A Question Of Time by Fred Saberhagen (8 ebook reader txt) 📕

      As the investigators walked west along the esplanade, the low stone barrier was on their right. Beyond that, the Canyon fell away from a brink as abrupt as the shoreline of an ocean. Still fog-filled and all but totally invisible, this gigantic vacancy abruptly began to dominate Maria’s awareness as a brooding presence, surreal as a dream.

      “They say,” said Bill conversationally at her side, “that it’s a mile deep and about ten miles wide. Wish we could see it—what’s this building, now?”

      Maria was able to pass on information gleaned from her brochure: this had to be the Lookout Studio, constructed (in 1914, by the Fred Harvey Company) of unfinished limestone that blended with the cliff on which it stood.

      A few paces farther west they passed the Kolb Studio. According to the brochures, Maria recalled, this structure had been put up early in the century, by a pair of brothers who were both explorers and photographers. Their studio stood empty now, preserved by the Park Service.

      And then, a little past Bright Angel trailhead and its mule corral which stood a few yards in from the brink, the four at last came in sight of the Tyrrell House.

      Mr. Strangeways excused himself at this point. After a few murmured words to Joe Keogh, he seemed to fade away along the dim walk leading back toward the corral. Maria, quietly curious, watched him go.

      And now the remaining four investigators had very nearly reached their goal. Actually little more than the roof of the Tyrrell House was visible from where they were now standing on the broad paved walk. Most of the Tyrrell House, like most of Kolb’s Studio, was down out of sight below the rim.

      Joe led his colleagues to the door of the Tyrrell House, where he knocked briskly.

      Almost at once the door was opened, by an elderly lady who, Maria thought, could only be Mrs. Tyrrell herself. It was as if she had been waiting expectantly just inside. She was slender and silver-haired, her body beginning to be bowed under the weight of eighty years and more, her movements slow but still authoritative. She wore a Navajo necklace of turquoise and silver, over a purple dress.

      “Mr. Keogh?” The old woman’s voice, at least, was still strong.

      “That’s me, ma’am. These are some people who are going to be working with me. And you must be Mrs. Tyrrell.” Even as Joe spoke, he could recognize his client’s nephew, Gerald Brainard, hovering just inside the house. Old Sarah’s nephew was fiftyish, of stocky build and pale complexion, with a neatly trimmed dark mustache. He was wearing a Pendleton wool sweater over a shirt and tie.

      “Come in, then,” said the old lady, with a kind of tired eagerness. She looked with interest at the people who had come with Joe. “Come in, all of you.”

      The entryway, of logs and stone, reminded Maria strongly of the lobby of El Tovar, though naturally on a vastly reduced scale.

      Joe performed quick, businesslike introductions. The old lady shook hands with the people she had not already met; Brainard contented himself with a nod in their general direction.

      The old lady’s eyes rested briefly on Bill Burdon, moved on and then came back to him. It was, Bill thought, as if he might have been recognized, or perhaps was in danger of being mistaken for someone else.

      The old woman turned her attention back to Joe. “Mr. Keogh, you are almost too late. I heard our Cathy’s voice just now.”

Chapter Three

      Standing inside the mouth of the cave, in the glare of those electric floods, which were like no lights that twenty-two-year-old Jake Rezner had ever seen before, he managed to control his temper. He was certain now that the man before him was old, despite his violent behavior, and despite the fact that his hair, under its powdering of rock-dust, was still mostly dark.

      Jake asked the old man, mildly enough considering, just what the hell the old man thought he knew about how long Jake’s life was going to last.

      The old man grinned. “I’ll have more to say on that subject than you think, young fellow. What’s your name?” The voice coming from the figure white with rock-dust was a powerful rasp, and to Jake’s surprise it sounded British. His only experience with British voices was from the movies, but still he didn’t think he could be mistaken.

      “My name’s Jake Rezner. I work for the CCC.”

      The other blinked at him almost benevolently. “Ah yes, you’re in the thirties.”

      Jake blinked. “In the what?”

      “In the decade of the thirties—that’s all right. You’re the people who put in trails and bridges.” The tone of the last sentence was contemptuous.

      “We put in only one bridge,” Jake said, momentarily unable to think of any better comeback.

      The old man was surveying Jake with what appeared to be increasing disdain. “And now you’ve come to stay with us, have you?”

      Jake almost laughed. “Stay with you? No, I’m not planning to move in.”

      The other really did laugh at that, and the sound was harsh. “If you still don’t know, having been enticed along this far…”

      “If I still don’t know what?”

      Instead of answering that question, the old man, with the child’s lunch box still tucked under his arm, shook his head pityingly and turned to Camilla.

      “So,” he remarked to her, “you’ve not told this one very much as yet. I suppose he’s just now arrived?”

      Camilla, somewhat to Jake’s surprise, was just standing there with her arms down at her sides, her small fists clenched. Without looking directly at either man, she nodded fiercely in reply, as if for some reason she did not trust herself to speak.

      Jake, turning back to the old man, trying to put him at ease so it wouldn’t become necessary to punch him out, said tolerantly: “Don’t worry, I’m not staying.”

      “I’m not worried.” The other, irritated rather than soothed by tolerance, glared at Jake from under bushy, white-dusted brows. “Of course you’re staying.” It was a statement of fact, not hospitality.