The Lincoln Hunters (Jerry eBooks) by Wilson Tucker

Author:Wilson Tucker [Tucker, Wilson]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Jerry eBooks
Published: 2017-12-22T05:00:00+00:00

8

DESTINATION

A LIGHT RAIN had ended less than an hour ago, and now the clouds were breaking to reveal patches of sky. It was the same pleasant Illinois sky, the same brilliant sun of 1856, and the same undulating prairie of his earlier visit, now wet and freshly green under a new day. Steward hopped out of the projectile and breathed deeply. The old familiar taste of sweet clean air welcomed his arrival. This day seemed warmer, despite the recent rain.

He was back again, crowding a menacing deadline he had never before encountered.

Karl Dobbs was standing erect on the creekbank, surveying the new world. “You like this place?”

“I thought I did.”

“There’s no smoke in the trees yonder.”

“We’re much too late for breakfast,” Steward said. He consulted his new watch. “When did you make it?”

“Nine fifty-seven. And I’m not going to let you forget they gave us a nineteen-hour maximum tolerance.”

“It is now ten-aught-one.”

“The same,” Dobbs nodded. “Close the door and send that bottle back.”

“It can wait. I want to talk to you.”

Dobbs turned about and stared down at the man beside the waiting machine. He said solemnly, “I expected as much. When you said we were in for trouble, you meant trouble. All right, son, I’m listening. What else did you do, besides insulting Lovejoy?”

“That’s the rub, Karl. I don’t know who did it—or will do it.”

“Do what?”

“Lose his recording wire in the Hall.”

“Jehoshaphat!” Dobbs was shocked. “Tell me.”

“I checked the hail for particulars—you know the routine. A janitor was sweeping out the trash, shoveling it out of the window into the alley below. He also shoveled out a length of our wire-fifty feet or more. No spool, no recorder, just unwound wire.”

“He didn’t notice it?”

“He must have noticed it, but it didn’t mean anything to him because he threw it away.”

“You left it in the alley?”

“I didn’t dare bring it back with me!”

“Hell and high water, Stew. A run-in with Lovejoy, and now a lost recording.”

“Yes. Well, now you know.”

“Now I know. Send that contraption back. Let me work on this.”

Steward closed the door and watched the little time-traveling projectile vanish. The engineers would be waiting impatiently for it. He climbed the bank to stand beside his second in command.

“You can get yourself into the dangdest messes!”

Steward waved his hand over the prairie. “It’s just like tomorrow, only wetter,” he observed. “There’ll be some cattle grazing over there; a dog barking in the timber, and, of course, smoke from the cooking fire. All quiet, all peaceful.”

“Pleasantly rustic,” Dobbs agreed, “but I prefer the cities. The old cities, of about this same period. London and Paris, specifically. Each was squalid and handsome in equal measure; squalid living conditions for the poor, handsome women and handsome music for all. And there was a very witty man named Disraeli. A genius.”

A faint whispering was audible behind them as the time-tracking projectile made its third appearance on the scene. The whispering was followed by a grunt and then a violent thrashing as Bloch became entangled in the roots.

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