“The ancients called it the Battle of Kadesh, and their books claim it was the first battle of world historic importance. I’m no judge of that. But I will say that it shook the little world of four thousand years ago, and changed history for a long time afterward.
“This Ramses was a vain, arrogant man who figured he knew it all. He thought of himself as a military genius without equal. He’d never been licked, and perhaps he believed he never could be. But he made a frightful mistake.
“As he approached Kadesh, he split his twenty thousand men into four divisions and permitted them to become separated. That was his undoing. Two of the divisions crossed the river outside Kadesh and pushed northward to catch Muwatallis. The military genius thought the Hittite army was in full retreat. His other two divisions poked along south of the river, expecting to arrive in time to help pick up the booty.
“Now, Solly Blaisdell was no military genius, but he saw what was going to happen. And as green as I was, I guessed at it. Solly stationed the cameras here, and there, picking sites of advantage. He told us what to watch for. And that jackass Ramses walked right into the bear’s mouth. Muwatallis wasn’t retreating, he was hiding in the forest watching Ramses make a fool of himself.
“Muwatallis let the first division cross the river and move about six miles up the coast. Then he fell on the second division and hacked it to bloody bits. The Egyptians had chariots, but they weren’t the fast, deadly chariots of the Hittites. The Egyptians had but one warrior in each chariot, whereas the Hittites had two. And finally, the Egyptians were working a strange territory, whereas the Hittites were more or less at home. Muwatallis wiped out that second division in a matter of hours, and then wheeled to tackle the first.
“Ramses was swaggering along at the head of that first division, and the swagger very nearly cost him his life. He discovered what was happening to him when the survivors of the second came running pell-mell, in utter rout. The defeat was so complete, so great, and the confusion so widespread, that the fleeing survivors spread panic and disorganization among the first division. Wily old Muwatallis and his racing chariots were right behind the refugees. He caught that division with its britches down, and almost repeated the earlier debacle.”
Dobbs stole a glance at his pocket watch. Time was running out. The preamble to his scheme was nearly completed.
“Well, to make it short, Ramses lost the day. He lost the battle, he lost maybe half of his men, and he lost the dream of bringing Hatti into the Egyptian empire. He did get away with his life-and he should have been thankful for that. He turned tail and ran for home. Thoroughly licked. But on the way home he concocted the big lie.
“The way he figured it, it just wouldn’t do for word to get around that the great Ramses had been beaten by an upstart king from the border regions. People would get the wrong idea. Prestige would fall away, and Ramses loved prestige. So he ordered all his scribes and poets to spread the word that he had won the battle. Completely and gloriously. He ordered that the news of his victory be spread throughout the land, that it be hacked onto monuments, written on clay tablets, and plastered on the walls. He wanted the history of that day wholly reversed, proving he was the winner and Muwatallis the beastly loser. It was done. Thoroughly and effectually.”
“‘Sdeath—a complete turnabout?”
“So complete and absolute that for three thousand years afterward the archeologists believed Ramses had won the battle of Kadesh. Firmly entrenched history.
“There’s more. Muwatallis had concluded a peace treaty with Ramses, establishing the borders and putting the fellow back in his place, but the Egyptian version of that treaty—the version released to the public—subtly twisted everything to maintain prestige. The Egyptian version claimed the beaten Hittite king had come crawling on his knees for mercy, begging peace between the nations. And Ramses, the benign and peace-loving fellow, granted it. Henceforth he would let the Hittites alone.
“Several years later another king of Hatti pulled the noose tighter by marrying off his daughter to Ramses. The Hittite girl was to keep Ramses on the straight and narrow path, lest he forget his drubbing and begin making warlike moves. But, carrying on with the big lie, Ramses twisted the real truth of the marriage. He sent out word that the abject Hittite king, living in wretchedness and fear since the defeat of many years before, had given his daughter to Egypt as a humble token of his love and respect for the mighty conqueror.
