Gordon Dickson - Time Storm

I parked the jeep in some bushes that hid it several hundred yards from the closest of the buildings, got out and went ahead on foot.

The first building I found myself heading for was a temporary one with a platform floor, plank walls and a canvas tent roof. To this was being added a more permanent structure of cement block walls and gable roof, already shingled. There was no glazing as yet in the window opening, and outside the door aperture, a white pickup truck was parked, from which a man in blue jeans and sweater was carrying in various lengths of lumber.

I reached the pickup while he was still inside and waited by it until he came out again. He was a lean, black-haired type in his late twenties or early thirties with a long, straight nose.

“Hi,” I said.

He glanced at me indifferently.

“Hullo,” he said, went to the truck, and began pulling off some twelve-foot lengths of two by four.

“Can I give you a hand?”

He looked at me again, not quite so indifferently.

“All right,” he said. “Thanks.”

I went over to the truck as he backed off from it with his two by fours, picked up several of my own and followed him through into the building.

There was no light inside except what came through the window openings, but this was enough to see that the building would be illuminated well enough with natural light, even on dark days, once it was finished. The two by fours were apparently for wall studs, for he had several partitions already framed up.

I carried my load over to where he was piling his. A cement floor had been poured, but not professionally finished, and the footing was both gritty and a little uneven. But it, like the wall framing and the block laying of the outer shell was good enough for security and use. We worked together at unloading the truck for some time without saying anything to each other.

I found myself getting an odd pleasure out of being useful in this ordinary way. The feeling was above and in addition to the pleasure of the physical exertion which, once I warmed up to it, was body-enjoyable, the way such efforts usually are. I was conscious of the housebuilder eyeing me as we worked, but that was as much reaction as he showed until we had finished getting all the two by fours into the building. I came out from carrying in the last two lengths of lumber and found him standing, considering what was left on the truck—mostly nails and odds and ends of hardware.

“What next?” I asked him.

“I forgot to pick up conduit for the wiring,” he said, without looking at me. “Well, let’s get the rest of it in. You and I better take the nail cartons together, one by one. They’re heavy.”

We pulled a nail carton to the open tailgate, took it each on a side and carried it in. As we went toward the door opening, he spoke.

“You’re Marc Despard, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” I said.

He stared hard at me for a second.

“No, you’re not,” he said, as we stepped into the semigloom of the interior.

“I’m afraid I am.”

“You can’t be.”

“I’m afraid I am.”

“Look, he’s got a long beard and he’s six inches taller than you are.”

We laid the carton of nails down and went out after another.

“I tell you,” he said, as we went in carrying the second carton, “you can’t be. I know. I know what Despard looks like.”

I grinned. I couldn’t help myself.

“So do I,” I said.

“Then you admit you aren’t him.”

“No,” I said. “I’m him. What makes you think I’ve got a beard and I’m six inches taller?”

“Everybody knows that. Besides, you never come down from that mountain.”

“I do now.”

“Shit!”

We carried in the other cartons without words. It occurred to me suddenly that he might think I had been laughing at him and that all this was some sort of practical joke on my part. I was distressed.

“If I don’t look like Marc Despard,” I asked him, “why’d you ask me if that’s who I was?”

He did not answer me immediately. It was not until we had made one more delivery inside and were back out in the sunlight that he spoke again, without looking directly into my face.

“I don’t know why you’d want to help me.”

“You had this truck here to be unloaded,” I said. “It goes faster with two people than with one.”

“There’s got to be more to it than that.” He stopped dead and faced me. “What’s up? What is it? What’s going on? Is there some kind of law here or something like that I’ve broken?”

“Man—” I began, and then broke off. “Look, I don’t even know your name.”

“Orrin Elscher.”

“Orrin—” I held out my hand. “Marc Despard. Glad to meet you.”

He stared at my hand as if it had a mousetrap in it, then slowly put out his own hand and we shook.

“Orrin,” I said, “it was just such a fine day I thought I’d come down, and when I got here I saw you unloading the truck, so I thought I’d offer you a hand. That’s all there is to it.”

He said nothing, only took his hand back.

We finished unloading the truck. It was strange, but once upon a time it would have bothered me that he was bothered. I would have geared up emotionally in response to his emotions. But now all I could think of was what a nice day it was and the enjoyment of using my body to some practical and useful purpose. I was getting the same sort of pleasure from unloading that truck that I might have gotten from engaging in a favorite sport; and I was grateful to Orrin Elscher for providing me with the opportunity for that pleasure. As far as his puzzle about me went, I felt no pressure to explain it. In his own time he would understand; and if that time never came, it would not make any real difference to the world. All that really mattered was that his truck was unloaded, he had been saved some work, and I had enjoyed myself.

I had gotten this far in my thinking when I remembered I had left the summer palace intending to put my new insight to work; and here I had forgotten about it completely.

But of course I hadn’t. I saw the connection now between the insight and what I was presently doing. I had set out to take hold of the universe; and I had done that. There was no such thing as an unrelated action; and the act of my helping Orrin to unload his truck connected with the necessary completion of his house, the development of the whole town, the future of the people here, plus their effect and interrelation with all the rest of the people in the world. In fact, it connected with the whole future pattern in a way I could see building and stretching out until it became part of the great spider web of interacting forces that contained the time storm itself. As for me, in enunciating that connection by being part of it and recognizing it, I had expanded my own awareness that I needed to stretch before I could take the next step against the storm.

We finished unloading the truck.

“Well, take care of yourself,” I said to Orrin and turned away.

I was perhaps five steps from him, headed back toward where I had hidden the jeep, when I heard him call me.

“Mr. Despard—”

I turned to find him right behind me.

“I—thank you,” he said.

“Nothing to thank me for,” I answered. “I enjoyed the workout. I suppose I’ll be seeing you around?”

“Sure,” he said—and then, more strongly, added, “Sure. You will!”

“Good.”

I turned and went. I had gotten a good echo from him, like the unblurred ring of uncracked metal when you tap a bronze vase with a fingernail. I went back to the jeep, got behind the wheel, and after a moment’s thought headed on into City Hall.

But there was no one around when I got there. Even the typists were not at their desks. I looked at my watch and saw it was just after ten in the morning. Coffee break time, perhaps. I went out, got back in the jeep and headed back up toward the summer palace, enjoying the bright day, the sight of the buildings and people I passed, as if the whole world was something marvelous invented yesterday that I had never seen before.