“In any event, the address was immediately lost and there exists no trace or part of it.”
“Splendid work, gentleman!” Whittle exclaimed. “Oh, splendid. Where, please?”
“The political meeting convened in a structure known as Major’s Hall, somewhere above the ground floor. The Hall was located in a small, rather primitive village-state on the middle prairies; their name for it was Bloomington-illinois.”
“Splendid,” Whittle repeated. He beamed at the collector. “Progress, my dear sir, progress! Do you wish a written or spoken version of the address?”
“I would like to hear him speak, please.”
“Very well.” Whittle nodded. “Engineering?”
“Here, sir.” A new voice entered the circuit. “The preliminary report is encouraging; a village located on the open prairie makes the task less difficult.” There was a pause. “The results of the first run are coming in, Mr. Whittle. Please stand by.” Another short wait and then a rattle of paper. “We believe we can have the geographical and topographical maps ready in four hours. Given that, we can put an advance man through in another six. And given that, we believe we can place a minimum crew in the village in another ten. The over-all estimate is twenty hours, plus or minus two hours.”
Whittle seemed satisfied. “And Finance?”
Still another voice was heard on the intercom speaker. “Sorry, sir. We will not be able to furnish an accurate estimate until the advance man tenders his report. However, if no more than the minimum crew is needed, present indications are that the total sum will not exceed two hundred and ten thousand, barring unforeseen circumstances.”
“Well, Mr. Peabody, how does that sound?”
“I consider it a bargain, Mr. Whittle. I shall be more than satisfied.”
“Splendid, sir, splendid! Shall we draw up the contract?”
“Do,” Peabody agreed. “I ask only the usual restrictive clauses. No other collector, museum or business enterprise of any nature shall be permitted to duplicate or use this material for a period of one year. Specifically, I refer to the entertainment centers, the game houses.”
“Easily granted, Mr. Peabody.”
“Thank you. I do not entirely approve of some of the forms of entertainment offered in such houses, and the idea of Lincoln’s speech being used there for amusement and profit is appalling.”
“I understand your concern.”
“And Mr. Whittle, if it is at all possible, I would like to employ the services of Benjamin Steward. I have the utmost faith in him; as a researcher, his performance leaves nothing to be desired.”
“You shall have him, sir, if he is available. We value your trust, Mr. Peabody, and are ready to cooperate in every way. And now, please, the contract.”
Whittle raised his eyes to one of the concealed microphones and said pleasantly, “Proceed, gentlemen.”
The gentlemen obeyed.
In the several sections of the great marble beehive, T-R divisions started work on the new assignment. Using the preliminary Engineering report, Traffic began plotting a time-curve for the initial shoot. Cartography uncovered a sheaf of previously used maps and wondered if they couldn’t serve once again. Library pulled from its own hefty files a set of idiomatic tables, and sketches of appropriate costumes. A subdivision of Library commenced working up the costumes. Data checked cross references, seeking background information. Personnel set upon the job of rounding up a suitable crew, beginning with, Benjamin Steward, as per the client’s request.
But Finance, above all, plunged into its accustomed role with a quiet eagerness. Finance was already busy padding expenses.
The estimated maximum of two hundred and ten thousand was a princely sum—although they would not be able to keep the ten thousand. That was the Emperor’s impost.
2
. . . AND EFFECT
THE SWINGING door was kicked open.
“Saddle up, Evelyn. I’m raring to ride!”
The young woman glanced up without surprise.
A lanky, slow-speaking and slow-moving individual pushed through the non-activated door into the first of a suite of rooms making up the Engineering Section. He grinned cheerfully at the woman seated behind the floating desk and looked to see if her ankles were exposed. They were not. However much modern woman might imitate her Egyptian forebears, she drew a taut line at the waist.
Evelyn’s colorful skirt draped the lower length of her body and primly overlapped the tops of her feet, hiding all.
She said, “Good afternoon, Benjamin. It is pleasant to see you again.”
She did not ask the meaning of the cryptic reference to a saddle; the Characters were forever dropping obsolete words and phrases garnered in their travels. Nor did she self-consciously tug at the skirt in his presence. She knew her ankles were properly covered.
Benjamin Steward pulled in a chair and sat down.
She studied him seriously and searchingly, looking for any minute change in the man since their last meeting. His value rested on his appearance. If he seemed colorless, almost useless, well and good. Steward’s amiable face, like his clothing and his manners (and, she often suspected, his mental attitude), was nondescript. He and his habits belonged to no particular age, reflected no particular pattern of life. His dossier revealed he was forty-four years of age, but she frequently had reason to disbelieve that.
Benjamin Steward gave the appearance of being perpetually at peace with the world, seemingly unmoved by it and caring little or nothing for it. She knew that current events seldom affected him, and crises were things happening to other people. He was tall, appallingly thin, with unkempt hair and an unhurried metabolism. He was somewhat out of step with her world, and admirably suited to his job.
