A Question Of Time by Fred Saberhagen (best electronic book reader TXT) 📗

      “I’ll take orders!”

      Tyrrell let him go. Then the old man turned half away and started walking, then paused, turned, and motioned for Jake to follow him. “Come along, I’ll show you what I really expect you to do. By this time tomorrow you’d better have something accomplished.”

       Jake struggled back to his feet, nursing a wrenched but not disabled arm. The old man’s strength just wasn’t human.

      Tyrrell was waiting to see what Jake was going to do next. Jake wasn’t going to do anything.

      Tyrrell said: “If you want to live here, you’re going to have to work. You’ve had a day to get used to the idea. Now come along.”

      Vaguely Jake was aware of Camilla, watching fearfully from a little distance. But he didn’t even look at her. He followed the old man.

Chapter Nine

      Startled by the sound Bill had made, the girl who sat by the fire turned her head. Slowly she got to her feet, staring warily at Bill. Just beyond the other side of her compact encampment there yawned a chasm; if she were frightened of him, she had no place to run.

      Actually she seemed more surprised than afraid. She said to Bill: “Who are my friends? Who sent you after me?”

      Doing his best to appear non-threatening, he spoke in soothing tones. “Your father sent me. And your Great-aunt Sarah. They both wanted me—us—to try to find you.”

      “Us?”

      “I work for a firm of private investigators.”

      “My father,” said Cathy Brainard. The two words came burdened with an unhappy commentary that Bill could not begin to decipher.

      He said mildly: “Well, maybe you don’t get along with him, but I can assure you he’s been worried.”

      Cathy took a few seconds to think that statement over. “How do I know you’re telling me the truth?” she asked finally.

      Bill stood back a step, continuing to try to look relaxed, but ready to make a grab if the reluctant object of his search, so serendipitously located, should make an effort to run past him. He said: “True, you don’t know me. I’m just a hired hand, but I’m your friend. My name’s Bill Burdon. I can show you some ID if you like.”

      Cathy considered that, and gave a nervous little laugh. “I’m not sure that a piece of paper or plastic would tell me a whole lot.”

      “Okay, I thought I’d offer. Tell me, are you about to cook something on that fire?”

      She considered again, and laughed again, this time with some real amusement. “I don’t know if I am or not. Are you hungry?”

      “Yes ma’am, rather. I’ve been out all night, with one candy bar to eat.”

      “Out looking for me in the dark?”

      “I know it sounds foolish. It didn’t start out that way.” Bill looked around at the spectacular scenery.

      In a moment he realized that Cathy was almost smiling at him. She said, with something like amusement: “Don’t tell me you’re lost.”

      “All right, I won’t admit it. That would be bad for the image. But I’m really damned if I can see how the whole South Rim and everything on it can disappear like this.” He gestured at the surrounding spires and buttes.

      To his surprise, Cathy didn’t smile. Nor did she answer directly. “I’m getting hungry myself. All right, I can cook up some freeze-dried glop,” she said. “There’s a spring handy, just over here.”

      Walking with her when she went to get the water in a little aluminum pot with a folding handle, Bill looked around at her camping arrangements with approval. It was obvious to him, though he said nothing on the point, that she hadn’t been here a month, or anywhere near that long. “Nice camp. I can see you know how to do this.”

      “Thank you.”

      “How long were you planning to stay?”

      “I haven’t decided that as yet. You can tell that to anyone who’s interested.”

      “Your father’s very worried about you. So’s your Aunt Sarah.”

      “Really?” The tone was sarcastic. Then she asked, as if the question really puzzled her: “How did you manage to get in here and find me?”

      “Well, there was some kind of—disturbance—at the Tyrrell House last night. I ran downhill in the dark, chasing someone I thought might have been involved.”

      That had Cathy’s interest, all right. “Who?”

      “Never got close enough to him to form a good idea about that.”

      She relaxed slightly. “Probably lucky for you.”

      Back at the camp with water, Cathy arranged the pot where the little wood fire would heat it nicely, and dug into her pack after the freeze-dried food. “Probably just as well for you,” she repeated.

      “Why do you say that?”

      She shrugged.

      For the next half hour they talked mainly about the mechanics of camping, even as they dealt with such matters in a practical way. The food was as good as could be expected.

      When the meal was over, Bill said casually: “Thanks. Shall we get started back?”

      Cathy fed another bit of deadwood to her fire, and shook her head. “I’m in no hurry to go anywhere. I’ve still got some heavy thinking to do.”

      “They’re really worried, you know. It’s been a month now, after all.”

      “Oh my God.” Her hand went to her mouth, and her eyes searched his. “It’s been that long? But of course—I suppose it might have been.”

      Her surprise sounded so genuine that Bill stared at her in puzzlement. “How long did you think it had been?”

      Cathy, scrubbing out her cooking pot with water and sand, only shook her head.

      Bill pursued: “It would be nice if you came home with me—came back to your folks, I mean. Of course maybe you don’t want to call that home any longer. As a favor to me, just to show them that I’ve earned my money. Then you can resume your camping trip, for all I care.”

      “My folks,” she said. And suddenly she was angry. She looked around as if she might be trying to find something suitable to throw.

      “Or at least tell me why you don’t want to come home. Let me say it again, your father misses you a lot.”

      She blinked