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He could almost imagine himself back on the Florida beach--back to that day when he loafed at
the water's edge, watching the gulls and the distant sail and doing nothing more strenuous than speculating
on the inner fears of the critics and readers who had damned him and damned his translation of the
Revelations scroll. Yes, and back to the day before he'd met Katrina. Chaney hadn't been aware of a
personal vacuum then, but when they parted--when this mission was finished--he would be aware of one.
He would miss the woman. Parting company with Katrina would hurt, and when he went back to the
beach he'd be keenly aware of the new vacuum.
He had been unnecessarily rude to her when she first approached him, and he regretted that now;
he had believed her to be only another newspaper woman there to badger him. He wasn't on civilized
speaking terms with newspaper people. Nor did Chaney like to admit to jealousy--a childish
emotion--but Arthur Saltus had aroused in him some response suspiciously close to jealousy. Saltus had
moved in and boldly taken possession of the woman, another hurt.
But that wasn't the only hurt.
His trigger finger was sore, stiff, and his shoulder hurt like sin; they had assured him it was a light
rifle but after an hour of firing it, Chaney wholly disbelieved them. Even in his sleep the bullying figure of
the Major stood over him, needling him: "Squeeze it, squeeze it, don't yank--don't jerk--squeeze it!"
Chaney squeezed it and four or five times out of ten managed to hit the target. He thought that
remarkable, but his companions did not. Moresby was so disgusted he tore the rifle from Chaney's grasp
and put five shots through the bull's eye in the space between one breath and the next.
The hand gun was worse. The Army model automatic seemed infinitely lighter when compared to
the rifle, but because he could not use his left hand to lift and steady the barrel he missed the target eight
times out of ten. The two good shots were only on the rim of the target.
Moresby muttered: "Give the civilian a shotgun!" and stalked away.
Arthur Saltus had taught him camera techniques.
Chaney was familiar with the common hand cameras and with the mounted rigs used in
laboratories to copy documents, but Saltus introduced him to a new world. The holograph camera was
new. Saltus said that film had been relegated to the cheap cameras; the holograph instruments used a thin
ribbon of embossed nylon which would withstand almost any abuse and yet deliver a recognizable
picture. He scoured a nylon negative with sandpaper, then made a good print. Adequate lighting was no
longer a problem; the holograph would produce a satisfactory picture taken in the rain.
Chaney experimented with a camera strapped to his chest, with the lens peering through a
buttonhole in his jacket where a button should be; there was another that fitted over his left shoulder, with
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the lens appearing to be a lodge emblem attached to his lapel--a remote cable ran down the inside of his
coat sleeve and the plunger nestled in the palm of his hand. A fat belt buckle held a camera. A bowler hat
concealed a camera. A folded newspaper was actually a motion picture camera in camouflage, and a
smart looking attaché case was another. Microphones for the tape recorders--worn under the coat, or in
the pocket--were buttons or emblems or tie clasps or stays tucked inside shirt collars.
He usually managed a decent picture--it was difficult to produce a poor one with the holograph
instruments, but Saltus was often dissatisfied, pointing out this or that or the other thing which would have
resulted in a sharper image or a more balanced composition. Katrina was photographed hundreds of
times during the practice. She appeared to endure it with patience.
Chaney expelled a burst of air and started to sink. He flipped over on his stomach and swam
under water to the edge of the pool. Grasping the tiled rim, he hauled himself out of the water and stared
up in surprise at the grinning face of Arthur Saltus.
"Morning, civilian. What's new in ancient Egypt?"
Chaney peered past him. "Where is--?" He stopped.
"I haven't seen her," Saltus responded. "She wasn't in the mess hall--I thought she was here with
_you_."
Chaney wiped his face with a towel. "Not here. I've had the pool to myself."
"Hah--maybe old William is beating our time; maybe he's playing chess with her in a dark corner
somewhere." Saltus grinned at that thought. "Guess what, mister?"
"What now?"
"I read your book last night."
"Shall I run for cover, or stand up for a medal?"
"No, no, not _that_ one. I'm not interested in those old scrolls. I mean the other book you gave
me, the one about the desert tribes--old Abraham, and all. Damn but that man made some fine pictures!"
He sat down beside Chaney. "Remember that one of the Nabataean well or cistern or whatever it was,
down there at the foot of the fortress?"
"I remember it. Well built. It served the fortress through more than one siege."
"Sure. The guy made that one with natural lighting. No flash, no sun reflectors, nothing, just natural
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