也放在这里好了~
那女孩站在山上，让马克想到了艾德娜?文森特?莫雷。也许是因为她站立的姿势吧，她站在午后的太阳下，蒲公英色的头发随风舞动；也许是因为她穿着的旧式的白裙子，绕着她又长又细的腿打转。不管怎样，他真心的感觉她从过去走来，来到现在，这真奇怪，因为最后他发现，她不是来自过去，而是未来。
离她还有段距离时他停下了，因为爬山，他的呼吸变得十分沉重。她还没看到他，他在想该怎样让她知道自己在这儿，而不吓到她。他一面整理思绪，一面拿出一只烟斗，把手护在烟斗上吹气，直到烟草点燃。再次看向她时，她已经转过身来，好奇的打量着他。
马克慢慢向她走去，强烈的感觉到天是那样近，享受着风吹过脸庞的感觉。“应该经常爬山的”，他对自己说。自从来到山里他就一直在树林里呆着，现在，树林在他身后，在远远的山下，初秋时节，树叶微微变黄，整片树林正静静的染上秋意，树林上面有个小湖，湖边有小屋和钓鱼码头。马克从暑假里省出了两星期，但因为他妻子意料之外的被传唤去做陪审员，所以这两星期他不得不自己一个人过活，白天钓鱼，晚上就在起居室的大壁炉前读书；只用了两天他就养成了这个习惯，在树林里漫无目的的闲逛，最后来到小山旁，向上爬，看到了这个女孩。
他来到女孩身边，看到她的眼睛是蓝色的——像天一样，她纤细的身影被蓝天勾勒出一个剪影。她那张椭圆的年轻的脸柔软又甜美。一种似曾相识的感觉击中了他，他克制着自己伸手触摸她被风亲吻的脸颊的冲动，尽管双手并没有动，但他还是能感觉到指尖的刺痛。
“为什么，我都四十四岁了”，他暗忖，“她才不到二十岁。我到底是怎么了？”
“你喜欢这儿的风景吗？”他大声问。
“哦，喜欢，”她说着，转过身来，胳膊兴奋地画了个半圆。“太不可思议了，不是吗？”
他顺着她的目光看去：“是啊，”他说，“是不可思议。”他们的脚下又出现了一片树林，用九月的暖暖的颜色铺满了整个低地，拥抱着几公里外的小村庄，最终在郊区边界的前哨战蜿蜒而出。远处，薄雾使峡谷城的锯齿剪影变得更柔和了，看上去有点像中世纪的不规则的城堡，比梦还不真实。“你也是从城里来的吗？”他问。
“算是吧”她回答道。然后对着他笑了，说：“我是从两百四十年后的峡谷城来的。”那笑容说明她没指望他能相信她，但如果他能装着相信的话就好了。他也笑了：“那就是公元2201 年，是吧？”他说，“我想到那时这地方一定变化很大吧。”
“哦是的，”她说，“它现在算是大都市了，面积也扩张到了那儿。”她指着脚下树林的边缘。“2040 街就直直的穿过那片糖枫林，”她接着说，“看见那片洋槐树了吗？”
“嗯”他说，“看到了。”
“那儿现在是新购物中心了。超市很大，要大半天才能逛完，什么都能买得到，从阿司匹林到飞天汽车，应有尽有。挨着超市的那片山毛榉树林现在是一家大型服装商店，里面都是顶尖设计师的最新作品。我现在穿的裙子就是今天早上从那家店买的。
难道不好看吗？”
如果说好看的话，那也是因为她让这裙子增色不少。但他还是礼貌地看了看裙子。裙子的材料他没见过，好像是棉花糖，海面的泡沫和雪的混合物。对神奇材料的制作者来说，合成这样的材料轻而易举——或者说，对年轻女孩的夸张故事来说，这也是轻而易举的。“我想你是搭乘时光机过来的吧。”他说。
“是的，我父亲发明了一台。”
他很近地看着她，从没见过这么诚实的表情。“你经常来这儿吗？”
“是的。这是我最喜欢的时间坐标。有时我在这儿站好几个小时，就这么一直看啊看啊。前天我看到了一只兔子，昨天我看到了一头鹿，今天我看到了你。”
“如果你总回到同一个时间坐标的话，”马克问道，“怎么会有昨天呢？”
“哦我知道你的意思了，”她说，“时光机和其他东西一样，也会受线性时间的影响，要是你还想回到某个一样的时间坐标，就必须每24 小时往前调一次。我没这么做，因为我喜欢每次回来的时候又是新的一天。”
“你父亲和你一起来过吗？”
山上的湖里有一群鹅排成“V”字懒洋洋的游过，她盯着看了一会儿才说话：“我父亲生病了，要是条件允许的话他肯定很愿意来。但是我会把我看到的都告诉他。”她很快补充到，“这就跟他自己来也差不多了。不是吗？”
她望着他的目光有些急切，这让他很感动。“是的，”他说，“有一台自己的时光机一定很好。”
她严肃的点了点头。“对那些喜欢站在美丽的草原上的人来说时光机是个福利。在23 世纪已经没有多少草地留下来了。”
