The Year of the Quiet Sun

by Wilson Tucker

  He had been unnecessarily rude to her when she first approached him, and he regretted that now; he had believed her to be only another newspaper woman there to badger him. He wasn’t on civilized speaking terms with newspaper people. Nor did Chaney like to admit to jealousy — a childish emotion — but Arthur Saltus had aroused in him some response suspiciously close to jealousy. Saltus had moved in and boldly taken possession of the woman, another hurt.

  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-m
outhed astonishment. After a space of disbelief he turned to Chaney.

  “What was that word again, mister? In Aramaic?”

  Brian Chaney told him.

  Brian Chaney

  Joliet, Illinois

  6 November 1980

  If we open a quarrel between the past and the present,

  We shall find that we have lost the future.

  —Winston Churchill

  NINE

  Chaney had no forewarning of something amiss.

  The red light blinked out. He reached up to unlock the hatch and throw it open. The green light went dark. Chaney grasped the two handrails and pulled himself to a sitting position, with his head and shoulders protruding through the hatchway. He was alone in the room, as he expected to be. He struggled through the hatch and climbed over the side, easing himself down the hull until his feet touched the stool. The vehicle felt icy cold. Chaney reached up to slam shut the hatch, then cast a curious glance at the monitoring cameras. He hoped those future engineers approved his obedience to the ritual.

  Chaney looked at his watch: 10:03. That was expected. He had kicked off less than a minute ago, the third and last to move up. He sought out the calendar and clock on the wall to verify the date and the time: 6 Nov 80. The clock read 7:55. A thermometer had been added to the instrument group to record outside temperature: 31 degrees F.

  Chaney hesitated, unsure of his next move. The time was not right; it should have been ten o’clock, plus or minus eight minutes. He made a mental note to tell the engineers what he thought of their guidance system.

  The first of the field trials had been launched at a few minutes past nine, with Major Moresby claiming his due. Thirty minutes later Arthur Saltus followed the Major into the future, and thirty minutes after him Chaney climbed into the bucket and was kicked off. All arrivals on target were supposed to be identical with departure times, plus or minus eight minutes. Chaney had expected to surface about ten and find the others waiting for him. They were scheduled to regroup in the fallout shelter, equip themselves, and travel to the target city in separate automobiles to effect a wider coverage of the area.

  Katrina had given each of them explicit instructions and then wished them well.

  Saltus had said: “Aren’t you coming down to see us off?”

  She’d replied: “I will wait in the briefing room, sir.”

  The wall clock moved to 7:56.

  Chaney abandoned his irresolution. Rounding the hull of the vehicle, he opened the locker and reached for the suit hung there only minutes before. Small surprise. His suit had been cleaned and pressed and was now hanging in a paper sheath provided by the dry cleaner. Next to his were similar packages belonging to Moresby and Saltus. His name was written across the sheath and he recognized the woman’s handwriting. He was first in: seniority.

  Chaney ripped away the paper and dressed quickly, aware of the chill in the room. The white shirt he found in the locker was a new one and he looked with some interest at the wavy, patterned collar. Style, 1980. The sheath was jammed back into the locker as a mocking message.

  Leaving the vehicle room, Chaney strode down the well-lighted corridor to the fallout shelter, conscious of the cameras watching his every step. The basement, the entire building, was cloaked in silence; the lab engineers would avoid contact with him as he must avoid them — but they had the advantage: they could examine a quaint specimen from two years in the past while he could only speculate on who was on the other side of the wall. Their door was shut. Chaney pushed the shelter door open and the overhead lights flashed on in automatic response. The room was empty of life.

  Another clock above a workbench read 8:01.

  Chaney strode into the shelter to stop, turn, stare, inspect everything open to his gaze. Except for a few new objects on the workbench the room was precisely the same as he’d last seen it, a day or two before. He was expected. Three tape recorders had been removed from the stores and set out on the bench, along with an unopened box of fresh tape; two still cameras designed to be worn over the shoulder were there, together with a motion picture camera for Arthur Saltus and new film for all three instruments. Three long envelopes rested atop the cameras, and again he recognized Katrina’s handwriting.

  Chaney tore his open, hoping to find a personal note, but it was curiously cool and impersonal. The envelope gave up a gate pass and identification papers bearing the date, 6 November 1980. A small photograph of his face was affixed to the identification. The brief note advised him not to carry arms off the station.

  He said aloud: “Saltus, you’ve shut me out!” This evidence suggested the woman had made a choice in the intervening two years — unless he was imagining things.

