He left the parking lot, pushing the cart.
It cost him more than three hours and most of his determination to reach the northwest corner of the fence the second time that day. The load moved fairly well as long as paved streets served him but when he left the end of the street and struck off through the high grass on his own back trail, progress was miserable. The cart was only slightly easier to pull than push. Chaney didn't remember seeing a machete in the stores, but he wished for a dozen of them--and a dozen bearers to work in front of him hacking a trail through the weedy jungle. The load was back-breaking.
When at last he reached the fence he fell down and gasped for breath. The sun was long past noon.
The fence was assaulted with a crowbar. The task seemed easier where the fencing had been patched over the remains of the truck; it was not as stout there, not as resistant to the bar as the undamaged sections, and he concentrated on that place. He ripped away the barbed wire and pulled it free of the truck shell, then pried out the ends of the original fencing and rolled it back out of the way. When it was done his hands were bleeding again from many cuts and scratches, but he had forced an opening large enough to roll the cart through beside the truck. The wall was breached.
The heavy cart got away from him on the downward slope.
He ran with it, struggling to halt the plunge down the hillside and shouting at it with an exhausted temper but the cart ignored his imprecations and shot down through tall grass that was no barrier at all--now--until at last it reached the plain below and flipped end for end, spilling its load in the weeds. Chaney roared his anger: the Aramaic term so well liked by Arthur Saltus, and then another phrase reserved for asses and tax collectors. The cart--like the ass, but unlike the collector-- did not respond.
Laboriously he righted the cart, gathered up the spill, and trudged across the field to the railroad.
The dropped walking stick was a marker.
His small treasure was left there for finding, laid out along the railroad right-of-way for the frightened family or any other traveler who might pass that way. He put the matches and the medicines atop the largest carton and then covered them with his overcoat to protect them from the weather. Chaney spent only a little while scanning the distances along the tracks for sight of a man--he was certain his shouting and his cursing would have frightened away anyone in the area. As before, he was alone in an empty world. From somewhere in the timber he heard a bird calling, and he would have to be content with that.
In the late afternoon hours when the thin heat of the sun was beginning to fade he pulled the empty cart up the hill and through the gaping hole in the fence for a last time, stopping only to retrieve the crowbar. Chaney didn't dare look back. He was afraid of what he might find--or not find. To suddenly turn and look, to discover someone already at the boxes would be his undoing--he knew he would behave as before and again frighten the man away. But to turn and see the same untenanted world again would only deepen his depression. He would not look back.
Chaney followed his own trail through the verdant grass, seeking the beginning of the paved road. Some small animal darted away at his approach.
He stood at the edge of the parking lot, looking at the abandoned garden and thinking of Kathryn van Hise. But for her, he would be loafing on the beach and thinking of going back to work in the tank--but only thinking of it; perhaps in another week or so he'd get up off his duff and look up train schedules and connections to Indianapolis, if they still existed in an age of dying rails. The only weight on his mind would be the reviewers who read books too hastily and leaped to fantastic conclusions. But for her, he would have never heard of Seabrooke, Moresby, Saltus--unless their names happened to be on a document coming into the tank. He wouldn't have jumped into Joliet two years ahead of his time and found a wall; he wouldn't have jumped into _this_ dismal future, whatever year _this_ might be, and found a catastrophe. He would have plodded along in his own slow, myopic way until the hard future slammed into him--or he into it.
He thought he was done here: done with the aborted survey and done with the very quiet and nearly deserted world of 2000-something. He could do no more than tell Katrina, tell Seabrooke, and perhaps listen while they relayed the word to Washington. The next move would be up to the politicians and the bureaucrats--let them change the future if they could, if they possessed the power.
His role was completed. He could tape a report and label it _Eschatos_.
The mound of yellow clay claimed his attention and he followed the gutter through the grass to the cistern, wanting to photograph it. He still marveled at finding a Nabataean artifact thrust forward into the twenty-first century, and he suspected Arthur Saltus was responsible: it had been copied from the book he'd lent Saltus, from the pages of _Pax Abrahamitica_. With luck, it would trap and hold water for another century or so, and if he could measure the capacity he would probably find the volume to be near ten _cor_. Saltus had done well for an amateur.
Chaney turned to the grave.
He would not photograph that, for the picture would raise questions he didn't care to answer. Seabrooke would ask if there'd been an inscription on the crossarm, and why hadn't he photographed the inscription? Katrina would sit by with pencil poised to record his verbal reading.
_A ditat Deus K_
Down there: Arthur or Katrina?
How could he tell Katrina that he'd found her grave? Or her husband's grave? Why couldn't _this_ have been the final resting place of Major Moresby?
A bird cried again in some far off place, pulling his gaze up to the distant trees and the sky beyond.
The trees were in new leaf, telling the early summer; the grass was soft tender green, not yet wiry from the droughts of midsummer: a fresh world. Gauzy clouds were gathering about the descending sun, creating a mirage of reddish-gold fleece. Eastward, the sky was wondrously blue and clean--a newly scrubbed sky, disinfected and sterilized. At night the stars must appear as enormous polished diamonds.
