Icy Clutches

Gideon had forgotten all about that too. First-thing-in-the-morning corpses had a way of clearing the mind. “Damn, they could have been useful. You don't have any files on it at all?'

'We don't have any files from 1964. On anything.'

'Maybe your office in Washington, D.C.—'

Arthur shook his head. “I called. Nothing.'

'But there was a skeletal-identification expert involved. He must have submitted a report somewhere.'

'No doubt, but it's a little difficult when we don't even have a name to go on.'

Gideon nodded. “Well, thanks for trying, anyway.” Arthur took pity on him. “I still have Owen working on it for you. Maybe he'll turn something up.'

'Maybe.'

'You never know,” Arthur said more cheerfully, his mind turning elsewhere; to his coming press conference, perhaps. “You just never know.'

* * * *

It didn't take Owen long to turn something up. By the time Gideon got back to his room to wash up, there was a note under the door.

Gideon—

Found your skeletal-identification expert for you. Professor Kenneth Worriner, University of Alaska Anthropology Department. Retired, still lives in Juneau. Telephone number 586-3774.

We aim to please.

Owen

Glacier Bay Lodge, which advertised itself as Alaska's premier wilderness resort, took the “wilderness” part seriously. Communication with the outside world wasn't easy. There were no television sets, no radios, no telephones in the rooms. There was a single pay phone on the veranda, but it required a calling credit card, which Gideon was unable to find in his wallet. (Did he own one? He made a mental note to ask Julie.) The only other telephone was in the manager's office, where the shaken Mr. Granle had taken refuge behind his locked door.

He answered Gideon's knock, understandably apprehensive, and when he saw it was Gideon he shrank back. The message on his drawn face was as clear as if he'd spoken: My God, what's happened now?

'It's all right,” Gideon said quickly. “I just wanted to use your phone.'

Mr. Granle motioned to it and edged out of his office as Gideon came in, giving Gideon plenty of room. He closed the door softly behind him.

Gideon dialed the number, a little uneasy about calling Worriner now that he was doing it. Say Worriner had been in his forties in 1964; he'd be in his seventies now. If he'd been in his fifties, he'd be in his eighties. How welcome would this call be? How much would he remember? How much would he care?

The telephone was answered on the third ring. The voice was thin, pinched. “Hello?'

In his eighties, Gideon thought. Well into them. “Professor Worriner?'

A noticeable hesitation. “Yes.” No one had called him professor in a while.

'My name is Gideon Oliver, sir. I'm a physical anthropologist too. I'm up at Glacier Bay, and I'm working on some human skeletal fragments—'

'Please hold on, I better turn down the TV.” The telephone clunked down. The old man's speech had been a little slurred. Dentures not in? A stroke? Was Worriner up to this? Gideon shifted uncomfortably.

Worriner returned after what seemed like a long time. “Yes?'

'I'm working on some skeletal fragments up here, sir, and—'

'Excuse me. Is this going to take a while?'

'Well, a few minutes, I suppose. It's about—'

Gideon heard a querulous sigh. “Hold on, I better turn down the soup.” The telephone was put down again, more softly. A murmured, regretful “almost ready, too,” was just audible.

Gideon shifted again in the overpadded chair. He was keeping Worriner from his meal, something octogenarians didn't usually take lightly. This wasn't going very well.

After a good ninety seconds Worriner returned. “Yes, hello?'

'Sir, if this isn't a convenient time, I can—'

'No, it's quite all right.” He paused. “I'm sorry if I sounded uncordial.'

'Not at all. The bones I'm working on seem to be from the same party that you worked on in 1964, and—'

'Gideon Oliver, did you say?'

'That's right.'

'I know you by reputation, of course.” It was his first show of interest. “It's a pleasure to talk to you.'