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unknown survivors beyond the fence who had fled in terror at sight and sound of him, and the
half-familiar survivors within the fence who were sharp reminders of his own loss. His conscience hurt,
but he didn't turn back.
The time was near sunset on an unknown day.
It was the longest day of his life.
SEVENTEEN
The briefing room was subtly different from that one he'd first entered weeks or years or centuries
ago.
He remembered the military policeman who'd escorted him from the gate and then opened the
door for him; he remembered his first glance into the room--his lukewarm reception, his tardy entrance.
He'd found Kathryn van Hise critically eyeing him, assessing him, wondering if he would measure up to
some task ahead; he'd found Major Moresby and Arthur Saltus playing cards, bored, impatiently
awaiting his arrival; he'd found the long steel table positioned under lights in the center of the room--all
waiting on him.
He had given his name and started an apology for his tardiness when the first hurtful sound
stopped him, chopped him off in mid-sentence and hammered his ears. He had seen them turn together
to watch the clock: sixty-one seconds. All that only a week or two ago--a century or two ago--before
the bulky envelopes were opened and a hundred flights of fancy loosed. The long journey from the
Florida beach had brought him twice to this room, but this time the lantern poorly illuminated the place.
Katrina was there.
The aged woman was sitting in her accustomed chair to one side of the oversized steel
table--sitting quietly in the darkness beneath the extinct ceiling lights. As always, her clasped hands rested
on the tabletop in repose. Chaney put the lantern on the table between them and the poor light fell on her
face.
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Katrina.
Her eyes were bright and alive, as sharply alert as he remembered them, but time had not been
lenient with her. He read lines of pain, of unknown troubles and grief; the lines of a tenacious woman who
had endured much, had suffered much, but had never surrendered her courage. The skin was drawn tight
over her cheekbones, pulled tight around her mouth and chin and appeared sallow in lantern light. The
lustrous, lovely hair was entirely gray. Hard years, unhappy years, lean years.
Despite all that he knew a familiar spark within him: she was as beautiful in age as in youth. He was
pleased to find that loveliness so enduring.
Chaney pulled out his own chair and slid down, never taking his eye off her. The old woman sat
without moving, without speaking, watching him intently and waiting for the first word.
He thought: she might have been sitting there for centuries while the dust and the darkness grew
around her; waiting patiently for him to come forward to the target, waiting for him to explore the station,
fulfill his last mission, end the survey, and then come opening doors to find the answers to questions
raised above ground. Chaney would not have been too surprised to find her waiting in ancient Jericho if
he'd gone back ten thousand years. She would have been there, placidly waiting in some temple or hovel,
waiting in a place where he would find her when he began opening doors.
The dusty briefing room was as chill as the cellar had been, as chill as the air outside, and she was
bundled in one of the heavy coats. Her hands were encased in a pair of large mittens intended for a
man--and if he bent to look, he would find the oversize boots. She appeared bent over, small in the chair
and terribly tired.
Katrina waited on him.
Chaney struggled for something to say, something that wouldn't sound foolish or melodramatic or
carry a ring of false heartiness. She would despise him for that. Here again was the struggle of the outer
door, and here again he was fearful of losing the struggle. He had left her here in this room only hours
ago, left her with that sense of. dry apprehension as he prepared himself for the third--now final--probe
into the future. She had been sitting in the same chair in the same attitude of repose.
Chaney said: "I'm _still_ in love with you, Katrina."
He watched her eyes, and thought they were quickly filled with humor and a pleasurable laughter.
"Thank you, Brian."
Her voice had aged as well: it sounded more husky than he remembered and it reflected her
weariness.
"I found patches of wild strawberries at the old barracks, Katrina. When do strawberries ripen in
Illinois?"
There _was_ laughter in her eyes. "In May or June. The summers have been quite cold, but May
or June."
"Do you know the year? The number?"
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A minute movement of her head. "The power went out many years ago. I'm sorry, Brian, but I
have lost the count."
"I don't suppose it really matters--not now, not with what we've already learned. I agree with
Pindar."
She looked her question.
He said: "Pindar lived about twenty-five hundred years ago but he was wiser than a lot of men
alive today. He warned man of peering too far into the future, he warned of not liking what would be
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