The Year of the Quiet Sun

ONE

The leggy girl was both alpha and omega: the two embodied in the same compact bundle. The operation began when she confronted him on a Florida beach, breaking his euphoria; it ended when he found her sign on a grave marker, hard by a Nabataean cistern. The leap between those two points was enormous.

Brian Chaney was aware of only a third symbol when he discovered her: she was wearing a hip-length summer blouse over delta pants. No more than that — and a faint expression of disapproval — was evident.

Chaney intended to make short work of her.

When he realized the girl was coming at him, coming for him, he felt dismay and wished he’d had time to run for it. When he saw the object she carried — and its bright red dustjacket couldn’t be missed — he was tempted to jump from the beach chair and run anyway. She was another tormentor. The furies had been hounding him since he left Tel Aviv — since the book was published — hounding him and crying heresy in voices hoarse with indignation. String up the traitor! they cried. Burn the infidel!

He watched the approach, already resenting her.

He had been idling in the sun, half dozing and half watching a mail Jeep make box deliveries along the beach road when she suddenly appeared in his line of sight: The beach had been deserted except for himself, the Jeep, and the hungry gulls; the inland tourists with their loud transistor radios wouldn’t be along for another several weeks. The girl walked purposefully along the shoulder of the road until she was nearly opposite him, then quickly wheeled and stepped across a narrow band of weedy grass onto the sand. She paused only long enough to pull off her shoes, then came across the beach at him.

When she was near, he threw away his earlier supposition: she was a leggy, disapproving woman, not a girl. He guessed her age at twenty-five because she looked twenty; she wasn’t very tall nor very solid — no more than a hundred pounds. A troublesome woman.

Chaney deliberately turned in his chair to watch the raging surf, hoping the woman would about-face. She carried the red-jacketed book clutched in hand as though it were a purse, and tried unsuccessfully to hide her disapprobation. She might be a scout from one of those damned TV shows.

He liked the sea. The tide was coming in and there had been a storm on the water the night before; now, the whitecaps boomed in to break on the beach only a dozen feet away, hurling spray into his face. He liked that; he liked the feel of stinging spray on his skin. He liked being outdoors under a hot sun, after too many months at desk and bench. Israel had a lovely climate but it did nothing for a man working indoors. If these intruders would only let him alone, if they would allow him another week or two on the beach, he’d be willing to end his holiday and go back to work in the tank — the dusty, fusty tank with its quota of dusty, fusty wizards making jokes about sunburns and back tans.

The leggy woman halted beside him.

“Mr. Brian Chaney.”

He said: “No. Now run along.”

“Mr. Chaney, my name is Kathryn van Hise. Forgive the intrusion. I am with the Bureau of Standards.”

Chaney blinked his surprise at the novelty and turned away from the whitecaps. He stared at her legs, at the form-fitting delta pants, at the tease-transparent blouse wriggling in an off-shore breeze, and looked up finally at her face against the sunshine-hot Florida sky. Her nearness revealed more She was small in stature — size eight, at a guess — and light of weight, giving the impression of being both quick and alert. Her skin was well tanned, telling her good use of the early summer sun, and it nicely complimented her eyes and hair. The eyes were one attractive shade of brown and the hair was another. Her face bore only a hint of cosmetics. There were no rings on her fingers.

He said skeptically: “That’s a novel approach.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Usually, you’re from the Chicago Daily News, or the Denver Post, or the Bloomington Bulletin. Sometimes you’re from a TV talk show. You want a statement, or a denial, or an apology. I like your imagination, but you don’t get one.”

“I am not a newspaper person, Mr. Chaney. I am a research supervisor with the Bureau of Standards, and I am here for a definite purpose. A serious purpose.”

“No statement, no denial, and certainly not an apology. What purpose?”

“To offer you a position in a new program.”

“I have a job. New programs every day. Sometimes we have new programs running out of our ears.”

“The Bureau is quite serious, Mr. Chaney.”

