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as well as the time.
It was a little after five in the evening of October 3, 2040.
Jed had found an antique Winchester rifle in the main bedroom, bringing it
along the hallway to the small, neat kitchen. He tried to lever the action,
but it was jammed solid and he threw the useless weapon down in the corner.
"Damnation! Means them ornery scalpin' Apaches might come a'sneakin' up on us
and we're fresh out of firepower."
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Jeff Thomas was opening a can of tomatoes and he glanced over his shoulder at
his colleague. "How come I got the short straw and you?" he said disgustedly.
"All you can think of are those old Western vids. Now, if Carrie had been my
traveling partner& " He allowed the sentence to drift away into the
late-afternoon quiet.
"Yeah, the feeling's mutual, buddy."
It was a week since they'd parted from their friends on the high bluff
overlooking the Stevenson Air Force Base, splitting into pairs, heading off in
different directions.
Jed Herne had his roots clear across the continent, in South Strafford,
Vermont.
But he'd left his home state when he went to college ten years earlier and
only returned once. Relations had been difficult between himself and his
widowed mother, and time and distance hadn't improved things.
The end had come eight years ago, when he'd struggled through appalling
weather to make Thanksgiving with his mother. It had taken him two days in a
rented four-
by-four when blizzards closed down the airports. He'd also had a virulent
attack of tonsillitis and a raging fever.
When he reached the trim white-board house, up a side street from the general
store, his mother had reluctantly opened the screen door and peered
querulously out at him.
"Least you could've got your hair cut," she'd said.
Jed had spun on his heel and gotten straight back into the rented vehicle and
driven away to rejoin his colleagues on the New York Giants.
He'd never spoken to his mother again after that day and hadn't gone home for
the funeral when cancer took her three years later.
Since he didn't have any real reason to go anyplace, Jed had been more or less
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The journalist was eager to get to his apartment in San Francisco, close by
Fisherman's Wharf, and had also talked about going via San Luis Obispo, where
he'd left his ailing father.
"Want some of these?" He offered the opened can to Jed, with a green-handled
spoon sticking out of the top.
"Yeah, I guess. Anything else left in the cupboards? Looks like they cleared
it out when they left."
"They probably killed their dog before they went. There's about a dozen cans
of
Bark 'n' Bite."
Jed munched on the warm tomatoes. "Don't think I'm ready for dog food yet."
"There's some pasta. Could light a fire and heat some water."
Jed decided that he'd reached about the halfway mark and handed the can back.
"Here," he said. "Boned and deflavored by our chef, for your dining pleasure."
He went back into the living room, dimly lit behind the drawn drapes. Jed was
still limping slightly, favoring his weakened knee, and he sat down on a long
sofa upholstered in a maroon Naugahyde.
It had been cold in the past couple of days, and there was a dusting of snow
on the high, jagged peaks of the Sierra Nevada towering above them to the
west.
He heard the empty can clattering in the dusty sink. Then the journalist
called from the kitchen, "Going to have a look around before dark."
"Sure."
The back door slammed, setting some brightly painted wind chimes tinkling
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Jed stretched out, resting his muddied boots on a low table, moving a neat
pile of
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