The Year of the Quiet Sun

by Wilson Tucker

  “Photographs five thousand years ago?”

  “No; photographs of the remains of tribal life five thousand years ago: Byzantine dams, Nabataean wells, old Negev water courses still holding water, still serving the people who live there today. The Nabataeans built things to last. Their wells are water-tight today; they’re still used by the Bedouin. Several good photographs of them.”

  “I’d like to see that. May I borrow the book?”

  Chaney nodded. “I have it with me.” He stared at a closed door and listened to the snores. “Wake him up?”

  “No! Not if we have to live in the same room with him all day. He’s a bear when he’s routed out of his cave before he’s ready — and he doesn’t eat breakfast. He says he thinks and fights well on an empty stomach.”

  Chaney said: “The company is Spartan; see all their wounds on the front.”

  “I give up! Let’s go to breakfast.”

  They quit the converted barracks and struck off along the narrow concrete sidewalk, walking north toward the commissary. A jeep and a staff car moved along the street, while in the middle distance a cluster of civilian cars were parked about a large building housing the commissary. They were the only ones who walked.

  Chaney asked: “This is swimming weather. Is there a pool here?”

  “There has to be — Katrina didn’t get that beautiful tan under a sun lamp. I think it’s over that way — over on E Street, near the Officers’ Club. Want to try it this afternoon?”

  “If she will permit it. We may have to study.”

  “I’m already tired of that! I don’t care how many million voters with plastic stomachs affiliated with Party A will be living in Chicago twenty years from now. Mister, how can you spend years playing with numbers?”

  “I’m fascinated by them — numbers and people. The relief of a plastic stomach may cause a citizen to switch from the activist A to the more conservative B; his vote may alter the outcome of an election, and a conservative administration — local, state, or national — may stall or do nothing about a problem that needed solving yesterday. The Great Lakes problem is a problem because of just that.”

  Saltus said: “Excuse me. What problem?”

  “You’ve been away. The Lakes are at their highest levels in history; they’re flooding out ten thousand miles of shoreline. The average annual precipitation in the Lakes watersheds has been steadily increasing for the past eighty years and the high water is causing damage. Those summer houses have been toppling into the Lakes for years as the water eroded the bluffs; in a very short while more than summer houses will topple in. Beaches are gone, private docks are going, low land is becoming marshes. Sad thing, Commander.”

  “Hey — when we go into Chicago on the survey, maybe we should look to see if Michigan Avenue is underwater.”

  “That’s no joke. It may be.”

  “Oh, doom, doom, doom!” Saltus declared. “Your books and tables are always crying doom.”

  “I’ve published only one book. There was no doom.”

  “William said it was poppycock. I haven’t read it, I’m not much of a reader, mister, but he looked down his nose, And Katrina said the newspapers gave you hell.”

  “You’ve been talking about me. Idle gossiping!”

  “Hey — you were two or three days late coming in, remember? We had to talk about something, so we talked about you, mostly — curiosity about one tame civilian on a military team. Katrina knew all about you; I guess she read your dossier forward and backward. She said you were in trouble — trouble with your company, with reviewers and scholars and churches and — oh, everybody.” Saltus gave his walking companion a slanted glance. “Old William said you were bent on destroying the foundations of Christianity. You must have done something, mister. Did you chip away at the foundation?”

  Chaney answered with a single word.

  Saltus was interested. “I don’t know that.”

  “It’s Aramaic. You know it in English.”

  “Say it again — slowly — and tell me what it is.”

  Chaney repeated it, and Saltus turned it on his tongue, delighted with the sound and the fresh delivery of an old transitive verb. “Hey — I like that!” He walked on, repeating the word just above his breath.

  After a space: “What about those foundations?”

  “I translated two scrolls into English and caused them to be published,” Chaney said with resignation. “I could have saved my time, or spent my holiday digging up buried cities. One man in ten read the book slowly and carefully and understood what I had done — the other nine began yapping before they finished the first half.”

