Benjamin Steward and Sam Wendy’s widow!
Moving in a trance, he donned the prairie costume.
7
SECOND SHOOT
THE CHARACTER was walking through the Library when he saw the familiar large envelope, addressed to Evelyn. It also bore a serial number he recognized as that one designating his shoot.
He picked it up and carried it down to her office. She was not there.
Dropping into the chair behind Evelyn’s desk, he opened the flap and peeked into the envelope. A notation at the top of the first page caught his eye.
Lovejoy.
Steward removed the sheaf of papers and commenced reading them.
Elijah Parish Lovejoy (1802-37?? O.N.) Male, white. Old Nation abolitionist leader (?) and political figure. Lovejoy was ordained a Presbyterian minister, and later became editor of the Saint Louis Observer, an influential Presbyterian propaganda organ. He incurred the enmity of proslavery forces in Saint Louis by writing inflammatory antislavery editorials. Threatened with violence, Lovejoy moved his printing press to Alton-illinois (nearby citystate) and continued as before. New name for newspaper: the Alton Observer. Dangerous mobs followed him and destroyed his printing apparatus three times (intervals of time not known) seeking to stop the antislavery editorials. On the fourth attempt, Lovejoy was killed (gunshot) defending the premises. Thereafter hailed as a martyr by antislavery peoples. (Definite death, 1837).
Owen Lovejoy (1811-64 O.N.) Male, white. An Old Nation abolitionist, brother of Elijah P. Lovejoy. He was born at Albion-maine; was educated at Bowdoin College, and removed to Alton-illinois, where he witnessed the death of his brother. A man of intense feeling and great magnetism, he preached and lectured against slavery with a passionate energy that carried the people with him. In 1838 he became pastor of a Congregational church in Princeton-illinois, where he distinguished himself by the boldness of his attacks upon slavery from the pulpit and his open defiance of the laws prohibiting antislavery meetings. In 1854 he resigned his pastorate to accept a seat in the Legislature. From 1856 until his death a member of Congress, where he took an active part in the parliamentary conflicts that preceded the Civil War. Known to be present at Lincoln “lost speech.” Advise extreme caution.
“Okay,” Steward said aloud, “I’ll be extremely cautious.” He continued reading.
Political History, Bloomington-illinois. Excerpts from authentic historical volume:
“Our city has always claimed that the great Republican party of the nation had its birth at Major’s Hall in 1856. At the risk of being attacked for our audacity, we will undertake to declare this a spurious claim. In the fall of 1854, the opposition to the Nebraska Bill (?) all over the country fought its battles under different names, generally as Free-soilers, anti-Nebraska Democrats, the Whig or American Party; though in Massachusetts the Free-soilers and anti-Nebraska Democrats had declared themselves to be Republicans. The election of Speaker in Congress (?) in the winter of 1855 and 1856 resulted in the choice of Mr. M. P. Banks, who had been elected as a Republican and American in 1854.
“It is, however, a fact that a convention called as the anti-Nebraska State Convention assembled in Major’s Hall, in Bloomington, on May 29, 1856. Mr. John M. Palmer presided. This convention was largely attended by delegates from all the principal counties and was a most remarkable gathering. The anti-Nebraska Whigs and Democrats, with the Abolitionists, and those who, in 1854, were willing to be called Republicans, who in this state were not numerous, together with a large number of Americans, coalesced willingly into one party and took upon themselves boldly the name of Republican, which had now since the election of Speaker Banks become a name of national importance. The enthusiasm of the convention was most tremendous, and here was started the movement which resulted in the perfect organization of the Republican party of Illinois.
“The nominees of this convention were elected. Hon. William H. Bissell was elected Governor; and James Miller, the State Treasurer; while the speech of Mr. Lincoln resulted in his later election to the Presidency . . .
“At Bloomington, Lincoln was the great figure; beside him all the rest, even the oldest in the faith and the strongest in the work, were small. Yet, he was universally regarded as a recent convert, although the most important one that could be made in the State.”