Arthur or Katrina?
Brian Chaney knelt briefly to touch the sod above the grave, and mentally prepared himself to go home. His depression was deep.
A voice said: "Please. . . Mr. Chaney?"
The shock immobilized him. He was afraid that if he turned quickly or leaped to his feet, a nervous finger would jerk the trigger and he would join Moresby in the soil of the station. He held himself rigidly still, aware that his own rifle had been left in the cart. Oversight; carelessness; stupidity. One hand rested on the grave; his gaze remained on the small cross.
"Mr. Chaney?"
After the longest time--a disquieting eternity--he turned only his head to look back along the path.
Two strangers: two _almost_ strangers, two people who mirrored his own uncertainty and apprehension.
The nearer of the two wore a heavy coat and a pair of boots taken from the stores; his head and hands were bare and the only weapon he carried was a pair of binoculars also borrowed from the stores. He was tall, thin, lanky--only a few inches less than Chaney's height, but he lacked the sandy hair and muscular body of his father; he lacked the bronzed skin and the silver filling in his teeth, he lacked the squint of eye that would suggest a seafarer peering into the sun. He lacked the buoyant youthfulness. If the man had possessed those characteristics instead of lacking them, Chaney would say he was looking at Arthur Saltus.
"How do you know my name?"
"You are the only one unaccounted for, sir."
"And you had my description?"
Softly: "Yes, sir."
Chaney turned on his knees to face the strangers. He realized they were as much afraid of him as he was of them. When had they last seen another man here?
"Your name is Saltus?"
A nod. "Arthur Saltus."
Chaney shifted his gaze to the woman who stood well behind the man. She stared at _him_ with a curious mixture of fascination and fright, poised for instant flight. When had she last seen another man here?
Chaney asked: "Kathryn?"
She didn't respond, but the man said: "My sister."
The daughter was like the mother in nearly every respect, lacking only the summer tan and the delta pants. She was bundled in a great coat against the chill and wore the common boots that were much too large for her feet. A pair of binoculars hung around her neck: he felt closely observed. Her head was bare, revealing Katrina's great avalanche of fine brown hair; her eyes were the same soft--now frightened--delightful shade. She was a small woman, no more than a hundred pounds when free of the bulky boots and coat, and gave every appearance of being quick and alert. She also gave the appearance of being older than Katrina.
Chaney looked from one to the other: the two of them, brother and sister, were years beyond the people he had left in the past, years beyond their parents.
He said at last: "Do you know the date?"
"No, sir."
Hesitation, then: "I think you were waiting for me."
Arthur Saltus nodded, and there was the barest hint of affirmation from the woman.
"My father said you would be here--sometime. He was certain you would come; you were the last of the three."
Surprise: "No one else, after us?"
"No one."
Chaney touched the grave a last time, and their eyes followed his hand. He had one more question to ask before he would risk getting to his feet.
"Who lies here?"
Arthur Saltus said: "My father."
Chaney wanted to cry out: how? when? why? but embarrassment held his tongue, embarrassment and pain and depression; he bitterly regretted the day he'd accepted Katrina's offer and stepped into this unhappy position. He climbed to his feet, avoiding sudden moves that could be misinterpreted, and was thankful he hadn't taken a picture of the grave--thankful he wouldn't have to tell Katrina, or Saltus, or Seabrooke, what he'd found here. He would make no mention of the grave at all.
Standing, Chaney searched the area carefully, looking over their heads at the weedy garden, the parking lot, the company street beyond the lot and all of the station open to his eye. He saw no one else.
Sharp question: "Are you two alone here?"
The woman had jumped at his tone and seemed about to flee, but her brother held his ground.
"No, sir."
A pause, and then: "Where is Katrina?"
"She is waiting in the place, Mr. Chaney."
"Does she know I am here?"
"Yes, sir."
"She knew I would ask about her?"
"Yes, sir. She thought you would."
Chaney said: "I'm going to break a rule."
"She thought you would do that, too."
"But she didn't object?"
"She gave us instructions, sir. If you asked, we were to say that she _told_ you where she would wait."
Chaney nodded his wonder. "Yes--she did that. She did that twice." He moved back along the path by way of the cistern and they carefully retreated before him, still uncertain of him. "Did you do this?"
"My father and I dug it, Mr. Chaney. We had your book. The descriptions were very clear."
"I'd tell Haakon, if I dared."
Arthur Saltus stepped aside when they reached the parking lot and allowed Chaney to go ahead of him. The woman had darted off to one side and now kept a prudent distance. She continued to stare at him, a stare that might have been rude under other circumstances, and Chaney was very sure she'd seen no other man for too many years. He was equally certain she'd never seen a man like him inside the protective fence: that was her apprehension.
He ignored the rifle resting in the cart.
