Rebel in Time

Chapter 13

'It has been over a week now since McCulloch vanished,' Admiral Colonne said. 'Have you come up with any answers yet?'

The meeting was taking place in the conference room again, not the admiral's communication cubby where most of his work was done. He could relax here, lean back in the deep chair and smoke his pipe. But while his body rested his mind was as alert as ever; Troy shifted under the penetrating gaze.

'Not as many as I would like,' Troy said, sliding the stack of papers out of the file onto the table before him. 'If anything we seem to have come up with more questions.'

'And they are…?'

'First and most important — what was McCulloch's motive for killing Allan Harper, the electronics engineer from the laboratory?'

'You're sure that he is the killer?'

'The police are so certain that they have issued a warrant for his arrest. McCulloch made absolutely no attempt to cover his trail. A forged prescription, in his own name, was located in a drug store not three blocks from his home. It was for a large amount of strychnine hydrochloride, the same substance found in the containers of milk. A handwriting expert believes that McCulloch wrote the prescription — while the doctor remembers him visiting his office some months ago during the course of a security investigation.'

'When he could have pocketed some prescription blanks?'

'Correct. But while we have evidence to tie McCulloch to the murder — we have no motive. But I keep coming back to the work done in the Weeks laboratory. I am sure that there is a tie-in between the gold, McCulloch's disappearance — and the murder as well. Have you been informed yet what kind of research is being done in the lab?'

'No. But at your suggestion I put the question to the authorities. They have responded and I have been cleared to receive all classified information about what they called the Gnomen project, on a need-to-know basis. So you can tell me just what they are doing there and how it affects this case.'

'That will make it a lot easier to explain my thinking. Could I please see the authorization?'

The admiral took the pipe from his mouth and leaned back, with real or assumed surprise. 'I'm your superior, my boy, you may take my word for it.'

'I can't, admiral,' Troy said grimly. 'However I will contact General Stringham…'

'There's no need, I have the authorization here.' He took an envelope from his jacket pocket and passed it across the table. Troy opened it, having the feeling that he had just passed a test that he hadn't even known he was taking. He scanned the page, checked the signature, then handed the papers back.

'Is this room security tight, admiral?' he asked.

'Swept twice a day. We can call it secure.'

'All right, then. The scientists at the lab have built a working time machine—'

'You had better be serious,' the admiral growled.

'Never more serious in my life. It is still being perfected — but I've seen it operate and it works. Now what use could McCulloch have wanted to put the machine to? Harper could have been in on this, he knew all about the operation of the machine. He could have been killed because he knew too much about the colonel's plans. There is even a chance that he might have known just what McCulloch planned to do with the gold.'

'Given that this time machine does work, and I will accept that for the moment without thinking about the terrifying possibilities inherent in the supposition, I can instantly think of one good plan. You could send the gold back in time to yourself. A man could make a fortune that way. Invest it at ten per cent, compounded, you could treble the sum in less than thirteen years. Send it back thirty years — ha!' The admiral took out a pocket calculator and punched quick figures into it. 'There's your answer, Troy. In thirty years that ten thousand would be worth — my goodness! — over one hundred and seventy-four thousand dollars. And his gold was worth a lot more than that. That would be motive enough.'

'It would be, sir. But the time machine doesn't work backwards. It just sends things into the future.'

'Then forget that.' The admiral cleared the calculator with a swift poke and put it back into his pocket. 'What else have you found out?'

'A few things. Corporal Mendez is not involved. He gave me a hard time when I interviewed him because McCulloch told him, and I quote, that a nigger MP was looking for trouble. But the urgent investigation that I ordered done on McCulloch has brought in a mountain of reports.' He tapped a thick sheaf of paper. 'This is an abstract of the material. Let me tell you some of the most important parts. First, and most important, McCulloch has been lying about himself ever since he got into the army. He tried for OCS but didn't make it, his high school marks and test results weren't good enough. So he worked his way up through the ranks. Everyone he talked to knew his background. He told anyone who would listen. Rich antebellum family fallen on bad times since the War between the States. That's what he always called the Civil War. But they still have an historical family name and are related to a lot of the great families in the South. Among his noted ancestors was the important Confederate General Ben McCulloch. It makes a great history.'

'It does. So what is wrong with that?'

'Everything. It's all a lie. The colonel's kinfolk appear to all be white trash, and he has had nothing to do with them since he left home. You might say that they are all spongers and grafters, with the whole lot on welfare as far as we can find out.'

'So what's wrong with that? Local boy makes good. It's an American success story.'

'Not quite. McCulloch has worked very hard to conceal this background from everyone — including those same relatives. Just once, as far as we can discover, one of them found him and paid a visit. A first cousin came to see him when he was stationed at Fort Dix. McCulloch gave him such a beating that the man was in the hospital for three weeks. At first there was talk of a lawsuit, but the cousin dropped the charges and went home. Rumour at the time had it that a large sum of money changed hands to shut him up.'

'I'm beginning to like your colonel less and less. What else have you found out?'

'That in the last year he has had some new interests that just don't fit his past history. You'll remember that he never read, never bought a book, never went to the movies or even looked at television. That all changed quite suddenly. He began to buy books, to go to libraries and museums. I am very curious to know why. The FBI is feeding all the details that we can uncover into a computer, to see if we can uncover trends, topics, interests of some kind that might explain what he was doing. And in about one hour I have an appointment that may help to clarify things.' Troy held up a letter.