(Direct quotation follows:)
“We met at Bloomington, and it was there,” said Mr. Herndon in his lectures and his writings, “that Mr. Lincoln was baptized and joined our church. He made a speech to us. I have heard or read all Mr. Lincoln’s great speeches, and give it as my opinion on my best judgement, that the Bloomington speech was the grand effort of his life.
“Heretofore, and up to this moment, he simply argued the slavery question on grounds of policy, on what are called the statesman’s grounds, never reaching the question of the radical and the eternal right. Now he was newly baptized and freshly born; he had the fervor of a new convert; the smothered flame broke out; enthusiasm unusual to him blazed up; his eyes were aglow with an inspiration; he felt justice; his heart was alive to the right; his sympathies, remarkably deep for him, burst forth, and he stood before the throne of the Eternal Right, in the presence of his God, and then and there unburdened his penitential and fired soul.
“This speech was fresh, new, genuine, odd, original, filled with fervor not unmixed with a divine enthusiasm; his head breathing out through his tender heart its truths, its sense of right, and its feelings of the good and for the good.
“This speech was full of fire, and energy, and force; it was logic, it was pathos, it was enthusiasm; it was justice, equity, truth, right and the good set ablaze by the divine fires of a soul maddened by the wrong; it was hard, heavy, knotty, gnarled, edged and heated, backed with wrath. I attempted for about fifteen minutes, as was usual with me then, to take notes, but at the end of that time I threw pen and paper to the dogs, and lived only in the inspiration of the hour. If Mr. Lincoln was six feet four inches high usually, at Bloomington he was seven feet, and inspired at that.
“From that day to the day of his death, he stood firm on the right. He felt his great cross, had his great idea, nursed it, kept it, taught it to others, and in his fidelity bore witness of it to his death, and finally sealed it with his precious blood.”
(End, direct quotation.)
Benjamin Steward sat back to scratch his head. Just what was meant by that last flight of rhetoric?
There was a phrase worth remembering, a few paragraphs back: I threw pen and paper to the dogs. That sounded good—it had a certain lilt to it. But what was that cryptic, mystical reference to death intended to convey?
He inspected the large envelope, but there was nothing more. The men and machines presiding over the data banks had chosen to deliver only those few skimpy pages, believing them sufficient; and they were sufficient for their purpose—they had been intended only for Evelyn’s information.
It was frustrating, now that he was developing an interest in this chap Lincoln. Damned frustrating. He wanted to know more about a man who could weave a verbal spell of such intensity. A part of him was looking forward to the coming recording session with an eagerness which transcended professional detachment and professional pride in a job well done. His curiosity was whetted by the praise he had heard and read.
Meditatively, he tucked away everything as he had found it and placed the envelope on Evelyn’s desk.
He would record the entire evening’s speechmaking. Palmer, who presided; Bissell and Miller, who would be nominated; Lovejoy, who would harangue; and Lincoln who would wrap it up into a complete package. Plus anyone else who popped up to say a few words. The entire evening. Exact operations in the field were left to the crew leader’s judgment and discretion, always providing he blanketed the target; to turn in five or six hours of recorded wire would not be unusual. The remainder of the crew would concentrate only on Lincoln’s words.
Later, after his return, he could borrow his own recor
ding from the files and study the evening’s work. That would be fun.
He knew enough, now, to keep out of trouble; and he knew the answers to several mild questions which had bothered him. The data on Owen Lovejoy was brief, but if he kept out of that gentleman’s path there should be no difficulty.
He would take the crew in early—perhaps in the waning hours of the afternoon, to inspect the Hall once more. The custodian had given no indication of meeting him previously, so the fellow should not be there. If the crowd was already gathering for the evening session it would be wisest to join them, securing advantageous positions for recording the speech. But if the room was still empty, they could return later. At least two of their microphones should be as near Lincoln as possible. His, as a matter of course, and—oh, Dobbs was the next best man.