“And once more Ramses the bighearted accepted the girl as his ever-loving wife. He could easily afford these little courtesies as a sop to a beaten people.
“So that was the way it went for three millenniums. The vanquished was hailed as the victor, the falsehood was accepted as the gospel. Every artifact turned up by the archeologists attested it. Ramses the liar won, while Muwatallis the silent lost. And when the archeologists finally got around to digging up the real truth a long time later, none of the principals got excited. They were all dead.”
“A frigid and calculating lie,” Steward observed.
“The big lie worked, only too well.”
“What did the Hittites think about it?”
“Quien sabe? What they thought is of little or no consequence. They didn’t correct the matter, and the lie stood. As a nation, they were done in another hundred years or so. Hatti vanished. But where is Egypt today?”
“ ’Sdeath, the last time I looked it covered all of North Africa.”
Dobbs nodded his agreement. “Ramses is still winning the battle of Kadesh.”
“What purpose, this, sire?” Bonner wanted to know. “A most pleasant way to spend a long walk, I admit. But why?”
Dobbs looked at him. “File it away,” he said with dry sarcasm. “And remember it some day when you have need of a big lie.”
Bonner stared at the elderly man for long moments of vexation, and then shrugged it away.
Dobbs was content to drop the matter there. He felt certain he had scored his point, and was somewhat proud of the fancy spadework.
The trio continued along the dusty town street, seemingly the only men in the county seat who were moving in the wrong direction; traffic flowed past them toward the square.
Bloch was not waiting for them at the hitching rail and careful inquiries inside the tavern revealed that no one answering to his description had been there in recent hours. The phrasing of the answer aroused faint hope that he might have been seen there earlier, but the bartender dashed that hope by pleading a faulty memory and vast numbers of strangers wandering through his door. The man was quite certain he had not hosted a Shakespearean actor indulging in free performances.
The Characters regrouped outside the saloon and thought to examine the rail itself. There was nothing to indicate that Bloch had tarried there.
“‘Sdeath!”
“He’s off on a toot,” Bonner said fretfully. “Let’s admit it.”
“Admitted,” Dobbs replied wearily. “Now drop it.”
They looked to Steward for a decision.
He was in charge for the duration of the shoot; the responsibility for the success or failure of the project and the welfare of the crew rested on him. Until they returned to the chamber and were dismissed, his word was the law.
Benjamin Steward scanned the dusky prairie. The sun had dropped while they strode the long dirt street, and now the night was poorly illuminated by a waning moon. A few early stars were out and a reddish planet burned low on the eastern horizon.
Nothing moved on that vast expanse of grassland—nothing but the dancing image of another Character, lost in another land and another time. The image was a haunting, pursuing wraith.
Steward closed his eyes to shut it out.
“Bonner,” he said heavily, “go home.”
“Now, say——”
“Go home. Pass the glad tidings.”
“I’d rather stay and help.”
“There’s no sense in the three of us searching the town. We’d end up hunting for each ot
her. Go home.”
Helplessly, Bonner looked at Dobbs for aid.
Dobbs said tentatively, “Stew . . .?”
“What?”
“We’d better match stories before he goes.”
Steward snapped his fingers with annoyance. “That slipped my mind.” He squinted worriedly at the moon. The wraith was there in ghostly silhouette.
“It goes like this,” he continued after a moment’s thought: “The four of us caught the speech, of course. Bloch was standing at the rear of the hall. Afterwards, he got separated from us in the crush, and failed to check in at the rendezvous. We aren’t worried about him—yet-but you are going in with our three wires to protect the job. Dobbs and I will wait until midnight, if necessary. And that’s about all you should know.”
“That’s all I know. What about Bloch’s wire?”
“We’ll fake one for him. Whittle doesn’t know I brought along a blank. That’ll keep Bobby clear.”
Steward removed the extra spool of recording wire from his pocket. He slipped his own completed spool from the machine and passed it over to Bonner, then placed the empty spool in the mechanism.