他笑着说：“20 世纪也没剩下多少草地。我想你会认为这片草地珍稀得都可以收藏了吧，我以后不得不常来了。”
“你就住在这附近吗？”她问。“我住在三英里外的小屋。本来是来这儿度假的，但现在也不算度假了，我妻子被传唤去做陪审员，没办法和我一起来，我也没办法延期，所以最后只好像不情愿的梭罗一样。我叫马克?兰道夫。”
“我叫朱莉，”女孩说，“朱莉?丹弗斯。”
这名字很配她。白裙子也一样，还有蓝天，小山和九月的风。也许她就住在树林里的小村庄，不过这不重要，如果她想假装自己是从未来回来的，他也无所谓。重要的是当他第一眼看到她时的那种感觉，每次看到她温柔的脸颊时都有一种柔情充满全身。“你是做什么工作的，朱莉？”他问，“还是正在上学？”
“我正在学做秘书，”她说着，向前走了半步，做了一个漂亮的脚尖旋转，双手紧握在身前。“我应该就是喜欢做秘书吧，”她接着说，“在大型的机要部门工作，记下那些重要的人物说的话，一定很不错。你愿意雇我做你的秘书吗。兰道夫先生？”
“非常愿意，”他说，“我妻子以前是我的秘书——在战前。我们就是这样认识的。”等等，为什么要说这些呢？他心想。
“她是个好秘书吗？”
“是最好的秘书。所以失去她时我很难过，但我只是在某一方面失去她，在另一方面又得到她了，所以把这叫失去其实很勉强。”
“是啊我觉得你没失去什么。嗯，我现在必须走了，兰道夫先生。我父亲正等着我回去告诉他我今天都看到了什么，我还要给他准备晚饭。”
“你明天还来吗？”
“也许吧，我每天都来。再见，兰道夫先生。”
“再见，朱莉。”
他看着她轻快地跑下山坡，消失在那片糖枫林中，240 年以后，那儿会是2040大街。他笑了。多迷人的孩子啊，他心想。有这样一股无法控制的想象力一定很让人激动，这么热爱生活。一直以来他对这两种特质十分抗拒，现在对它们则更欣赏。二十岁时，他是个在法学院工作的严肃的年轻人；二十四岁时，他有了自己的事务所，虽然很小但他几乎投入了全部精力——几乎，不是全部。和安妮结婚时他经历一段短暂的过渡期，那时谋生计已经不是最主要的事了。接着，战争打响，他又经历了一段过渡期——这次的时间要长得多——在那时看来，谋生计似乎是一件很遥远，有时还让人感觉很可恶的事情。生活恢复平静以后，谋生计的迫切性陡然加剧，甚至比原来更迫切，因为他还有儿子和妻子要养活，从那时起他就没闲下来过，除了那四次休假周，这是他最近每年给自己放的假，有两次他是和安妮、杰夫在他们自己选的度假村里过的，还有两次是他和安妮在他们的湖边小屋一起过的，那时候杰夫去上大学了。
今年，他却是自己过了两星期。不过，也许不能算是自己过。
他的烟斗早就熄灭了，但他没注意。他又把烟斗点燃，火苗在风中摇曳，然后他走下山，穿过树林朝小屋走去。秋分已过，能感觉到白天变短了。这会儿已经快天黑了，夜晚的潮气早已开始弥漫起薄雾。
他走得很慢，走到湖边时太阳已经下山了。湖很小，但很深，岸边都是树。小屋离岸边还有段距离，它在松树林里，通过曲折的小径和码头相连。小屋后面是碎石铺成车道，连着一段土路，可以通向高速公路。他的旅行车就停在后门，只要他愿意，随时都能开车回城市。
他在厨房准备了简单的晚饭，吃完以后去起居室读书。屋棚下发电机的嗡嗡声时断时续，除此之外，夜晚就还是那些人耳能听到的寻常的声音，并未被打扰。马克从壁炉边摆着很多书的书架上选了一本美国诗集，他坐下来翻看，看到了《小山的黄昏》。这首诗很美，他读了三遍，每次读都能看到她站在阳光里，头发随风舞动，裙子像温柔的雪一样，绕着她修长可爱的双腿旋转；他嗓子里好像有一个硬块，使他难以下咽。
他把书放回书架，走出去站在屋外的走廊上，把烟斗装满然后点燃。他强迫自己想安妮，不一会儿，安妮的脸渐渐清晰——坚毅而不失温柔的下巴，温暖又富于同情心的双眼，目光还有一点点恐惧让他永远都看不透，平静柔软的脸颊，温柔的笑容——这些特质都在他的记忆里变得分外迷人，记忆中她的头发闪耀着褐色的光芒，她本人又是那样轻盈优雅。每次想起她，马克都会感到惊奇，惊奇她的容颜永驻，惊奇她是如何做到几十年如一日的美，她一直像那天早上一样美，当时他抬起头，看到她羞怯地站在他办公桌前，顿时惊为天人。难以想象，仅仅过了二十年，他就迫不及待的要和一个过度想象的女孩幽会了，而那女孩年轻得可以做他女儿。不过，他不是这样的人——起码不全是。他这只是暂时的动摇——仅此而已。有那么一会儿，控制感情平衡的能力仿佛抛弃了他，他在感情之路上摇摇晃晃。现在，他能站稳了，双脚又踏回土地，整个世界又走上了理智而明晰的轨道。