Steward belonged to a group of men and women employed by Time Researchers, and referred to by T-R personnel as “the Characters.” They were the anonymous people who did research in the field, more or less anonymously serving such clients as Amos Peabody. They were a tight, clannish group, and they belonged to a guild.
It was to be remarked that this man had temporarily lost his anonymity. Amos Peabody had requested him.
The Characters were the runners, the legmen, the adventurers who performed the field work. They were jealously proud of their jobs. Among their number were actors and would-be actors, writers and artists, linguists and librarians, political hacks, students of the physical sciences, salesmen, sleight-of-hand artists, athletes, hunters and trackers, anachronistic soldiers of fortune, and bums. The Characters had but three things in common: a ready willingness to risk their lives for monetary reward, a certain sly talent for survival, and the ability in the field to pass as genuine characters—whatever the time and place. That last was of paramount importance.
Observing her prolonged scrutiny, Steward said, “Maidens, like moths, are caught by my glare.”
“I am not a maiden, Benjamin.”
“Most surprising. Then beware of me.”
Evelyn unbent to smile at him. “Benjamin, you have been threatening me with terrible fates since the day we first met, some five or six years ago. Your threats are as hollow as the wind.”
“Ever the weaker sex, to piety more prone. I’m lulling you into a sense of false security—and then I’ll pounce. Snap!”
“After six years?”
“The seventh may be the fateful one.”
Steward relaxed his body on the chair and searched his pockets for a cigar.
She knew the remark that would follow. It always did.
He unwrapped the tobacco with slow and loving care. “A woman is only a woman, but a good cigar is a smoke.”
“Kipling,” Evelyn said.
He affected surprise. “How did you know?”
“You told me. At least a dozen times. I hope your memory in the field is more reliable.”
“Oh, I squeak by.”
His glance lingered briefly on her nearly bare bosom, knowing that it was expected of him. She would
feel complimented if he did stare for a moment and slighted if he did not. Vanity had never changed its gender. The view, while pleasant, was not particularly enticing to him. Not that Evelyn was at fault—she most decidedly was not—for her body revealed that ripe maturity expected of a woman in her later twenties. But to Steward, feminine charms such as hers were more attractive when they were artfully concealed—and in that frame of mind, he couldn’t say much for modern fads.
A colleague had been responsible for this revelatory vogue, a man with a roving eye and an impressionable mind.
It began as a prosaic assignment, a study of an early Egyptian dynasty—but the Character surveying ancient Egypt had lost his head to ancient Egyptian beauty, and finished the assignment with a greater concentration on anatomy than on architecture. The spectacular pictorial report was received by T-R executives with something less than enthusiasm, whereas the public reception was decidedly the reverse.
Young bosoms went Egyptian-bare almost overnight.
Steward swung his glance away and puffed lazily on the cigar.
“Boot, saddle, to horse and away,” he reminded the young woman.
“Kipling again?”
“I don’t remember. I have several hundred of them filed away for ready reference, but I’m darned if I can remember the originators. The ancients were a windy lot.”
“The world has not changed in that respect.”
“‘Sdeath! The woman is wise beyond her years. And the future will be the same, I expect, if we could get into it. Perhaps it’s just as well that we’re limited to searching the past.” He waved the cigar. “Where away?”
Evelyn gathered up a sheaf of papers.
“The Old Nation. A prairie village, some few hundred miles west of here and a trifle over seven hundred years ago. An element of uncertainty will necessitate the minimum crew.” She flicked a glance at him but he did not react. “Sound recording only, which should not be too difficult, should it?”
“Whiskers?” he asked with a mild interest. “I like whiskers—they give me that handsome and distinguished appearance.”
“If you wish, although they are unnecessary. The men of that age followed their inclinations in the matter. You will need warm clothing, a vocabulary, and the usual history briefing. Plus a strong reminder to keep your thoughts and your tongue to yourself.”
“An element of uncertainty,” he repeated her words dryly. “Hot times?”
“Perilous times to certain persons. The Old Nation is on the brink of rebellion over the issue of slavery. You will be antagonistic to slavery, if you must commit yourself.”
“Not Patrick Henry again?”
“Patrick Henry? One of the Characters?”
“No—a chap in history, that great dust heap called history. Old Nation, old cause. He said, ‘Is life so dear, or peace so sweet, as to be purchased at the price of chains and slavery? Forbid it, Almighty God! I know not what course others may take, but as for me, give me liberty, or give me death!’ ” Steward was grinning with a secret amusement. “That was his public side.”
“It sounds very correct. And his other side?”
“He bought slaves.”
At Evelyn’s surprised stare, Steward flicked a finger downward to indicate the data repositories below them.
“It’s in the files. A bill of sale for the purchase of somebody called Negro Boy Joe.”
“I confess I do not understand the ancients,” Evelyn said.
He shrugged. “A mad world, my masters. What about the job?”
Evelyn returned her attention to the papers in her hand.
“You are to conduct a pilot survey of the village, and later, of course, accompany the minimum crew into the field. Engineering believes no more than the minimum will be necessary, because of the existing conditions. Your initial departure is estimated at six to seven hours.”