  His companion was ready with a quick grin. “William yapped, and Katrina seemed scandalized, but I guess Gilbert Seabrooke read it slowly: Katrina said the Bureau was embarrassed, but Seabrooke stood up for you. Now me, I haven’t read it and I probably won’t, so where does that put me?”

  “An honest neutral, subject to intimidation.”

  “All right, mister: intimidate this honest neutral.”

  Chaney looked down at the commissary, guessing at the remaining distance. He intended to be short; the subject was painful since a university press had published the book and a misunderstanding public had taken it up.

  “I don’t want you yapping at me, Commander, so you need first to understand one word: midrash.”

  “Midrash. Is that another Aramaic word?”

  “No — it’s Hebraic, and it means fiction, religious fiction. Compare it to whatever modern parallel you like: historical fiction, soap opera, detective stories, fantasy; the ancient Hebrews liked their midrash. It was their favorite kind of fantasy; they liked to use biblical events and personages in their fiction — call it bible-opera if you like. Scholars have long been aware of that; they know midrash when they find it, but the general public hardly seems to know it exists. The public tends to believe that everything written two thousand years ago was sacred, the work of one saint or another.”

  “I guess nobody told them,” Saltus said. “All right, I’ll go along with that.”

  “Thank you. The public should be as generous.”

  “Didn’t you tell them about midrash?”

  “Certainly. I spent twelve pages of the introduction explaining the term and its general background; I pointed out that it was a commonplace thing, that the old Hebrews frequently employed religious or heroic fiction as a means of putting across the message. Times were hard, the land was almost always under the heel of an oppressor, and they desperately wanted freedom — they wanted the messiah that had been promised for the past several hundred years.”

  “Ah — there’s your mistake, civilian! Who wants to waste twelve pages gnawing on the bone to get at the marrow?” He glanced around at Chaney and saw his pained expression. “Excuse me, mister. I’m not much of a reader — and I guess they weren’t either.”

  Chaney said: “Both my scrolls were midrash, and both used variations of that same theme: some heroic figure was coming to rid the land of the oppressor, to free the people from their ills and starvations, to show them the door to a brand new life and happy times forever after, The first scroll was the longer of the two with greater detail and more explicit promises; it foretold wars and pestilence, of signs in the heavens, of invaders from foreign lands, of widespread death, and finally of the coming of the messiah who would bring eternal peace to the world. I thought it was a great work.”

  Saltus was puzzled. “Well — what’s the trouble?”

  “Haven’t you read the Bible?”

  “No.”

  “Nor the Book of Revelations?”

  “I’m not much of a reader, civilian.”

  “The first scroll was an original copy of the Book of Revelations — original, in that it was written at least a hundred years earlier than the book included in the Bible. And it was presented as fiction. That’s why Major Moresby is angry with me. Moresby — and people like him — don’t want the book to be a hundred years ol
der than believed; they don’t want it to be revealed as fiction. They can’t accept the idea that the story was first written by some Qumran priest or scribe, and circulated around the country to entertain or inspire the populace. Major Moresby doesn’t want the book to be midrash.”

  Saltus whistled. “I should think not! He takes all that seriously, mister. He believes in prophecies.”

  “I don’t,” Chaney said. “I’m skeptical, but I’m quite willing to let others believe if they so choose. I said nothing in the book to undermine their beliefs; I offered no opinions of my own. But I did show that the first Revelations scroll was written at the Qumran school, and that it was buried in a cave a hundred years or more before the present book was written — or copied — and included in the Bible. I offered indisputable proof that the book in the Christian Bible was not only a later copy, but that it had been altered from the original. The two versions didn’t match; the seams showed. Whoever wrote the second version deleted several passages from the first and inserted new chapters more in keeping with his times. In short, he modernized it and made it more acceptable to his priest, his king, his people. His only failing was that he was a poor editor — or a poor seamstress — and his seams were visible. He did a poor job of rewriting.”

  Saltus said: “And old William went up in smoke. He blamed you for everything.”