他把烟斗清空回到屋里。在卧室脱衣服，钻进被单，开灯。他本应该很快入睡，但他没有，当睡意终于来临，却被撩人的梦扯得支离破碎。
第二天下午，她穿着一条蓝裙子，蒲公英色的头发上还扎着相配的蓝色小丝带。
他对着小山站了一会儿，一动不动，等到喉咙里的紧张感觉消失了，才走过去站在她身旁，站在风里。但她脖子和下巴的柔软的弧线，又让他的喉咙紧张起来，当她转过身来说：“你好啊，我还以为你不来了”的时候，他花了好久才能又开口说话。
“但我来了啊，”他终于说，“你也来了。”
“是啊，”她说，“我很开心。”
附近有一个露出地表的花岗岩，形成一个奇形怪状的长椅，他们坐在上面望向远方。他把烟斗装满，点燃，然后把烟吹在风里。“我父亲也抽烟斗，”她说，“每次他点烟的时候，手都会像你一样弓起来，就算是没风他也这样。你和他在很多地方都很像。”
“给我讲讲你父亲吧，”他说。“也讲讲你。”
她照他说的做了。她二十一岁，父亲是一位退休的政府物理学家，他们住在2040 街的一个小公寓里，自从她母亲四年前去世，她就一直照顾父亲的生活。然后，马克告诉她有关安妮和杰夫的事——他打算有一天让杰夫成为自己的合伙人；安妮对镜头有恐惧症，婚礼那天她怎么也不肯拍照，以后一直也不肯拍照；他们一家去年夏天一起去露营，玩的非常开心。
他讲完时，她说：“你的家庭生活太美好了！在1961 年生活一定很棒！”
“你有一台时光机可以任意操作，只要你愿意，什么时候都能搬过来。”
“这可不那么容易。且不说我不想抛弃我父亲，还需要考虑到时间警察。要知道，只有政府赞助的历史探险成员才能时光旅行，对大众完全保密。”
“你似乎对时间旅行掌握的得心应手。”
“那是因为我父亲发明了一台他自己的机器，时光警察不知道这件事。”
“但你还是违法了。”
她点点头。“如果被他们看到了那才算违法，按照他们给时间的定义来说，我也算违法了。我父亲有他自己的对时间的定义。”
听她说话简直太愉快了，她说的什么倒不是很重要，他愿意她继续说下去，不管她说的多不着边际。“再给我讲讲这个吧”他说。
“我先告诉你官方定义。认同这个定义的人都认为，未来的任何人都不应该亲身参与过去发生的任何事，因为他的存在本身就构成一个悖论，所以未来的事也会相应改变。所以时间旅行部才决定，只有得到授权的人才能进入时光机，同时还设立了一个警察部，一旦碰到那些渴望简单生活的想要跨越时代的人，或是那些伪装成古代人想永远穿越回去的人，就逮捕他们。”
“但是我父亲对时间的定义却不同，他认为时间之书已经写就。宏观角度来看，那些将要发生的事其实已经发生了。所以，如果一个未来人想要参与进一件过去的事，他就会成为那个事件的一部分——简单的说他一开始就是那件事的一部分——这样一来根本就不可能有悖论。”
马克深吸了一口烟斗，他需要这样做。“听起来你父亲是一位非常了不起的人。”他说。
“哦是的！”她的脸颊因为这种热忱变得更粉红了。“你想不到他都看过什么书，兰道夫先生。哎呀，我们的公寓里塞满了书！黑格尔，康德，休谟；爱因斯坦，牛顿，魏伯乐。我——我自己还读了一些呢。”
“我也尽量多读书。实际上我也读了不少书。”
她全神贯注的看着他的脸。“那多好啊兰道夫先生，”她说到。“我想我们一定有不少共同的兴趣爱好！”
接下来的谈话确定了他们的确是有许多共同的兴趣爱好——尽管贝克莱主义(1)有超然的审美观，但对身处九月山顶上的一个男人和一个女孩来说，实在不是一个合适的话题，他想了想，就算是对一个44 岁的男人和一个21 岁的女孩，这个话题也一样不合适。不过幸好，这样的谈话得到了补偿——他们对于超然审美观的活跃讨论，不光引出了先验和后天的结论，还引出了她眼中的小星星；他们对贝克莱的消解不光总结出主教理论的内在弱点，也让她的脸颊变得粉红；他们对相对论的讨论不仅仅证明了E=mc?，也证明了知识是女性魅力的财富，远非阻碍。
这样的情绪徘徊了很久，久到离谱，当他上床睡觉时这种情绪还在。这次他没有试着去想安妮；也知道这样不好。他躺在黑暗中，任思绪来回穿梭——所有的思绪都围绕着一个中心，九月的山顶和有蒲公英色头发的女孩。
