Wilson Tucker - The Year of the Quiet Sun

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 hed had time to run for it. When he saw the object she carried and its bright red dustjacket couldnt 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 wouldnt 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 wasnt 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, hed 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: Thats a novel approach.

I beg your pardon?

Usually, youre from the Chicago Daily News, or the Denver Post, or the Bloomington Bulletin. Sometimes youre from a TV talk show. You want a statement, or a denial, or an apology. I like your imagination, but you dont 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 dont 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. Ive been run through the mill but now Im on vacation. I earned it. Go away, please.

The woman stubbornly held ground.

After a while, Chaneys 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 wasnt 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.

Im ever so grateful. Who is Seabrooke?

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