A Question Of Time Fred Saberhagen (reading the story of the .TXT) 📖

radio was buzzing, and something in the quality of the sound suggested—to him at least—that it was urgent. Answering, he heard Maria’s voice.

      “Boss? Cathy Brainard is alive and well, back up on the South Rim.”

      “You’ve seen her?”

      “I’m standing here looking at her now, right near the mule corral. She’s come back up Bright Angel, just the way Bill did.”

      The three men, each surprised in his different way, looked at one another for a long, silent moment.

      Joe grabbed up his cane while Maria on the radio was still giving details. In a moment he was hobbling at his best pace—notably improved since the massage by Mr. Strangeways—after the other two men who had been with him. Now Joe could almost keep up with the overweight and puffing Brainard.

      In a minute he caught up with the others near the mule corral, which was deserted at this time of day, the morning’s convoy of tourist riders having descended into the Canyon hours ago, and the afternoon’s contingent of returning adventurers not yet arrived.

      Maria was standing there, with a young woman who could only be Cathy Brainard. As the men arrived, Maria hurried away, with a quick word to Joe that she wanted to inform Mrs. Tyrrell.

      Joe saw Drakulya, look after Maria, frowning slightly.

      Cathy was just standing still, looking weary. A large backpack that must be hers was lying at her feet.

      Brainard, his fears for himself forgotten for the moment, was standing just in front of his daughter, staring at her with obvious relief. “Thank God, you’re back.”

      “Hi,” the girl said to him, a certain reserve in her voice. She submitted tiredly to a somewhat awkward hug.

      Holding her at arm’s length, the stocky man said to his adopted daughter: “I was afraid—I never wanted you to get caught up in any of my own troubles. I never wanted that.”

      “Your troubles?” It sounded to Joe as if the young woman didn’t know what her father was talking about, and wasn’t trying very hard to find out. As if she had to make a considerable effort to bring her mind back from her own concerns.

      Nor did it escape Joe’s notice that she avoided calling this man “father.”

      “Kid,” said Brainard. “Cathy. I’m not going to ask you any questions. I’m just glad you’re back.” He awkwardly stroked her hair.

      “I’m going to ask you some questions, though,” Cathy flared back. “And I have some for Aunt Sarah.” She looked at the strangers present. “But I guess they can wait.” Brainard, looking bewildered, let her go.

      Then Cathy turned her gaze toward Strangeways. The look she gave him, casual at first, became something of a stare. “Who’re you?” she demanded, with the bluntness of one determined to concentrate on matters of importance.

      Strangeways bowed slightly. His face under the broad hat brim was shadowed. “A friend of your mother’s, Cathy.”

      Joe put in: “He’s working with me, Miss Brainard.” Then it became necessary for Joe to explain his own identity, and the reasons for his presence.

      When Cathy had heard him out she looked at the investigators with some bitterness as well as weariness. “Well, I’m back now. You can call off the hunt.”

      “Cathy!” It was old Sarah’s voice; she was approaching, as swiftly as her years would allow, from the direction of the Tyrrell House. Cathy ran toward her with open arms, and the others witnessed a more emotional reunion.

* * *

      A few minutes later, Joe, in the company of John and Mr. Strangeways, was hobbling back toward his hotel. Sarah, Cathy, and Brainard had preceded them. Silence obtained during the first part of the walk.

      “I guess we can start packing?” John suggested, when they were halfway to their destination.

      “Not I,” said Mr. Strangeways.

      “How’s that, sir?” John inquired.

      “I am thinking, gentlemen,” said their elder companion, “of the Origin of Species.”

      Joe Keogh thought for a moment. “You’re talking about the book written by Charles Darwin?”

      Dark eyes turned toward him. “Not so much the book as its subject—the laws governing the development of life on earth. Tyrrell’s real interest seems to be in those basic natural laws, which Darwin began to discover more than a century ago. My people as well as yours are subject to those basic laws. We are all human, all children of the earth.”

      “All right. Well, Cathy’s back, apparently unharmed. My client is probably going to thank me for my trouble, pay me off, and send me on my way.”

      “Yes, your mission seems to have been accomplished, Joseph. But I am not yet satisfied that I am free, in good conscience, to depart. Not yet.”

      Joe did not hesitate. “What can I do to help?”

      “Yeah,” seconded John.

      “I cannot say just yet, gentlemen. But the offer is gratefully accepted.”

* * *

      In Joe’s suite Sarah Tyrrell put down the borrowed phone, having just finished reporting to the law that her grandniece Cathy Brainard had returned safely, under her own power.

      The old lady commented: “They didn’t sound very excited or surprised.”

      Joe said: “A lot of runaways come back under their own power. Where’s Cathy now?”

      “Getting some sleep.” Sarah paused. “Where’s Maria?”

      Joe didn’t know. He looked at Bill, who was standing by. “And where’s Brainard, by the way?”

      “Said he was going to the lobby to get some cigarettes. Didn’t seem to want an escort.”

* * *

      The day’s snow showers were picking up in intensity as Gerald Brainard, wearing a winter coat, small suitcase in hand, turned from a pedestrian path into one of the small sightseers’ parking lots scattered around the Village area. Looking left and right through the gloomy day, he pulled a set of car keys from his pocket as he approached a small snow-covered Pontiac.

      He had not looked in all the necessary directions, evidently. He barely had the car door open when a large form, wearing a fur-collared coat, loomed over him.

      “Think you’re going somewhere?”

* * *

      A few minutes later, the Pontiac was parked again, this time in a snowy byway of the winter Park, a long, comparatively narrow expanse of paving, half drive,