第三天一早他开车去村子里的邮局，去看有没有他的信。结果没有。他并不吃惊。杰夫像他一样不喜欢写信，安妮可能正被隔离。至于事务所，他已经告诉秘书除非有紧急的事否则不要打扰他。
他在想要不要问那个老邮递员，有没有一家叫丹弗斯的住在这一区。最后决定不问了。如果这样做，会破坏朱莉业已建立的信任感，尽管他也不肯定这份信任感是否存在，但他从内心来说不想把它摧垮。
那个下午，她穿了一件和她头发一样颜色的黄裙子，看到她时他的喉咙又开始紧张，又不能说话了。最开始的这种感觉过去以后，可以说话了，一切就好了，他们的思想像两条欢快的小溪融合在一起，愉快地流过这道午后的河谷。这次他们分别时，她问到：“你明天会来吗？”——她问这句话仅仅比他快那么一丁点——这词句音乐般萦绕在他耳中，直到他回到树林里的小屋，在门廊下抽烟斗度过一个晚上，还未能使他平静下来然后去睡觉。
第四天下午，当他爬上山顶，上面空无一人。起初，他失望地愣了一会儿，接着想，她迟到了，就是这样。她过一会儿就会来的。然后他坐在花岗岩长椅上等她。但她没来。时间一分一分过去，一小时一小时过去。阴影从树林里悄悄爬出来，一路爬到小山上。空气也渐渐变凉了。最后他放弃了，伤心地向小屋走去。
第五天下午她也没来，第六天也没来。他吃不下也睡不好。钓鱼也没让心情变好。他也没心思读书了。他一直很憎恶自己表现得像害了相思病的大男生一样，都四十岁了，面对一张漂亮的脸和一双美腿还像个傻瓜似的。几天以前他还从没像现在这样这么想念一个人，现在还不到一星期，他不光想念她，还爱上她了。
第七天当他爬上山顶时心里本是不抱希望的——突然，看到她站在阳光下，他的心又活了起来。这次她穿着一条黑裙子。他本应该能猜出来前几天她为什么没能来；但他没有——直到他站在她面前，看到她眼中泛出的泪花和颤抖的双唇：“朱莉，出什么事了？”
她紧挨着他，肩膀在颤抖，把脸埋在他外套里。“我父亲去世了”她说，不知为什么，他知道这是她第一次哭，在守灵和葬礼时她都没哭，一直忍到现在才崩溃。他轻轻地抱住她。他之前没有吻过她，现在也没有，起码不算真的吻。他的嘴唇蹭了一下她的额头——仅此而已。“真遗憾，朱莉。”他说，“我知道他对你有多重要。”
“他一直知道自己活不长了”她说。“他在实验室做锶实验，从那时起他肯定就知道了。但他谁也没说——连我也不告诉……我不想活着了，没有他也就没有活着的理由了——没了，没了，没了！”
他紧紧地抱着她。“你会找到活下去的理由的，朱莉。会有人是你活下去的理由。你现在还年轻，还是个孩子，真的。”
她的头一下子仰起，突然间双眼冷酷的看向他：“我不是个孩子！你怎么敢说我是个孩子！”他吓了一跳，放开她向后退。从前从没见过她这么生气。“我不是有意……”他开始解释。
她的怒气突然消失了。“我知道你不是有意伤害我的感情，兰道夫先生。但我不是小孩子了，真的不是。答应我以后你再也不这么叫我了。”
“好的，”他说，“我答应。”
“现在我必须要走了”她说，“还有好多事要做。”
“你……你明天还来吗？”
她看了他好久，一层像夏天阵雨后的薄雾让她的蓝眼睛闪闪发亮。“时光机不好用了，”她说，“有些零件需要换，我不知道该怎么换。我们的——我的机器也许还能再用一次，但我也不确定。”
“你会试着来的，是吧？”
她点点头。“是的，我尽量。还有，兰道夫先生？”
“什么，朱莉？”
“万一我来不了——我想说——我爱你。”
然后她走了；轻快的跑下山坡，一会儿就消失在那片糖枫林中。他点燃烟斗的手在颤抖，火柴烧到了他的手指。之后他忘记要回小屋，忘记吃晚饭，忘记上床睡觉，但他必须要做这些事，因为他是在自己家住，没有别人，他走到厨房，晚餐盘还在滴水板上。
他洗了盘子，做了咖啡。上午在码头钓鱼，让自己的脑子一片空白。再过一会儿他就能面对现实了。现在他只知道她爱他，再过几小时，他又能见到她了。就算是时光机不好用了，也能把她从村庄送到小山上吧。
他早到了一会儿，在花岗岩长椅上坐下，等着她从树林中出现然后爬上山坡。
他听不到自己的心跳，但能感觉到双手在颤抖。
他等啊等啊，但是她没来。第八天她也没来。影子渐渐拉长，空气变得寒凉，他下山来到了那片糖枫林。一会儿他就看到了一条小径，沿着小径他走到树林里，穿过树林走向小村庄。在一个小邮局那儿他停下了，看看有没有他的信。那个老邮递员看过以后告诉他没有信，他呆了一会儿：“那——有没有一家叫丹弗斯的住在这附近呢？”他突然问出这句话。
邮递员摇摇头：“没听说过有这家人。”