“The Bureau of Standards,” he mused. “The government Bureau of Standards, of course — the one in Washington, cluttered with top-heavy bureaucrats speaking strange dialects. That would be a fate worse than death. I worked for them once and I don’t want to again, ever.” But the wind-whipped blouse was an eye-puller.

She said: “You completed a study for the Bureau three years ago, before taking leave to write.”

“Does the Bureau have a complaint about my book? Short weight? Pages missing? Too much fat in the text? Have I defrauded the consumers? Are they going to sue? Now that would cap everything.”

“Please be serious, Mr. Chaney.”

“No — not today, not tomorrow, not this week and maybe not the next. I’ve been run through the mill but now I’m on vacation. I earned it. Go away, please.”

The woman stubbornly held ground.

After a while, Chaney’s attention drifted back from a prolonged study of the racing whitecaps and settled on the bare feet firmly embedded in the sand near his chair. A fragrant perfume was worn somewhere beneath the blouse. He searched for the precise source, for the spot where it had kissed her skin. It was difficult to ignore his visitor when she stood so close. Her legs and the delta pants earned one more inspection. She certainly wore her skin and that tantalizing clothing well.

Chaney squinted up at her face against the sky. The brown eyes were direct, penetrating, attractive.

“Dress like yours is prohibited in Israel — did you know that? Most of the women are in uniform and the high command worries about male morale. Delta lost.” Chaney conveyed his regret with a gesture. “Are you serious?”

“Yes, sir.”

“The Bureau wants a biblical translator?”

“No, sir. The Bureau wants a demographer, one who is experienced in both lab and field work.” She paused. “And certain other prerequisites, of course.”

“A demographer!”

“Yes, sir. You.”

“But the woods are full of demographers.”

“Not quite, Mr. Chaney. You were selected.”

“Why? Why me? What other prerequisites?”

“You have a background of stability, of constancy and resolution; you have demonstrated your ability to withstand pressures. You are well adjusted mentally and your physical stamina is beyond question. Other than your biblical research, you have specialized in socio-political studies and have earned a reputation as an extrapolative statistician. You are the definition of the term, futurist. You authored that lengthy study for the Bureau. You have a security clearance. You were selected.”

Chaney turned with astonishment and stared. “Does the Bureau know I also chase women? Of all colors?”

“Yes, sir. That fact was noted in your dossier, but it wasn’t considered a detriment.”

“Please thank the good gray Bureau for me. I do appreciate the paternal indulgence.”

“There is no need to be sarcastic, Mr. Chaney. You have a well-balanced computer profile. Mr. Seabrooke has described you as an ideal futurist.”

“I’m ever so grateful. Who is Seabrooke?”

“Gilbert Seabrooke is our Director of Operations. He personally selected you from a narrow field of candidates.”

“I’m not a candidate; I volunteered for nothing.”

“This is a top secret project of some importance, sir. The candidates were not consulted in advance.”

“That’s why we’re all so happy about it.” Chaney indicated the book in her hand. “You’re not interested in my hobby? In that? The Bureau doesn’t expect me to deny my translation of the Revelations scroll?”

The faint expression of disapproval again crossed her face but was thrust aside. “No, sir. The Bureau is unhappy with your work, with the resultant notoriety, and Mr. Seabrooke wishes you hadn’t published it — but he believes the public will have forgotten by the time you have surfaced again.”

Emphatically: “I’m not going underground.”

“Sir?”

“Tell Mr. Seabrooke I’m not interested. I do very well without him and his Bureau. I have a job.”

“Yes, sir. With the new project.”

“No, sir, with the Indiana Corporation. It’s called Indic, for short, and it’s a think-tank. I’m a genius — does your computer know that, Miss van Hise? Indic has a hundred or so captive geniuses like me sitting around solving problems for know-nothings. It’s a living.”

“I am familiar with the Indiana Corporation.”