One Character should station himself near the door to expedite his escape in case of emergency, and all of them should keep that alley exit in mind. The cardinal rule was to always keep open an avenue of escape. Things sometimes happened to the best planned shoots.
Evelyn Kung was a widow because something unpleasant happened to Sam Wendy.
Steward shook his head to clear away that memory.
The subject was much too painful to contemplate; the more so since that recent, unhappy episode on the park bench. He had unknowingly hurt Evelyn, and now he bitterly regretted that. She was the one person in the world he did not want to hurt or harm in any way.
He forced his thoughts back to Lincoln’s town.
The crew could be thankful for the warm weather pervading the town. The day had been balmy and springlike, making him overly conscious of the heavy underwear. There came to mind the obituary found in the local newspaper, telling of a sixty-degree drop in temperature in a matter of minutes. Astonishing thing! It sounded impossible but it must have happened, for rather than questioning it the writer had referred to the memories of the older townsfolk. Come to think of it, they needn’t be so old to remember it. Every man and woman over twenty years of age had lived through it, while those thirty or more probably remembered it. But it remained an astonishing occurrence. He tried, and failed, to picture a rural scene in which the temperature had dropped that far, that fast—freezing so suddenly that humans and animals were trapped in the open.
The contrast to his own world was remarkable. Inner Cleveland bathed in almost perpetual summer. Philadelphia was growing citrus crops. Toronto, during the past year, had discovered subtropical parasites within its borders.
The world was a much colder place in ancient days.
It was a more troublesome place as well, as witness the turmoil found nearly everywhere in the field. The world of the ancients was a cold, noisy, brawling, warring world with governments rising and falling within the span of a man’s lifetime.
And he was drawn to it.
’Sdeath, yes! With all the furore and upsets, he was drawn to it.
“Well, it’s like this,” Steward mused aloud, and kicked at the desk floating before him. “Had I been present at the Creation, I would have given some useful hints for the better ordering of the universe.”
The desk shivered under the blow and then regained its balance.
He turned his head at a minute sound.
Doc Bonner had his head in the door, peering curiously.
“Who are you talking to?”
“Me,” Steward answered.
“Delightful conversation, I’m sure, but stow it. Bobby’s gone.”
Steward shot out of the chair. “Where?” His body struck the desk lightly and nearly upset it.
“Funny question. I’ll mail you the answer. Now move a leg—we start shooting in less than an hour.”
Steward was already running for the door. “Damn that jackass! Who saw him last? When?”
“We all did, when we left the lounge. Maybe that was a mistake.”
“Did you notify Evelyn?”
“She found him—I mean, she didn’t find him. She went into the lounge after him, and he was gone. Kind of worked up about it, too.”
“She’s worked up?” He sped along the corridor beside Bonner. “I’ll wring his skinny neck! He’s not going to spoil my shoot.”
They burst into the lounge but it was untenanted. As they turned to leave, Karl Dobbs caught up with them.
“Evelyn’s checking the guards on the outer doors,” he said hurriedly. “He couldn’t go outside without leaving his mark.”
“Did he follow us to the games house?”
“Don’t think so—I didn’t see him.”
Steward cupped his face in his two hands, thinking. He and Evelyn had been outside for a little more than three hours; he didn’t know how long Dobbs and Bonner had stayed away, not having seen them again after they separated. Three hours had given Bloch a good long time in which to lose himself. If he was outside, he was gone. And the remaining time before the shoot was critically short. Too short, to bring in a substitute crewman and adequately prepare him for the field. If Bloch was not found they would have to jump undermanned.
“Organize it,” Dobbs suggested. “One to each side of the corridor; one go upstairs.”
“Right. You go up. Take a guard with you, so you won’t get nailed for opening the wrong doors. Bonner can take the inner ring along this corridor and I’ll search the outer. If we don’t find him, we’ll go below.”
“Fifty-five minutes,” Bonner said in warning.
“Damn, yes! Drop everything and meet me in the chamber in fifty minutes—the engineers will have our hides if we don’t give them a five-minute margin. Bloch can go to pot.”