“那最近镇上有葬礼吗？”
“一年多都没有过葬礼了。”之后，尽管他每天下午都去山上，直到假期结束，但他心里知道她不会再回来了。她就这样消失了，好像从没出现过一样。每到夜晚他都流连在小村庄里，渴望邮递员说错了；但他没看到朱莉的影子，他向路人描述她的样子，他们都没有见过她。
十月初，他回到城市。在安妮面前，他努力装作他们之间什么都没改变；但她似乎知道有些事的确改变了。虽然她没有问过他，但几个星期以来她变得越来越安静，她双眼中的恐惧，之前让他看不透，现在越来越明显了。
他开始在周日下午开车去乡下，然后去山顶。树林现在一片金黄，天空比一个月以前更蓝了。他在花岗岩长椅上一坐就是好几个小时，望着她消失的地方。
十一月中旬的一个雨夜，他发现了一个行李箱。是安妮的行李箱，发现它纯属意外。她去镇上玩宾戈游戏了，剩下他一个人在家，看完两个小时的四个无聊电视节目，他想起来自己去年冬天收起来的拼图游戏。
他太需要一些事——任何事——让他把朱莉忘掉，于是他去阁楼找拼图。他在成堆的盒子中间摸索时，行李箱从架子上掉了下来，一碰到地板就自己打开了。他弯下腰去把它捡起来。他们新婚后租了一间小公寓，当时她就是带着这个行李箱搬进去的，他记得她总是锁着这个箱子，还总是笑着告诉他妻子要有秘密，就算是对丈夫也要瞒着一些事。这么多年了，锁已经生锈了，刚才那一摔把它摔坏了。
他准备把箱盖盖上，看到一条冒出来的白裙子的裙边时停下来了。这面料似乎有些熟悉。他不久以前见过类似的材料——能让他想到棉花糖，海面上的泡沫，雪。
他又打开箱盖，用颤抖的手拿起裙子。他把裙子举到肩上让它自然伸展，裙子像轻柔的雪一样慢慢落下。他看着裙子，看了好长时间，喉咙又发紧了。然后，他小心地把裙子折起来放进箱子里盖上盖子。然后把箱子放回屋檐下的架子上。
雨点轻轻敲在屋顶上。喉咙的紧张感太强烈了，有那么一会儿他觉得自己都要哭了。他慢慢走下阁楼楼梯。沿着螺旋梯来到起居室。壁炉架上的表显示已经十点十四分了。再过几分钟，宾戈游戏的大巴就会把她放在街角，她就会沿着街走过来，走到大门口。安妮会回来的……朱莉会回来的。朱莉安？
这是她的全名吗？也许是吧。人们在用化名的时候总是用他们原名的一部分；她已经把姓完全改了，也许她觉得用原来的名字会很安全。她一定也做了其他的事，除了改名字之外，她也许还躲开了时间警察。难怪她从来不想照相。好久以前她羞怯地来他办公室应聘的那天，她该有多害怕啊！自己孤身一人身处在一个奇怪的时代，不知道她父亲对于时间的理解是否正确，不知道那个在四十岁时爱上她的男人会不会在二十岁时也爱上她。她已经回来了，就像她承诺的那样。
“二十年啊，”他心想，“一直以来她就知道，总有一天我会在九月的时候爬山，看到她站在山顶，阳光下她那么年轻可爱，我会再次爱上她。她应该知道的，因为这一瞬间是她的过去，也是我的未来。可她为什么不告诉我呢？她现在为什么不告诉我呢？”
突然，他明白了。
他呼吸开始困难，跑到走廊里穿上雨衣走出门，走到雨里，雨点打在他脸上，雨水从脸颊上落下，有些是雨水，有些是泪水。像安妮，也就是朱莉一样永葆青春之美呢——妮——也就是朱莉——这样青春永驻的人，怎么会害怕变老呢？她难道没发现吗？在他眼里，从他抬起头看到她站在那间小办公室里，爱上她的那一刻起，她就再也没有改变。难道她就不明白吗？这就是为什么那个山上的女孩对他来说是那么陌生啊。
他来到街上朝街角走去。宾戈大巴停下来的时候他就快走到那儿了，穿着白色雨衣的女孩下车了。他喉咙里的紧张感变得像刀一样利，他完全不能呼吸。蒲公英色的头发颜色更深了，她那女孩的美丽不见了；但她脸上的温柔爱意依然存在，修长的双腿在十一月的苍白街灯下显得优雅又匀称，这是在九月的金色阳光下看不到的画面。
她来到他身边，他又看到了她眼中自己熟悉的那一丝恐惧——现在看来这恐惧让他心痛地无法忍受，因为他知道了她恐惧的原因。她的身影在他眼前模糊了，他就这样径直朝她走去。走到她身边时，双眼又清晰了，跨过这么多年，他伸手，触到她被雨淋湿的脸颊。她知道一切都好，恐惧永远的消失了，他们手牵手在雨中向家的方向走去。
The Dandelion Girl
Robert F. Young
The girl on the hill made Mark think of Edna St. Vincent Millay. Perhaps it was because