“You should be. We did that job for your people three years ago and scared the hell out of them — and then we submitted a bill which unbalanced their budget. We’ve done work for State, for Agriculture, for the Pentagon. I hate Pentagon work. Those people are in a hell of a rut. I wish they’d climb off the Chinese back and find some other enemy to study and outwit.” He dropped back into the beach chair and returned his attention to the surf. “I have a job waiting; I rather like it. I’m going back to jt when I get tired of sitting here doing nothing — tired of loafing. Find yourself another demographer.”

“No, sir. Indic has assigned you to the Bureau.”

Chaney came out of the chair like a rocket. He towered over the diminutive woman.

“They have not!”

“They have, Mr. Chaney.”

“They wouldn’t do that without my consent.”

“I’m sorry, but they have.

Insistently: “They can’t. I have a contract.”

“The Bureau has purchased your contract, sir.”

Chaney was dumbfounded. He gaped at the woman.

She removed a folded letter from the pages of the book and handed it to him to read. The letter was couched in stiff corporate language, it was signed, and it bore the great seal of the Indiana Corporation. It transferred the balance of term of employment of Brian Chaney from the private corporation to the public agency, then generously arranged to share with him on an equal basis the financial consideration paid for the transfer. It wished him well. It politely mentioned his book. It was very final.

The waiting woman did not understand the single Aramaic word hurled down the Florida beach.

The waves were crashing around his knees, spraying his chest and face. Brian Chaney turned in the surf and looked back at the woman standing on the beach.

He said: “There are only two buses a day. You’ll miss the last one if you don’t hurry.”

“I have not completed my instructions, Mr. Chaney.”

“I’d be pleased to give you certain instructions.”

Kathryn van Hise stood her ground without answer. The gulls came swooping back, only to take flight again.

Chaney shouted his frustration. “Why?”

“The special project needs your special skills.”

“Why?”

“To survey and map the future; you are a futurist.”

“I’m not a surveyor — I’m not a cartographer.”

“Those were figures of speech, sir.”

“I don’t have to honor that contract. I can break it, I can turn black-leg and go to work for the Chinese. What will the Pentagon do then, Miss van Hise?”

“Your computer profile indicated that you would honor it, sir. It also indicated your present annoyance. The Pentagon knows nothing of this project.”

“Annoyance! I can also give that computer explicit instructions, but they would be as hard to obey as yours. Why don’t you go home? Tell them I refused. Rebelled.”

“When I have finished, sir.”

“Then finish up, damn it, and get along!”

“Yes, sir.” She moved closer to him to avoid raising her voice and permitting the gulls to overhear top secret information. “The first phase of the operation began shortly after Indic submitted its report three years ago, and continued all the while you were studying in Israel. As the author of that report, you were considered one of the most likely persons to participate in the next phase, the field implementations. Expertise. The Bureau is now ready to move into the field, and has recruited a select team to conduct field operations. You will be a member of that team, and then participate in the final report. Mr. Seabrooke expects to submit it to the White House; he is counting on your enthusiastic support.”

“Bully for Seabrooke; he shanghais me and then expects my enthusiastic support. What implementations?”

“A survey of the future.”

“We’ve already done that. Read the Indic report.”

“A physical survey of the future.”

Brian Chaney looked at her for a long moment with unconcealed amusement and then turned back to the sea. A red and white sail was beating across the gulf in the middle distance and the tacking fascinated him.

He said: “I suppose some nutty genius somewhere has really invented a tachyon generator, eh? A generator and deflector and optical train that works? The genius can peer through a little telescope and observe the future?”

The woman spoke quietly. “The engineers at Westinghouse have built a TDV, sir. It is undergoing tests at the present time.”

“Never heard of it.” Chaney shaded his eyes against the sun the better to watch the bright sail. “V is for vehicle, I suppose? Well — that’s better than a little telescope. What is the TD?”

“Time Displacement. An engineering term.” There was a peculiar note of satisfaction in her voice.

Brian Chaney dropped his hand and turned all the way around in the water to stare down at the woman. He felt as if he’d been hit.

“Time Displacement Vehicle?”