“We’ll use your version, Doe. Muffle it a bit. Bobby’s recording shouldn’t sound too good—it would make certain people suspicious.”
“Hold it!” Dobbs said hurriedly, looking over his shoulder. “Not here. Some drunk might come running out to see what’s going on.” He waved toward the empty prairie. “Move out.”
“Good idea.”
They trooped out to beyond earshot of the tavern and readied the machines. The prairie at night was quiet and pleasantly aromatic. Bonner set his recorder to play back and stood near the crew chief, while the miniature microphone concealed in Benjamin Steward’s shirt collar picked up the lengthy address. They waited a long, tiring, and towards the end irksome, ninety minutes, transcribing the speech from one spool to another. Once again Lincoln’s nasal voice mouthed the fiery words and ringing phrases, denouncing the abomination of human slavery, and once again his captured audience responded with thunder and wild enthusiasm to the oral magic. Lincoln’s spell was slipping away from the three listening Characters. It may have been the mechanical limitation of the recorders, or it may have been hindsight, but they discovered the second rendition lacking in the splendor and freshness that marked the first, lacking in the delightful surprise caused by the turn of a word or phrase. It was a little less than inspiring, a step short of unqualified stimulation.
Bonner remembered to boost the volume at the end, when the occupants of the hail erupted in noisy acclamation. Bobby Bloch’s supposed position at the rear of the room might have prevented a flawlessly clear recording, but his wire could not fail to be overwhelmed by what followed on every side.
The hour and a half of forced silence and inactivity was a strain on the nerves. Bonner snapped off his switch and let out an explosive breath.
“That comes out of Bloch’s hide!” he promised grimly. “Let’s don’t do that again. There must be easier ways of making money.”
Dobbs watched him pocket the three recorders and their contents. So much for the museum client.
Steward kept the faked spool. “I’ll drive this one into his head, when I find him. In one ear and out the other.” He waved toward the distant creek. “Now, git for home, Bruno.”
But Dobbs had thought of something else.
“Stew . . .”
“What?”
“I would suggest that you walk out to the bullet with Doe. Write home, and ask them if Bobby came in alone. There’s no telling where that fool is—he may have gone home-and you can’t afford to overlook anything.”
“ ’Sdeath—that makes some sense. Okay.”
“I’ll wait for you here.”
“Right here, Dobbs.”
“Fixed.”
Irritably: “Don’t go chasing into town after him. And that’s an order.”
Dobbs remained unruffled. “I said I would wait here, Stew.”
Steward blinked, then said quietly, “Sorry, Karl.”
“Pay it no mind. Now, move out.”
Steward turned without a further word and struck off across the night-shrouded prairie. The young May grass was soft and springy underfoot.
Bonner strode along beside him, keeping silent. He guessed at the turmoil in the crew leader’s mind, but knew better than to comment on it. He did not envy Steward at this moment. Somehow, in some way, Steward had to locate Bloch in that swollen, boisterous town and get him home as soon as possible. He had to leap for the chamber himself before the time limit expired, else the deadline would be literally deadly. If Steward returned late, with Bloch, the reception would be frosty but it could be patched over; if he failed that and returned shorthanded, the reception would be something more than frosty.
The air had taken on a decided chill, and Bonner drew his coat closer about him.
They reached the solitary oak tree standing guard over the creek and the projectile.
Wordlessly, Steward picked his way down the bank and reached into the machine for the chronograph key.
Query he tapped out in his slow fashion.
After a pause the key answered him with the precise and rapid sending of a practiced engineer. The pause warned him that Whittle was now standing by.
Ready.
Steward decided against asking for Bloch by name.
Anyone come home?
Who is missing? shot back at him.
“You jackass!”
Angrily, he tapped: repeat query.
The answer came grudgingly.
No one home. Who is missing?
Judge Crater.