'The police have been intercepting all of McCulloch's mail. This letter arrived in the morning delivery today. A curator at the Smithsonian wants to see him at once, about matters of the utmost urgency. He obviously doesn't know that McCulloch is missing. I made an appointment in his name.'

'None of this makes sense,' the admiral said, looking into the bowl of his pipe as though seeking to find an answer there.

'No — not yet. But it will. It is just a matter of fitting all of the parts together and seeing the pattern that they make.'

Now, sitting in the stuffy waiting room in the Smithsonian Institute, Troy wished that the answers were as obvious as he made them sound when he was talking to the admiral. But they would be, they had to be. The answer might be incredible — but it would be clear.

'Mr Dryer will see you now,' the secretary said. Troy stood and went in. He was not in uniform, but instead was wearing a dark suit under his raincoat.

'You're not Colonel McCulloch!' Dryer said, drawing back. He was a beanpole of a man, tall and thin, with his well-worn jacket hanging from him in loose folds. His neck was wrinkled and wattled with age, his white hair a loose cloud around his head. This picture of advanced senility was relieved only by his dark eyes, as clear and penetrating as a youth's.

'No, I'm not. My name is Harmon. My work…'

'I really don't care what your work is, Mr Harmon. What I have to discuss with the colonel is confidential. Please return to him and tell him that he must come himself, in person. He will know why.'

'I would like to know the reasons why myself, Mr Dryer. Here is my identification. The colonel is under investigation at the moment. We hope that you will aid us in that investigation. If you are in any doubt I have an extension in the Pentagon for you to call…'

'I have no doubts, no doubts at all, young man. My work deals with military documentation and I know the real thing when I see it. Could you tell me what the investigation concerns?'

'I'm sorry, but that part is classified. But I can assure you that Colonel McCulloch will not be able to see you at the present time. All of his mail goes to the police department. They forwarded your letter to me.'

Dryer pressed his hair down as he nodded; it sprang back as soon as he released it. 'Well, I shan't push you any more on that. But it sounds more drastic than anything that I wanted to discuss with him. I just wanted to point out to the colonel that certain documents he borrowed were library file copies and that, strictly speaking, they should not have been removed from this building. But exceptions are made, of course, to a military man of his rank, considering the nature of our collection.'

'May I ask what that is?'

'The Technological Archives of the United States Army. We have grant money from both private industry and the military. Our facilities are not open to the public, though any qualified researcher may have access. And military officers as well, of course.'

'May I ask what the archives contain?'

'Books, models and documents relating to the history of American military technology — from the birth of our nation right up to today. We are rather proud of our rifled flintlocks, some rare specimens, as well as the working drawings of the research that preceded the development of the first tanks…'

'I do agree, quite impressive. But could you tell me what Colonel McCulloch's interest was?'

'History of small arms. He was a serving infantry officer so that is understandable. He is really quite knowledgeable in this area, and I speak with authority when I say…'

'Yes, Mr Dryer, of course.' Troy had the horrible feeling that if he didn't interrupt he would be in this chair, getting lectured to, for the rest of his life. 'But what exactly was it that the colonel took and did not return?'

'Blueprints. Of the Sten-gun. The 9 millimetre Sten machine carbine, Mark Two, to be exact.'

'I've never heard of it.'

'No reason that you should. It hasn't been manufactured for over forty years. But it is well known in military circles, while the blueprints do have a certain historical value. I want them returned at once. If they are returned nothing will be said about the matter. But you must understand, abduction of historical documents is no laughing matter.'

'No. It certainly isn't,' Troy agreed. Neither is murder. But how did this ancient gun fit in? 'Do you know why the colonel was interested in this specific weapon?'

'No particular reason, I am sure. I told you he was interested in all weapons of this type. He was also enthusiastic about comparing various weapons, and has many times pointed out to me characteristics I would never have noticed, things that he saw when he actually had them in his hands. I sincerely hope this present difficulty will be…'

'Excuse me, I'm sorry to interupt, but you say he held the weapons? Do you have models here?'

'Not models, sir, the real thing. The Army has donated many obsolete weapons, private collectors as well.'

Perhaps looking at this old popgun might help to explain McCulloch's interest. And yes, Dryer would be happy to show it to him. 'They are not intended for public display,' he explained, unlocking a door and leading Troy into the darkened depths of the building. It smelled of dust and oil. 'We do prepare displays for museums and the like, when we have the financing, using our duplicates, of course. We have more than one example of many of our weapons, so in this way we can preserve the best specimens. Down here, please.'

Rows of metal bins vanished off into the darkness. There were labels on the shelves that Dryer peered at closely as he walked. He stopped in front of a shelf and pointed.

'Here we are. Now I'll just unwrap it.' He picked up a bundle of stained canvas and carefully opened it. The weapon inside was thick with preserving cosmoline. He turned it over as he examined it. 'No, not this one,' he said, carefully rewrapping the bundle. 'That is an interesting variation, the silenced version, did yeoman service during the Korean War. The one that we want is here…'

Dryer was suddenly silent as he picked up a length of canvas, then dropped it again. He poked into the darkness of the bin, then stepped back.

'What's wrong?' Troy asked.

'I can't understand this. I put it away myself. I know I did. But it's gone. How could that have happened?'

How indeed, Troy thought. McCulloch, of course. But why? Instead of getting any simpler, the mystery was deepening. What could this last development possibly mean?