“Yes, sir.” The satisfaction became triumph.

“It can’t work!”

“The vehicle is in test operation.”

“I don’t, believe it.”

“You may see it for yourself, sir.”

“It’s there? It’s sitting there in your lab?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Operating?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ll be damned. What are you going to do with it?”

“Implement our new program, Mr. Chaney. The Indic report has become an integral part of the program in that it offered several hard guidelines for a survey of the future. We are now ready to initiate the second phase, the field explorations. Do you see the possibilities, sir?”

“You’re going to get in that thing, that vehicle, and go somewhere? Go into the future?”

“No, sir. You are; the team will.”

Chaney was shocked. “Don’t be an idiot! The team can do what they damned please, but I’m not going anywhere. I didn’t volunteer for your program; I wasn’t a willing candidate; I oppose peonage on humanitarian grounds.”

He quit the surf and stalked back to the beach chair, not caring if the woman followed him. Gulls shrieked their annoyance at his passage. Chaney dropped into the chair with another muttered imprecation of stiffnecked bureaucrats, a scurrilous declaration couched in Hebraic terms the woman wouldn’t understand. It commented on her employer’s relations with jackasses and Philistines.

TDV. A furious stimulant to the imagination.

The gulls, the tide, the salt spray, the descending sun were all ignored while his racing imagination toyed with the information she had given him. He saw the possibilities — some of them — and began to appreciate the interest his Indic report had aroused in those people possessing the vehicle. A man could peer forward — no, leap forward into the future and check out his theories, his projections of events to come. A man could see for himself the validity of a forewarning, the eventual result of a prefiguration, the final course of a trend. Would sixteen-year-olds marry and vote? Would city and county governments be abolished, relinquishing authority to local state districts? Would the Eastern seaboard complex break down and fail to support life?

TDV. A vehicle to determine answers.

Chaney said aloud: “I’m not interested. Find another demographer, Miss van Hise. I object to being ambushed and sold across the river.”

A man could inspect — personally inspect — the Great Lakes to determine if they had been saved or if the Lake Reconstruction program had come too late. A man could study the census figures for a hundred years to come and then compare them to the present tables and projections to find the honesty of those projections. A man could discover if the recently inaugurated trialmarriage program was a success or failure — and learn first-hand what effect it was having on the birth rate, if any. It would be good to know the validity of earlier predictions concerning the population shifts and the expected concentration of human mass along the central waterways. A man could -

Chaney said aloud: “Give the team my regards, Miss van Hise. And tell them to watch out for traffic cops. I’ll read about their adventures in the newspapers.”

Kathryn van Hise had left him.

He saw her tracks in the sand, glanced up and saw her putting on the shoes near the weedy border of the beach. The delta pants stretched with her as she bent over. The mail Jeep was again visible in the distance, now coming toward him and servicing the boxes on the other side of the beach road. The interview had been completed in less than an hour.

Chaney felt the weight of the book in his lap. He hadn’t been aware of the woman placing it there.

The legend on the red dustjacket was as familiar as the back of his hand. From the Qumran Caves: Past, Present, and Future. The line of type next below omitted the word by and read only: Dr. Brian Chaney. The bright jacket was an abomination created by the sales department over the inert body of a conservative editor; it was designed to appeal to the lunatic fringe. He detested it. Despite his careful explanations, despite his scholarly translation of a suspect scroll, the book had stirred up twice the storm he’d expected and aroused the ire of righteous citizens everywhere. String up the blasphemer!

A small card protruded from the middle pages.

Chaney opened the volume with curiosity and found a calling card with her name imprinted on one side, and the address of a government laboratory in Illinois written on the other. He supposed that the ten fifty-dollar bills tucked between the pages represented travel money. Or a shameless bribe added to the blouse, the pants, and the perfume worn on her breast.

“I’m not going!” he shouted after the woman. “The computer lied — I’m a charlatan. The Bureau can go play with its weights!”

She didn’t turn around, didn’t look back.

“That woman is too damned sure of herself.”