the entire list, easily committing it to memory because of his fondness for phrases. Then he returned to the history texts. They were dull.

  A few parts of the summary were familiar—those phases encountered in previous assignments or studied in preparation for an assignment. Hamilton’s fateful duel was briefly mentioned, as it had some effect on later developments; and Mr. Lincoln’s men still spoke of it. There was a reference to a Mexican War, which was familiar only because he had overheard another Character discussing it. Shoptalk was common in the lounge and certain places of entertainment frequented by the Characters.

  Steward blinked and grinned broadly. Here was a reference-in-flashback to old Peabody’s Plymouth Rock. He vividly recalled that assignment. It had been his first encounter with the Old Nation Indians and he had come off second best. Pesky redskins!

  As a matter of fact, he had been an ersatz Indian on that occasion and very nearly lost his reputation and his skill as a passable Character. The Pilgrim people who rowed ashore from their Mayflower (they did not land on Peabody’s rock) accepted him as an authentic Indian, but the bewildered tribesmen who surrounded him didn’t know what to make of the imitator. Only the greater excitement of the arrival of the boat saved the day.

  Steward caught himself dozing before he reached the end. He looked around the lounge and found himself alone. The woman had quietly left without his knowing it. Steward lazily closed his eyes and went to sleep.

  Evelyn awoke him at a little after six o’clock.

  “Benjamin! I expected this.”

  He smiled sleepily. “Labor to keep alive in your breast that little spark of celestial fire—conscience. You be my conscience, you are well endowed for it.” He sat up to rub his eyes.

  “Try not to be tardy, Benjamin. You know the shoots are timed on close tolerances.”

  “We go now, fair maid.” He got to his feet and shook out the wrinkles in the coat. Evelyn had gathered up the scattered sheets of material and tucked them into the envelope.

  “Have you finished the studies?”

  “Yep.” He dropped his voice although they were still alone in the lounge. “Did Mr. Lincoln’s rebellion break out?”

  “You know I must not tell you that, Benjamin.”

  “I know,” he agreed. “Did it?”

  “Yes.”

  “I thought as much. It happens every time. The old ones didn’t learn much from history—their history.” They quit the lounge. He held the girl’s hand as they walked along the corridor to chamber B.

  Without knocking, he edged the chamber door open with his foot. Evelyn hurriedly slipped her hand free.

  “Howdy, pardners.”

  Two bright young men turned to stare at him. They were neat, clean, and wore the immaculate white coveralls which were the uniforms of their profession.

  “Mr. Steward?” one of them asked.

  “That’s my handle, pardner.”

  “Mr. Steward, please make yourself ready. The shoot is scheduled in twenty-two minutes.”

  “I’m ready now. Any special instructions?”

  “Yes. Will you step over here, please?”

  One of the two bright young men conducted him across the great chamber to where a long and thin bullet, manufactured of glass and steel, rested on a cushioned dais. This was the stepson of H. G. Wells’s bicycle.

  The bullet was seven feet in length and had a circumference barely large enough to admit a fat man lying down. The fat man—or any other—would recline full length on a webbed metallic floor and grasp small handrails near his shoulders. The fat man’s waist would touch the topside of the hull. Areas of clear glass surrounded the head of the bullet, permitting the passenger a full view of his outer vicinage. And that was the only comfort permitted or provided. The tremendous cost in energy limited the vehicle’s mass and volume.

  The activating machinery was tightly packed beneath the webbed flooring—or most of it was. The leftovers were stuffed in at either end, just beyond reach of the head and toes. The conveyance resembled a peculiar vacuum tube, bullet-shaped, filled to overflowing with its components. All in all, it was a deliberately designed, minimum-sized package built for just one purpose. Economic reasons and little else dictated the design.

  “A few modifications have been made,” the engineer was saying. He bent down and pointed to the missile’s stern. “Do you see that kick-bar? That is the recall switch. A slight pressure of either foot will return you to the chamber instantly.”

  And reversing the pointed finger, he indicated the bullet’s head. “There are twin push buttons imbedded in the hand
rails; they will release you when target has been reached. Please remember, Mr. Steward, both buttons must be pushed simultaneously. Pushing only one will indicate you are in difficulty, and we will pull back.”

  “That’s mighty nice,” Steward observed.

  “One other modification has been made,” the engineer continued. “The chronograph key will now rest on your stomach. It does not matter whether you are right- or left-handed. When you are on the bed, pull it down from the hull to a comfortable position on your stomach. It will remain so until you again move it.”

  The Character nodded his understanding.

  “There is no need to conceal the missile after you have vacated it; this model will automatically maintain itself a millisecond out of phase for so long as the door is not locked from the inside. And, of course, our instruments will record every detail of the shoot. You need not notify us of a variance.” The engineer’s smile was artificial and professional. “But then, I am sure you know all about that, don’t you? Any questions?”

  “Where are you putting me?”

  “On the morning of May twenty-eighth, the day before the target. One hour after dawn, plus or minus ten minutes. You will emerge on the open prairie near the village.” The engineer paused and stumbled over his tongue. “Ah, yes. Mr. Steward, I might mention a small difficulty with the topographical map. Research apologized, of course, but they fear it might not be entirely accurate.” And again the empty, professional laugh. “But then you need not worry about it-we will know instantly if you are underground, and bring you to the surface. Just keep calm, Mr. Steward.”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve buried me,” Mr. Steward informed the engineer.

  The other bright young man broke in.

  “And please, please, Mr. Steward, do not stay for more than a few hours. Remember your tolerances. We plan to shoot the crew at about sunset that same day. You are aware of the self-cancellation effect, are you not?”

  “Why, no, Mister Engineer. What’s that?” Steward gazed at the young man with childlike innocence.