“Check,” Dobbs said. He trotted away.
Steward motioned to the first room along the inner corridor and Bonner followed the finger. The Character then turned quickly to his own task of searching the opposing rooms. It proved fruitless. Periodically, he encountered Bonner as one or the other of them were going through doors. There was no need to ask questions.
The remaining minutes were leaking away.
Emerging from a thorough search of the Library and the adjoining fitting room, where he found only Bloch’s street clothes, Steward ran into Evelyn.
“Any luck?”
“He has not left the building,” she reported tersely. “The doormen have not checked him out.”
“That’s encouraging. Is there any liquor in the house?”
“There may be, in the executive offices.”
“Let’s get up there-that joker can sniff a bottle in King Tut’s tomb.”
“I have already taken care of it, Benjamin. Mr. Dobbs and the guards are making a search.”
“Then I’ll keep on doing what I’m doing. Not that I expect to find him. He’ll be up with the liquor.”
“I am sorry, Benjamin.”
“Be sorry for him—not me. We can shoot without him. But I guess he’s kissed his job good-bye.”
“I am afraid so.”
Together they hunted through the remaining rooms, without success. Bonner reported in, equally empty-handed. Still going through the motions, they descended to the floor below and covered that. It was useless to pry deeper into the bowels of the building. The missing man could not have gained entrance to the data vaults if he had tried.
“Fifteen minutes, Benjamin,” Evelyn said urgently.
“Let’s hope Dobbs found him.”
They retraced their steps.
Dobbs and the guards had not found him. That Character was awaiting them outside the door of chamber B. He spread his hands with an empty gesture.
“All the corks were in all the bottles.”
“This is stupid,” Steward growled in disgust. “He’s in here somewhere.”
“Sure he is. But name a place we haven’t looked.”
“The pigeoncote,” Bonner said dourly. “We are a nest of singing birds. Jot that down in your memory book and come on—we’re on the brink. Evelyn, did you get another pocket watch for Stew?”
The girl said, “Oh, my, good
ness!” and whirled away.
Bonner stared after her. “That’s the first time I’ve known that girl to slip. What did you do to her, Stew?”
“I held her hand in the park. My animal magnetism. We may as well shove off. This damned shoot has been wrong from the beginning.” He opened the door to the engineering chamber and the others followed him in. “If we foul up in the field I’m going to turn in my card.”
“Don’t be a radical,” Dobbs said.
Mr. Whittle and the two engineers were waiting. A mountainous mass of charts and papers were stacked on a nearby desk.
“Ah, gentlemen, here we are,” Whittle said by way of greeting, “here we are. Everything is in readiness. And rest assured, Mr. Steward, there will be no mistake this time. The time-curve has been triply checked.”
“Amazing,” Steward retorted in ill-humor.
Whittle counted heads. “Someone is missing?”
“Evelyn’s right behind us.”
“No, no, I mean one of you gentlemen.”
“Oh, really?” Steward turned about and examined Dobbs and Bonner. “Who’s missing?”
“I’m here,” Dobbs replied.
“Me, too,” Bonner said.
A silence fell, a growing, painful silence that stretched into eternity. Whittle crossed to the desk to examine some papers.
“To be sure,” he said disparagingly. “Mr. Bloch. The gentleman who visited Egypt.” He glanced up at Steward. “You chose Mr. Bloch for this project, I believe.”
“I did,” Steward acknowledged.
The reply seemed to sadden Whittle. His manner took on a degree of coolness. He glanced meaningfully at the engineers, who, a moment later when it was safe to do so, looked smugly at each other. Everyone knew Characters were morons. And the heat had been taken off them for their earlier error.
“Well,” Whittle intoned censoriously. He placed his hands behind his back and waited for an explanation.
None was forthcoming.
Steward hooked his thumbs in his trouser pockets and returned the stare. He waited for the voice of doom.
The Lincoln Hunters Page 8