Brian Chaney fitted the keys into the twin locks and swung the heavy door. His two lanterns rested on the top step, and as before a rush of musty air fell out into the waning afternoon sunlight. Chaney paused awkwardly on the doorsill wondering what to say--wondering how to say goodbye to these people. Only a damned fool would say something flippant or vacuous or inane; only a damned fool would utter one of the meaningless cliches of _his_ age; but only a stupid fool would simply walk away from them without saying anything.
He glanced again at the sky and at the golden fleece about the sun, at the new grass and leaves and then at the aging mound of yellow clay. At length his gaze swung back to the man and woman who waited on him.
He said: "Thank you for trusting me."
Saltus nodded. "They said you could be trusted."
Chaney studied Arthur Saltus and almost saw again the unruly sandy hair and the peculiar set to his eyes-- the eyes of a man long accustomed to peering against the sun-bright sea. He looked long at Kathryn Saltus but could _not_ see the transparent blouse or the delta pants: on her those garments would be obscene. Those garments belonged to a world long gone. He searched her face for a moment too long, and was falling head over heels when reality brought him up short.
Harsh reality: she lived _here_ but he belonged back there. It was folly to entertain even dreams about a woman living a hundred years ahead of him. Hurtful reality.
His conscience hurt when he closed the door because he had no more to say to them. Chaney turned away and went down the steps, putting behind him the quiet sun, the chill world of 2000-plus, the unknown survivors beyond the fence who had fled in terror at sight and sound of him, and the half-familiar survivors within the fence who were sharp reminders of his own loss. His conscience hurt, but he didn't turn back.
The time was near sunset on an unknown day.
It was the longest day of his life.
SEVENTEEN
The briefing room was subtly different from that one he'd first entered weeks or years or centuries ago.
He remembered the military policeman who'd escorted him from the gate and then opened the door for him; he remembered his first glance into the room--his lukewarm reception, his tardy entrance. He'd found Kathryn van Hise critically eyeing him, assessing him, wondering if he would measure up to some task ahead; he'd found Major Moresby and Arthur Saltus playing cards, bored, impatiently awaiting his arrival; he'd found the long steel table positioned under lights in the center of the room--all waiting on him.
He had given his name and started an apology for his tardiness when the first hurtful sound stopped him, chopped him off in mid-sentence and hammered his ears. He had seen them turn together to watch the clock: sixty-one seconds. All that only a week or two ago--a century or two ago--before the bulky envelopes were opened and a hundred flights of fancy loosed. The long journey from the Florida beach had brought him twice to this room, but this time the lantern poorly illuminated the place.
Katrina was there.
The aged woman was sitting in her accustomed chair to one side of the oversized steel table--sitting quietly in the darkness beneath the extinct ceiling lights. As always, her clasped hands rested on the tabletop in repose. Chaney put the lantern on the table between them and the poor light fell on her face.
Katrina.
Her eyes were bright and alive, as sharply alert as he remembered them, but time had not been lenient with her. He read lines of pain, of unknown troubles and grief; the lines of a tenacious woman who had endured much, had suffered much, but had never surrendered her courage. The skin was drawn tight over her cheekbones, pulled tight around her mouth and chin and appeared sallow in lantern light. The lustrous, lovely hair was entirely gray. Hard years, unhappy years, lean years.
Despite all that he knew a familiar spark within him: she was as beautiful in age as in youth. He was pleased to find that loveliness so enduring.
Chaney pulled out his own chair and slid down, never taking his eye off her. The old woman sat without moving, without speaking, watching him intently and waiting for the first word.
He thought: she might have been sitting there for centuries while the dust and the darkness grew around her; waiting patiently for him to come forward to the target, waiting for him to explore the station, fulfill his last mission, end the survey, and then come opening doors to find the answers to questions rai
sed above ground. Chaney would not have been too surprised to find her waiting in ancient Jericho if he'd gone back ten thousand years. She would have been there, placidly waiting in some temple or hovel, waiting in a place where he would find her when he began opening doors.
The dusty briefing room was as chill as the cellar had been, as chill as the air outside, and she was bundled in one of the heavy coats. Her hands were encased in a pair of large mittens intended for a man--and if he bent to look, he would find the oversize boots. She appeared bent over, small in the chair and terribly tired.
Katrina waited on him.
Chaney struggled for something to say, something that wouldn't sound foolish or melodramatic or carry a ring of false heartiness. She would despise him for that. Here again was the struggle of the outer door, and here again he was fearful of losing the struggle. He had left her here in this room only hours ago, left her with that sense of. dry apprehension as he prepared himself for the third--now final--probe into the future. She had been sitting in the same chair in the same attitude of repose.
Chaney said: "I'm _still_ in love with you, Katrina."
He watched her eyes, and thought they were quickly filled with humor and a pleasurable laughter.
"Thank you, Brian."
Her voice had aged as well: it sounded more husky than he remembered and it reflected her weariness.
"I found patches of wild strawberries at the old barracks, Katrina. When do strawberries ripen in Illinois?"
There _was_ laughter in her eyes. "In May or June. The summers have been quite cold, but May or June."
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