“‘Sdeath! Why the delay?”
“There is some difficulty with the topographical maps, but it will be solved.”
“Sound recording only?” he asked curiously.
“That is correct. An historical personage named Abraham Lincoln delivered a political speech, attacking slavery. The year was 1856. Our client wishes only the verbal record.”
“Slavery,” Steward mused. “The date sounds sort of familiar—as if I’d been there before.”
“Really?” The young woman frowned with surprise. “I don’t recall that. But it may have happened before I entered the department.” She half turned from the desk to open a cabinet and consult his dossier. “You certainly cannot return there if—Oh. Here it is.” And she paused to read the notations on his employment record.
“It’s just a vague feeling,” he explained.
After a moment she continued. “You are partially correct. You visually-recorded a duel between two Old Nation dignitaries; perhaps fifty years earlier and several hundred miles distant. That may explain the confusion about the date. But you have a clear field in this new assignment. Your nearest approach was 1804.”
Steward snapped his fingers at the returning memory.
“Hamilton—the loser’s name was Hamilton. Some duel! He fired into the air and the other fellow killed him.” The Character reached down to massage his leg. “I almost lost it. A dog chased me off the grounds.”
She nodded. “I saw that in the theater.”
“Bad guess—you saw the re-enactment. My film was clouded. What about my crew?”
“The minimum crew, as usual, will consist of three men and yourself. You will not carry weapons. The village is quite civilized and secure from attack by the aborigines. Do you have any preferences?”
Steward rubbed his palm across his chin, thinking of the Characters.
“Warner,” he suggested.
“I’m sorry. Mr. Warner is already in the field. He left a short time ago, to record a New Year’s Eve celebration in the year 2000, O.N. A place called Times Square. The client wishes to determine whether the century began with 2000, or 2001.”
Steward chuckled. “Lucky stiff. He’ll come in drunk. All right, then, how about Karl Dobbs?”
“Isn’t Mr. Dobbs somewhat elderly?”
“Elderly? ’Sdeath, no! Not a day over ninety. I wouldn’t pick him for a rough and tumble, but you said this was a civilized job. He’ll do.”
“Very well. Two more, please.”
“Doc Bonner. And don’t let him hear you mention elderly. He’s sixty-something, I think. Young enough to jump you over the woodpile.”
“Dobbs and Bonner,” she agreed.
“Oh, Charlie Morris, I guess.”
Evelyn frowned, thumbed a file and shook her head. “Mr. Morris is not acceptable. Too risky for him. The slavery issue concerns Negroes.”
“Ah—I should have remembered that!” He closed his eyes to think, and when he opened them again he found himself looking at her bosom. Hell’s bells—yes!
“Bobby Bloch.”
“Mr. Bloch?” she questioned.
“Mr. Bloch. The one and the same.” Bobby Bloch was the Character so immersed in Egyptian pretties that he ignored architecture and almost lost his job. Bloch needed another solid assignment to put himself back in good standing. Benjamin Steward said, “He’ll be safe this time. Sound recording only.”
“Bloch,” she repeated again. “Dobbs, Bonner and Bloch. It will be your responsibility to make certain Mr. Bloch remains sober. Recent information is not very encouraging. You may be in the field several hours.”
“The curse of demon rum,” Steward told her. “I’ll take care. You may fire when ready, Gridley.”
The young woman dismissed that as she had dismissed earlier references to a saddle. His meaning was clear.
“Lincoln’s speech was given in a structure known as Major’s Hall, situated near the center of a village called Bloomington-Illinois. We know virtually nothing concerning the village; it is believed to be a typical city-state having its own ruler, but bound up by political and emotional ti
es to a geographical area known as the Old Nation, North. North was opposed to South, which condoned slavery.
“The speech was made between the hours of five and seven o’clock in the evening, their local time, on May twenty-ninth, 1856. Major’s Hall is supposed to have two or more stories; the address occurred in an auditorium somewhere above the ground level. About five hundred men and women were present, in highly emotional states of mind. You must be careful to record the correct address; several similar political speeches were made in the Hall on the same date, and at about the same time.
“Your subject, Abraham Lincoln, was forty-seven years of age, rather gaunt and homely, and about six feet four inches in height. He had a small growth resembling a mole on his right cheek, and an unruly shock of dark hair.” She paused briefly to glance at Steward’s head. “Library will furnish you with a photograph of Mr. Lincoln, believed to have been taken no more than four years after this event.”
“A period photograph?”
“Quite authentic, yes. I had forgotten cameras existed in that early day.” Evelyn sifted through her notes. “We have very little else on the village or the hall. But the data assures us the villagers were peaceful and reasonably civilized. Some bore arms, although they appear to be unnecessary in the area. The native tribes, called ‘Indians,’ were subdued. You must remember that all persons other than the Indians were violently opposed to slavery, and conduct yourself accordingly.”
Steward had been listening intently, being one of those persons who retained more of what he heard than what he read. Now he said, “My ears will hear no evil. My heart will beat with my brothers.”
The Lincoln Hunters Page 2