of the way she was standing there in the afternoon sun, her dandelion-hued hair dancing in the
wind; perhaps it was because of the way her old-fashioned white dress was swirling around her
long and slender legs. In any event, he got the definite impression that she had somehow stepped
out of the past and into the present; and that was odd, because as things turned out, it wasn't the
past she had stepped out of, but the future.
He paused some distance behind her, breathing hard from the climb. She had not seen
him yet, and he wondered how he could apprise her of his presence without alarming her. While
he was trying to make up his mind, he took out his pipe and filled and lighted it, cupping his
hands over the bowl and puffing till the tobacco came to glowing life. When he looked at her
again, she had turned around and was regarding him curiously.
He walked toward her slowly, keenly aware of the nearness of the sky, enjoying the feel
of the wind against his face. He should go hiking more often, he told himself. He had been
tramping through woods when he came to the hill, and now the woods lay behind and far below
him, burning gently with the first pale fires of fall, and beyond the woods lay the little lake with
its complement of cabin and fishing pier. When his wife had been unexpectedly summoned for
jury duty, he had been forced to spend alone the two weeks he had saved out of his summer
vacation and he had been leading a lonely existence, fishing off the pier by day and reading the
cool evenings away before the big fireplace in the raftered living room; and after two days the
routine had caught up to him, and he had taken off into the woods without purpose or direction
and finally he had come to the hill and had climbed it and seen the girl.