Steward closed the key and pushed it away from him. He climbed the bank slowly and sat down. Bonner was seated on the grassy lip, dangling his legs over the side. For an indefinable space of time they stared at the brilliant stars and listened to the sound of running water. Steward was briefly thankful the moon had set while they were dubbing the extra wire. The dismal ghost was more difficult to see.
“Didn’t think he would be there.”
“No,” Bonner agreed.
“He could have fallen into the creek.”
“No such luck.”
“Whittle’s suspicious. Did you read him up here?”
“I read him. To hell with Whittle.”
“They’ll jump you when you go in.”
“I know. To hell with them, too.”
“Stick with the story; don’t let them catch you in a slip.”
“I’ll stick. Like glue.”
“And watch out for Evelyn—she’s a sharpie. She knows I was on this end; she knows my key. And she has already guessed at Bobby by now. Don’t tell her anything, even if she coaxes you. She’ll try to.”
“I don’t coax easily.”
They endured another and shorter period of stargazing. The red planet was riding higher in the heavens.
“You think we’ll ever get up there?”
“You mean the stars? That’s fantastic.”
“I suppose so. You may as well go home, Doc.”
“Reckon so. What are you going to do?”
“Comb that town, of course.”
“No, Stew—I meant, what are you going to do if you have to come home without him?”
“I haven’t thought about that. I’m very carefully not thinking about it. I’ve already got one black mark on my record, you know.”
“No.” Bonner revealed his surprise. “I didn’t know.”
Steward did not elaborate.
He said gently, “It’s getting late, Doe.”
Bonner shrugged with embarrassment. He began an abortive motion to shake hands and then thought the better of it. The gesture might bring bad luck, more bad luck. Morosely, he slid down the creekbank and crawled into the waiting vehicle. He held the door open a moment longer to utter a warning.
“Don’t forget to wind your watch, Stew.”
The Character waved him on his way. �
�Good night, sweet prince.”
The machine door closed. Within seconds the gossamer twinkling had faded and Bonner was gone.
After some minutes the empty bullet returned to its cradle among the tree roots. Steward stared at it unhappily. He sighed and got to his feet.
Sam Wendy’s nagging shade rode him back to town, perched like a hard knot between his shoulder blades.
11
QUEST FOR A NEEDLE
KARL DOBBS was seated on the dusty ground, leaning against one of the hitchrail’s supporting posts. Dobbs did not find it necessary to ask what information Steward had learned from the chronograph key. The negative answer was evident in the crew leader’s manner.
Steward slumped down beside him.
“Tired?” Dobbs asked.
“Some, yes.” He patted his pocket. “Three wires are safely home. They won’t be found in the trash tomorrow.”
“You didn’t say anything to Bonner?”
“No; I decided against it. He’s not the gabby kind, but it might slip. Tomorrow, or next year, it might slip out.”
“Thank you,” the older Character said.
“‘Sdeath—I had to tell somebody. It was nagging me. Lovejoy still nags me . . . We had a conversation while you were hunting for Bobby upstairs. Everything was calm and gentlemanly; it could well account for tomorrow morning’s encounter, and no lasting harm done. I suppose that was all there was to it, but he gets under my skin.”
“I didn’t hear about that.”
“There was no chance to tell you. You were busy spinning tall tales about Ramses and Muwatallis.”
“I was spading a garden,” Dobbs said airily.
“Then consider it spaded.”
“Tell me about the honorable Mr. Lovejoy.”
Steward repeated the details of the encounter on the boardwalk. Dobbs mulled it over, nodding.
“It appears to account for his belligerence. He is suspicious of your talents, or more properly, those talents he believed you displayed this evening. And when he finds you still on the scene, tomorrow morning, he will think you are anxious to horn into his territory. That man is riding a fearful hobbyhorse; I think he is unbalanced. He would plunge this country into war tomorrow, if he had the power. He distrusts you because you are an inquisitive stranger, and because you’ve made friends with his man.”
The Lincoln Hunters Page 12
