_Time reversal exists at the sub-atomic level
according to Feynman's Theory--and according to
that same theory any entity can exist in three
places at one time.... Does this explain, the
strange co-existence of Summer, Mark and Wyn?_
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Worlds of If Science Fiction, June 1956.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
What scientific or supernatural principle is behind the mysterious
appearances recorded some years ago by Mr. Charles Fort, I'm sure I
don't know. It could, of course, be the same as that behind the sudden
appearance of Wyndham Storm in Central Park, but I don't believe I've
heard of a case that exactly paralleled this one.
I gather from a perusal of Mr. Fort's works that it is not uncommon for
these unheralded visitors to come onstage without the formality of
clothing; but I don't believe it's customary for them to bring their
wives along.
I got caught in a thunderstorm that night in Central Park--not New
York's Central Park, but Allertown's Central Park, which isn't as big.
Having no raincoat--the skies had appeared clear when I left home for
the movies--I took refuge in the big octagonal bandstand.
The storm was brief, but spectacular; one of those violent affairs that
often mark the arrival of a cold front to dispel an unusually intense
midsummer heat wave. The rain slashed across the park in wind-whipped
sheets, managing to drench me even in my shelter. Big trees bowed
low and reluctantly hurled away leaves and limbs. Thunder rolled
incessantly and the lightning made an eerie daylight of the blackness.
Suddenly, there was a terrific clap of thunder and a fiery flash that
blotted out everything around me. Shaken, I picked myself up from the
floor of the bandstand, still not sure I hadn't been struck. Blue smoke
was boiling away from a wrecked tree about thirty feet away, in the
midst of a clump of charred, waving shrubbery.
And like Venus rising from the foam the naked woman stepped out of the
shrubbery, followed by the naked man.
My first impulse was to laugh at these two whom the storm had chased
from their hiding place and to be astonished at their brashness in
disrobing completely in the heart of the park. Then it occurred to me
that the lightning must have stripped them. They might be hurt.
I jumped from the bandstand and walked swiftly over to them. To my
utter amazement, the young woman promptly threw her arms around my neck
and said:
"Whatever has just happened, Don, I want you to know it's you I love."
Then she kissed me.
"What on earth!" I exclaimed, disengaging myself. The man was looking
from one to the other of us, mutely.
"I'm Summer Storm and this is my husband, Wyn Storm, and we live at 138
March Street," she said, all in a rush. "Oh, Don, I'm sorry you don't
know us any more, but I should have known from the way Wyn was acting
and everything that's going to happen...."
"Wait a minute, wait a minute!" I interrupted. "I don't know you. How
did you know my name?"
She didn't answer, but just stood there, looking at me intently. I
averted my eyes. I was beginning to recover from shock enough to be
embarrassed.
"How about this?" I asked the man. "Why should I know you, and where do
you come from?"
"I'm afraid I don't know," he replied, sounding perfectly honest about
it. "I'm afraid I don't remember anything. Do you suppose I have
amnesia?"
"That's possible," I said. "But your wife seems not to be bothered with
it. All right. Summer Storm and Wyn Storm it is--but the names are too
trite in these circumstances not to be false. Both of you had better
get back in the shrubbery while I get some help."
I found the policeman on the Main Street beat. As I thought, it was my
old friend, Gus Adams. He accompanied me back to the park, the rain
gleaming on his slicker.
"They picked a good address to lie about," he said, when I had
explained the situation to him on the way. "The house at 138 March
Street is vacant."
"They're probably spooners who got caught by that lightning bolt and
are too ashamed to give their right names," I said. "If they had any
clothes, I don't know what happened to them. I didn't see any in those
bushes."
"What do you figure I ought to do with them, Mr. Gracey?" he asked.
"They look like decent youngsters," I said. "If it's all right with
you, we'll take them out to my house until they're ready to let me help
them get back where they came from."
"You're taking a chance," he grunted. But we wrapped the woman in his
slicker and tied my best suit coat around the man's waist. Gus called
the town's only patrol car and had them drive us out to my house.
I suppose nudists and doctors eventually reach the point where they
look on nakedness as normal. But, to me, my "orphans of the storm"
looked a lot more like human beings when I had them clothed in a couple
of my old sweaters and some slacks.
They might have been twins. For all I knew, they were, in spite of the
woman's claim that they were man and wife. Their eyes were an identical
sky-blue, their hair an identical pale, wavy gold. Her hair was cut
short, his needed cutting, so they were a good match. I judged their
ages to be about 23, although I've been over-estimating young women's
ages since I passed 30.
"Now, suppose you tell me where you're from and what this is all
about," I said sternly, when they had finished eating the meal I had
rustled up for them.
The man spread his hands and, for the first time, he smiled. It was the
smile of an archangel. Whatever the failure of his memory, his smile
was that of wisdom and patience. I was to find, not much later, that
the woman's smile was its feminine counterpart.
"I'm afraid I don't remember anything before standing in the park in
the rain," said the man.
"What's wrong? What's wrong, Don?" demanded the woman, a note of
hysteria in her voice. "What's happening to us?"
"It's just that I don't understand this situation at all," I said. "You
say you're husband and wife. Then you won't mind both sleeping here in
the den, and tomorrow we'll see what we can find out."
In this remarkable fashion began a remarkable fifteen years.
* * * * *
Looking back on it, I suppose I loved Summer Storm from the time I saw
her. I've been trying to decide what that makes me. Incestuous? Just
narcissistic? Or, perhaps, Jovian?
She was alone in the den when I looked in the next morning before
breakfast. Wyn--short for "Wyndham," I learned later--was wandering
around in the back yard, looking lost.
Summer had a pair of my scissors in her hand, evidently preparing to
trim her hair. Somewhat to my surprise, she looked contrite when she
saw me.
"I just thought I might look better with short hair," she explained.
"Good Lord, it's too short now!" I exclaimed. "I like women with long
hair."
She hesitated, then reached up to begin clipping. Somewhat nettled, I
turned on my heel and walked out.
That incident is noteworthy for its strange sequel. At breakfast, I was
thunderstruck to observe that Summer Storm's hair was long--at least
shoulder length, for it was done up in a neat bun behind her head.
Where in my house had she found a wig to match her own hair? And how
long must the wig have been originally, for her to have cut from it the
long tresses I found later in the wastebasket?
After breakfast, I took Wyn with me to check on the house at 138 March
Street. I left Summer at home. Although she claimed to remember things
and Wyn said he couldn't, I could make nothing of her "memories." There
was a strangeness about talking with her, too, something I couldn't
quite put my finger on yet.
As Gus had said, the house at 138 March Street was vacant. It was for
rent. The owner, old Albert Meecham, lived next door, and I made an
impulsive decision on the spot.
"Your wife insists you live here, so you two must be connected with
this address in some way," I told Wyn. "I'll rent the place for you
while we're trying to run down some information on your background. If
you decide to stay in Allertown, you can pay me back after you get a
job."
The only way I knew to probe the origins of Wyn and Summer was through
the customary channels. That afternoon, I went down to the police
station to talk with my friend, Gus, before he started on his beat.
The Allertown police station is nothing but a room in the ancient city
hall, a block off Main Street, but it does have a separate outside
entrance. Gus was sitting on a bench in the shade by the entrance,
fanning himself with his cap. The perspiration pasted his dark blue
shirt to his well-padded arms and chest. The relief the storm had
brought hadn't lasted long.