Her eyes were blue, he saw when he came up to her—as blue as the sky that framed her
slender silhouette. Her face was oval and young and soft and sweet. It evoked a déjà vu so
poignant that he had to resist an impulse to reach out and touch her wind-kissed cheek; and even
though his hand did not leave his side, he felt his fingertips tingle.
Why, I'm forty-four, he thought wonderingly, and she's hardly more than twenty. What in
heaven's name has come over me? "Are you enjoying the view?" he asked aloud.
"Oh, yes," she said and turned and swept her arm in an enthusiastic semicircle. "Isn't it
simply marvelous!"
He followed her gaze. "Yes," he said, "it is." Below them the woods began again, then
spread out over the lowlands in warm September colors, embracing a small hamlet several miles
away, finally bowing out before the first outposts of the suburban frontier. In the far distance,
haze softened the serrated silhouette of Cove City, lending it the aspect of a sprawling medieval
castle, making it less of a reality than a dream. "Are you from the city too?" he asked.
"In a way I am," she said. She smiled at him. "I'm from the Cove City of two hundred and
forty years from now."
The smile told him that she didn't really expect him to believe her, but it implied that it
would be nice if he would pretend. He smiled back. "That would be A.D. twenty-two hundred
and one, wouldn't it?" he said. "I imagine the place has grown enormously by then."
"Oh, it has," she said. "It's part of a megalopolis now and extends all the way to there."
She pointed to the fringe of the forest at their feet. "Two Thousand and Fortieth Street runs
straight through that grove of sugar maples," she went on, "and do you see that stand of locusts
over there?"
"Yes," he said, "I see them."
"That's where the new plaza is. Its supermarket is so big that it takes half a day to go
through it, and you can buy almost anything in it from aspirins to aerocars. And next to the
supermarket, where that grove of beeches stands, is a big dress shop just bursting with the latest
creations of the leading couturiers. I bought this dress I'm wearing there this very morning. Isn't
it simply beautiful?"
If it was, it was because she made it so. However, he looked at it politely. It had been cut
from a material he was unfamiliar with, a material seemingly compounded of cotton candy, sea
foam, and snow. There was no limit any more to the syntheses that could be created by the
miracle-fiber manufacturers—nor, apparently, to the tall tales that could be created by young
girls. "I suppose you traveled here by time machine," he said.
"Yes. My father invented one."
He looked at her closely. He had never seen such a guileless countenance. "And do you come
here often?"
"Oh, yes. This is my favorite space-time coordinate. I stand here for hours sometimes and
look and look and look. Day before yesterday I saw a rabbit, and yesterday a deer, and today,
you."
"But how can there be a yesterday," Mark asked, "if you always return to the same point
in time?"
"Oh, I see what you mean," she said. "The reason is because the machine is affected by
the passage of time the same as anything else, and you have to set it back every twenty-four
hours if you want to maintain exactly the same co-ordinate. I never do because I much prefer a
different day each time I come back."
"Doesn't your father ever come with you?"
Overhead, a V of geese was drifting lazily by, and she watched it for some time before
she spoke. "My father is an invalid now," she said finally. "He'd like very much to come if he
only could. But I tell him all about what I see," she added hurriedly, "and it's almost the same as
if he really came. Wouldn't you say it was?"
There was an eagerness about the way she was looking at him that touched his heart. "I'm
sure it is," he said—then, "It must be wonderful to own a time machine."
She nodded solemnly. "They're a boon to people who like to stand on pleasant leas. In the
twenty-third century there aren't very many pleasant leas left."
He smiled. "There aren't very many of them left in the twentieth. I guess you could say
that this one is sort of a collector's item. I'll have to visit it more often."
"Do you live near here?" she asked.
"I'm staying in a cabin about three miles back. I'm supposed to be on vacation, but it's not
much of one. My wife was called to jury duty and couldn't come with me, and since I couldn't
postpone it, I've ended up being a sort of reluctant Thoreau. My name is Mark Randolph."
"I'm Julie," she said. "Julie Danvers."