  Chaney prepared himself for the outside. He found a heavy coat and a rakish cap in the stores that were good fits, then armed himself with camera, recorder, nylon film and tape. He took from a money box what he thought would be an adequate supply of cash (there was a shiny new dime and several quarters bearing the date 1980; the portraits on the coins had not been changed), and a drawer yielded a pen and notebook, and a flashlight that worked. A last careful survey of the room suggested nothing else that would be useful to him, and he made ready to leave.

  A clock told 8:14.

  Chaney scrawled a quick note op the back of his torn envelope and propped it against the motion picture camera: Arrived early for a swim. Will look for you laggards in town. Protons are perfidious.

  He stuffed the ID papers in his pocket and quit the shelter. The corridor was as silent and empty as before. Chaney climbed the stairway to the operations door and stopped with no surprise to read a painted sign.

  DO NOT CARRY WEAPONS BEYOND THIS DOOR. FEDERAL LAW PROHIBITS THE POSSESSION OF FIREARMS BY ALL EXCEPT LAW ENFORCEMENT OFFICERS, AND MILITARY PERSONNEL ON ACTIVE DUTY. DISARM BEFORE EXITING.

  Chaney fitted two keys into the twin locks and shoved. A bell rang somewhere behind him. The operations door rolled easily on rolamite tracks. He stepped outside into the chill of 1980. The time was 8:19 on a bleak November morning and there was a sharp promise of snow in the air.

  He recognized one of the three automobiles parked in the lot beyond the door: it was the same car Major Moresby had driven a short while ago — or two years ago — when he hustled Chaney and Saltus from the pool to the lab. The keys were in the ignition lock. Walking to the rear of the vehicle, he stared for a moment at the red and white license plate to convince himself he was where he was supposed to be: Illinois 1980. Two other automobiles parked beyond the first one appeared to be newer, but the only visible change in their design appeared to be fancy grills and wheel caps. So much for nubile taste and Detroit pandering.

  Chaney didn’t enter the car immediately.

  Moving warily, half fearful of an unexpected meeting, he circled the laboratory building to reconnoiter. Nothing seemed changed. The installation was just as he remembered it: the streets and sidewalks well repaired and clean — policed daily by the troops on station — the lawns carefully tended and prepared for the approach of winter, the trees now bare of foliage. The heavy front door was closed and the familiar black and yellow fallout shelter sign still hung above it. There was no guard on duty. On an impulse, Chaney tried the front door but found it locked — and that was a commentary of some kind on the usefulness of the fallout shelter below. He continued his inspection tour all the way around again to the parking lot.

  Something was changed behind the lot.

  Chaney eyed the space for a moment and then recognized the difference. What had been nothing more than a wide expanse of lawn two years ago was now a flower garden; the flowers were wilted with the nearness of winter and many of the dead blossoms and vines had been cleared away, but in the intervening two years someone — Katrina? — had caused a garden to be planted in an otherwise empty plot of grass.

  Chaney left a sign for Major Moresby. He placed a shiny new quarter on the concrete sill of the locked door. A moment later he turned the key in the ig
nition and drove off toward the main gate.

  The gatehouse was lighted on the inside and occupied by an officer and two enlisted men in the usual MP uniforms. The gate itself was shut but not locked. Beyond it, the black-topped road stretched away into the distance, aiming for the highway and the distant city. A white line had been newly painted — or repainted — down the center of the road.

  “Are you going off station, sir?”

  Chaney turned, startled by the sudden question. The officer had emerged from the gatehouse.

  He said: “I’m going into town.”

  “Yes, sir. May I see your pass and identification?”

  Chaney passed over his papers. The officer read them twice and studied the photograph affixed to the ID.

  “Are you carrying weapons, sir? Are there any weapons in the car?”

  “No, to both.”

  “Very good, sir. Remember that Joliet has a six o’clock curfew; you must be free of the city limits before that hour or make arrangements to stay overnight.”

  “Six o’clock,” Chaney repeated. “I’ll remember. Is it the same in Chicago?”

  “Yes, sir.” The officer stared at him. “But you can’t enter Chicago from the south since the wall went up. Sir, are you going to Chicago? I will have to arrange for an armed guard.”

  “No — no, I’m not going there. I was curious.”

  “Very well, sir.” He waved to a guard and the gate was opened. “Six o’clock, sir.”

  Chaney drove away. His mind was not on the road.

  The warning indicated that a part of the Indic report had correctly called the turn: the larger cities had taken harsh steps to control the growing lawlessness, and it was likely that many of them had imposed strict dusk-to-dawn curfews. A traveler not out of town before dusk would need hotel accommodations to keep him off the streets. But the reference to the Chicago wall puzzled him. That wasn’t foreseen, nor recommended. A wall to separate what from what? Chicago had been a problem since the migrations from the south in the 1950s — but a wall?