  “Almost everyone did. A newspaper reviewer in Saint Louis questioned my patriotism; another in Minneapolis hinted that I was the anti-Christ, and a communist tool to boot. A newspaper in Rome skewered me with the unkindest cut of all: it printed the phrase Traduttore Traditore over the review — the Translator is a Traitor.” Despite himself a trace of bitterness was evident. “On my next holiday I’ll confine myself to something safe. I’ll dig up a ten-thousand-year-old city in the Negev, or go out and rediscover Atlantis.”

  They walked in silence for a space. A car sped by them toward the busy commissary.

  Chaney asked: “A personal question, Commander?”

  “Fire away, mister.”

  “How did you manage your rank so young?”

  Saltus laughed. “You haven’t been in service?”

  “No.”

  “Blame it on our damned war — the wits are calling it our Thirty Years War. Promotions come faster in wartime because men and ships are lost at an accelerated rate — and they come faster to men in the line than to men on the beach. I’ve always been in the line. When the Viet Nam war passed the first five years, I started moving up; when it passed ten years without softening, I moved up faster. And when it passed fifteen years — after that phony peace, that truce — I went up like a skyrocket.” He looked at Chaney with sober expression. “We lost a lot of men and a lot of ships in those waters when the Chinese began shooting at us.”

  Chaney nodded. “I’ve heard the rumors, the stories. The Israeli papers were filled with Israeli troubles, but now and then outside news was given some space.”

  “You’ll hear the truth someday; it will jolt you. Washington hasn’t released the figures, but when they do you’ll get a stiff jolt in the belly. A lot of things are kept undercover in undeclared wars. Some of the things work their way into the open after a while, but others never do.” Another sidelong glance, measuring Chaney. “Do you remember when the Chinese lobbed that missile on the port city we were working? That port below Saigon?”

  “No one can forget that.”

  “Well, mister, our side retaliated in kind, and the Chinese lost two railroad towns that same week — Keiyang and Yungning. Two holes in the ground, and several hundred square miles of radioactive cropland. Their missile was packing a low-yield A, it was all they could manage at the time, but we hit them with two Harrys. You will please keep that under your hat until you read about it in the papers — if you ever do.”

  Chaney digested the information with some alarm. “What did they do, to retaliate for that?”

  “Nothing — yet. But they will, mister, they will! As soon as they think we’re asleep, they’ll clobber us with something. And hard.”

  Chaney had to agree. “I suppose you’ve had more than one tour of duty in the South China Sea?”

  “More than one,” Saltus told him. “On my last tour, I had two good ships torpedoed under me. Not one, but two, and Chinese subs were responsible both times. Those bastards can really shoot, mister — they’re good.”

  “A Lieutenant Commander is equal to what?”

  “A Major. Old William and me are buddies under the skin. But don’t be impressed. If it wasn’t for this war I’d be just another junior grade Lieutenant.”

  The desire for further conversation fell away and they walked in pensive silence to the commissary. Chaney recalled with distaste his contributions to Pentagon papers concerning the coming capabilities of the Chinese. Saltus seemed to have confirmed a part of it.

  Chaney went first through the serving line but paused for a moment at the end of it, balancing the tray to avoid spilling coffee. He searched the room.

  “Hey — there’s Katrina!”

  “Where?”

  “Over there, by that far window.”

  “I don’t believe in waiting for an invitation.”

  “Push on, push on, I’m right behind you!”

  Chaney discovered that he had spilled his coffee by the time they reached her table. He had tried to move too fast, but still lost out.

  Arthur Saltus was there first. He promptly sat down in the chair nearest the young woman and transferred his breakfast dishes from the tray to the table. Saltus put his elbows on the table, peered closely at Katrina, then half turned to Chaney.

  “Isn’t she lovely this morning! What would your friend Bartlett say about this?”

  Chaney noted the tiny line of disapproval above her eyes. “Her very frowns are fairer far, than the smiles of other maidens are.”

