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

at him. “Really?” Now she sounded totally unconvinced, and genuinely angry. “What do you know about my father? You think that—that—” Whatever was upsetting her this time had left her speechless.

      “I met him briefly. All I can report is how he impressed me. And your Aunt Sarah’s really upset.”

      He thought that Cathy softened slightly at mention of Aunt Sarah. But she gave no indication of having changed her mind.

      “Well, I’m certainly not going to try to drag you back against your will.”

      “I should hope not.”

      “Well, I’ll be going, then, and tell them that you’re safe. Or that you were safe when I saw you.”

      “Yes, you do that, Bill. Think you can find your way back?” A faintly wicked gleam that had begun to glow in Cathy’s blue-gray eyes faded again. “I’ll come part of the way with you. Maybe I can point you in the right direction.”

      “Good. Thanks.” Bill smiled, thinking that this would at least give him a little more time to try to talk her into coming home. “Oh, by the way. Would you mind if I took a snapshot or two? Just to prove to everyone that I really did find you?”

      She considered this. “No, I don’t mind.”

      He got out his camera. “One last question, also?”

      “Let’s hear it.”

      “Who do you think those people were, who came to the Tyrrell House last night and got me chasing them?”

      “I wouldn’t want to guess.”

      Bill left it at that. He took a couple of Polaroids, and announced that he was leaving.

      Cathy, coming with him to show him the way as promised, evidently felt secure in leaving her camp; the terrain and weather conditions seemed to make it safe to leave the small fire unattended.

      They hiked for half an hour or so, up and down across country in a direction that seemed doubtful to Bill; but he was ready to admit that he was the one who was lost. Then Cathy stopped and pointed out the way he had to go.

      When he took leave of her at last, Cathy stood looking after him, her arms folded.

      After fifty paces or so Bill turned back to wave, but his would-be rescuee, already hiking briskly back in the direction of her camp, did not see much less return the gesture.

      Bill pushed on in the direction she had indicated. He couldn’t really believe Cathy’s story the way she’d told it. For one thing, she wouldn’t have been able to pack in a month’s provisions on her back … would she? That freeze-dried stuff was very light.

      Before Bill had made any headway in his thinking, or traveled fifty paces more, he was distracted by the sudden impression that something had gone strange about the air, or the light; as if the sun might have dimmed in a partial eclipse, though the sky was cloudless.

      After a few moments of looking about him, he had to admit to himself that he could pin down nothing really wrong with sky or sun. But both were disturbingly different.

* * *

      Still more or less following the directions given him by Cathy, and pondering what seemed strange alterations in weather and time of day, in half an hour Bill Burdon came in sight of El Tovar. So suddenly and unexpectedly did this discovery occur that he endured a moment of serious disorientation. On topping what he had thought was only a minor ridge, he found himself actually standing on the South Rim after all. At the same time the unmistakable landmark of the great log hotel popped into view, less than half a mile to the east.

      With a sense of relief, mingled with shame at having got lost like a rank tenderfoot, Bill strode toward Canyon Village.

       … and yet today the central building looked somehow different, strangely smaller, than the hotel he’d seen at close range only last night.

      Thoughtfully he scratched his chin—and then stopped in his tracks. He could distinctly remember shaving, just yesterday morning, before setting out from Phoenix. And yet now he had, he swore he had, what felt like a three days’ growth of beard.

      Shaken, Bill walked on. Then again he paused, squinting even though his eyesight was ordinarily excellent for distance. Now he could make out a handful of antique cars, of thirties vintage, in the shrunken and unpaved parking lot beside El Tovar. No other vehicles were to be seen.

      Bill rubbed his eyes. Maybe he was just tired. Maybe it was just the heat-shimmer of the atmosphere making the automobiles look strange. But—heat-shimmer in December? Come to think of it, the air did seem unseasonably warm…

* * * * * *

      He hiked on, entering a portion of the rim-trail that took him briefly back in among the pine and cedar, out of sight of El Tovar and its attendant marvels. During this interval he managed to convince himself, despite the continuing warmness of the air, that he had really managed to find his way back to the mundane world he had left last night, in late December of 1991.

      But in a few moments the trail brought him out of the woods again. There, unarguably there, was El Tovar—but, disturbingly, a diminished version of the hotel he thought he could remember from last night.

      All Bill could do was push ahead.

      He passed, and recognized, the Bright Angel trailhead, though the fences in this area looked different than the fences he’d passed last evening, and there were fewer guest cottages overlooking the Canyon than he seemed to remember.

      Moments later, Bill arrived at the Tyrrell House.

      It was a warm day, yes, all right, a summer afternoon—with the sun threatening to set much too far to the north for December—but Bill didn’t want to think about that just now—and he had first unzipped his jacket and then taken it off.

      Some tourists, their numbers much diminished from those of yesterday—as Bill recalled yesterday—were moving toward Bill along the rim trail, which now ran at a somewhat greater distance from the house than he remembered. Today’s sightseers, Bill had