wt.theyearofthequietsun-第34部分

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lly　with　little　promise　of　being　warmer。　Chaney　was　thankful　for　the　heavy　coat　he　wore。
　　Quiet　sun；　clean　sky；　unseasonably　cold　weather：　he　could　report　that　to　Gilbert　Seabrookc。
　　He　propped　the　heavy　door　open　by　shoving　the　cart　against　it；　and　then　went　below　for　the　first　armload　of　rations。　The　rifle　was　left　beside　the　cart；　all　but　forgotten。　Carton　after　carton　of　foodstuffs　was　hauled　up　the　stairs　and　piled　in　the　cart；　until　his　arms　were　weary　of　carrying　and　his　legs　of　climbing；　but　medicines　and　matches　were　forgotten　and　he　made　another　trip。　A　few　tools　for　himself　were　included　as　a　tardy　afterthought。　Chaney　very　nearly　overestimated　himself：　the　cart　was　so　heavily　loaded　after　the　last　trip　that　he　had　difficulty　moving　it　from　the　doorway；　and　so　a　few　of　the　heavier　boxes　had　to　be　left　behind。
　　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　ing　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　pleted。　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　mon　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　affirmati