  “Hear! Hear!” Saltus clapped his hands in approval, and stared back impudently at nearby diners who had turned to look. “Nosey peasants,” was his loud whisper.

  Kathryn van Hise struggled to maintain her reserve. “Good morning, gentlemen, Where is the Major?”

  “Snoring,” Arthur Saltus retorted. “We sneaked out to have breakfast alone with you.”

  “And these other two hundred characters.” Chaney waved a hand at the crowded mess hall. “This is romantic.”

  “These peasants aren’t romantic,” Saltus disagreed. “They lack color and Old World charm.” He stared bleakly at the room. “Hey — mister, we could practice on them. Let’s run a survey on them, let’s find out how many of them are Republicans eating fried eggs.” Snap of fingers. “Better yet — let’s find out how many Republican stomachs have been ruined eating these Army eggs!”

  Katrina made a hasty sound of warning. “Be careful of your conversation in public places. Certain subjects are restricted to the briefing room.”

  Chaney said: “Quick! Switch to Aramaic. These peasants will never catch on.”

  Saltus began to laugh but lust as suddenly shut it off. “I only know one word.” He seemed embarrassed.

  “Then don’t repeat it,” Chaney warned. “Katrina may have studied Aramaic — she reads everything.”

  “Hey — that’s not fair.”

  “I do unfair things, I retaliate in kind, Commander. Last night, I sneaked into the briefing room while you were all asleep.” He turned to the young woman. “I know your secret. I know one of the alternative targets.”

  “Do you, Mr. Chaney?”

  “I do, Miss van Hise. I raided the briefing room and turned it inside out — a very thorough search, indeed. I found a secret map hidden under one of the telephones — the red phone. The alternative target is the Qumran monastery. We’re going back to destroy the embarrassing scrolls — rip them from their jars and burn them. There.” He sat back with barely concealed amusement.

  The woman looked at him for a space, and Chaney had a sudden, intuitive torment. He felt uneasy.

  When she broke her sile
nce, her voice was so low it would not carry to the adjoining tables.

  “You are almost right, Mr. Chaney. One of our alternatives is a probe into Palestine, and you were also selected for the team because of your knowledge of that general area.”

  Chaney was instantly wary. “I will have nothing to do with those scrolls. I’ll not tamper with them.”

  “That will not be necessary. They are not an alternate target.”

  “What is?”

  “I don’t know the correct date, sir. Research has not been successful in determining the precise time and place, but Mr. Scabrooke believes it will be a profitable alternate. It is under active study.” She hesitated and dropped her gaze to the table. “The general location in Palestine is or was a site known as the Hill of Skulls.”

  Chaney rocked in his chair.

  In the long silence, Arthur Saltus groped for an understanding. “Chaney, what — ?” He looked to the woman, then back to the man. “Hey — let me in on it!”

  Chaney said quietly: “Seabrooke has picked a very hot alternative. If we can’t go up there for the survey, our team is going back to film the Crucifixion.”

  FIVE

  Brian Chaney was the last of the four participants to return to the briefing room. He walked.

  Kathryn van Hise had offered them a ride as they quit the mess hail and Arthur Saltus promptly accepted, scrambling into the front seat of the olive green sedan to sit close beside her. Chaney preferred the exercise. Katrina turned in the seat to look back at him as the car left the parking lot, but he was unable to read her expression: it may have been disappointment — and then again it may have been exasperation.

  He suspected Katrina was losing her antipathy for him; and that was pleasing.

  The sun was already hot in the hazy June sky and Chaney would have liked to go in search of the pool, but he decided against it only because he knew better than to be tardy a second time. As a satisfying substitute, he contented himself with watching the few women who happened to pass; he approved of the sharply abbreviated skirt that was the current style and, given another opportunity, would have included a forecast in his tables — but the stodgy old Bureau was likely to dismiss the subject matter as frivolous. Skirts had been climbing steadily for many years and now they were frequently one with the delta pants: a heady delight to the roving male eye. But with predictable military conservatism, the WAC skirts were not nearly as brief as those worn by civilians.