The name suited her. The same way the white dress suited her—the way the blue sky
suited her, and the hill and the September wind. Probably she lived in the little hamlet in the
woods, but it did not really matter. If she wanted to pretend she was from the future, it was all
right with him. All that really mattered was the way he had felt when he had first seen her, and
the tenderness that came over him every time he gazed upon her gentle face. "What kind of work
do you do, Julie?" he asked. "Or are you still in school?"
"I'm studying to be a secretary," she said. She took a half step and made a pretty pirouette
and clasped her hands before her. "I shall just love to be a secretary," she went on. "It must be
simply marvelous working in a big important office and taking down what important people say.
Would you like me to be your secretary, Mr. Randolph?"
"I'd like it very much," he said. "My wife was my secretary once—before the war. That's
how we happened to meet." Now, why had he said that? he wondered.
"Was she a good secretary?"
"The very best. I was sorry to lose her; but then when I lost her in one sense, I gained her
in another, so I guess you could hardly call that losing her."
"No, I guess you couldn't. Well, I must be getting back now, Mr. Randolph. Dad will be
wanting to hear about all the things I saw, and I've got to fix his supper."
"Will you be here tomorrow?"
"Probably. I've been coming here every day. Good-bye now, Mr. Randolph."
"Good-bye, Julie," he said.
He watched her run lightly down the hill and disappear into the grove of sugar maples
where, two hundred and forty years hence, Two Thousand and Fortieth Street would be. He
smiled. What a charming child, he thought. It must be thrilling to have such an irrepressible
sense of wonder, such an enthusiasm for life. He could appreciate the two qualities all the more
fully because he had been denied them. At twenty he had been a solemn young man working his
way through law school; at twenty-four he had had his own practice, and small though it had
been, it had occupied him completely—well, not quite completely. When he had married Anne,
there had been a brief interim during which making a living had lost some of its immediacy. And
then, when the war had come along, there had been another interim—a much longer one this
time—when making a living had seemed a remote and sometimes even a contemptible pursuit.
After his return to civilian life, though, the immediacy had returned with a vengeance, the more
so because he now had a son as well as a wife to support, and he had been occupied ever since,
except for the four vacation weeks he had recently been allowing himself each year, two of
which he spent with Anne and Jeff at a resort of their choosing and two of which he spent with
Anne, after Jeff returned to college, in their cabin by the lake. This year, though, he was
spending the second two alone. Well, perhaps not quite alone.
His pipe had gone out some time ago, and he had not even noticed. He lighted it again,
drawing deeply to thwart the wind, then he descended the hill and started back through the
woods toward the cabin. The autumnal equinox had come and the days were appreciably shorter.
This one was very nearly done, and the dampness of evening had already begun to pervade the
hazy air.
He walked slowly, and the sun had set by the time he reached the lake. It was a small
lake, but a deep one, and the trees came down to its edge. The cabin stood some distance back
from the shore in a stand of pines, and a winding path connected it with the pier. Behind it a
gravel drive led to a dirt road that gave access to the highway. His station wagon stood by the
back door, ready to whisk him back to civilization at a moment's notice.
He prepared and ate a simple supper in the kitchen, then went into the living room to
read. The generator in the shed hummed on and off, but otherwise the evening was unsullied by
the usual sounds the ears of modern man are heir to. Selecting an anthology of American poetry
from the well-stocked bookcase by the fireplace, he sat down and thumbed through it to
Afternoon on a Hill. He read the treasured poem three times, and each time he read it he saw her
standing there in the sun, her hair dancing in the wind, her dress swirling like gentle snow around
her long and lovely legs; and a lump came into his throat, and he could not swallow.
He returned the book to the shelf and went out and stood on the rustic porch and filled
and lighted his pipe. He forced himself to think of Anne, and presently her face came into
focus—the firm but gentle chin, the warm and compassionate eyes with that odd hint of fear in
them that he had never been able to analyze, the still-soft cheeks, the gentle smile—and each
attribute was made more compelling by the memory of her vibrant light brown hair and her tall,
lithe gracefulness. As was always the case when he thought of her, he found himself marveling at
her agelessness, marveling how she could have continued down through the years as lovely as
she had been that long-ago morning when he had looked up, startled, and seen her standing
timidly before his desk. It was inconceivable that a mere twenty years later he could be looking
forward eagerly to a tryst with an overimaginative girl who was young enough to be his
daughter. Well, he wasn't—not really. He had been momentarily swayed—that was all. For a
moment his emotional equilibrium had deserted him, and he had staggered. Now his feet were
back under him where they belonged, and the world had returned to its sane and sensible orbit.
He tapped out his pipe and went back inside. In his bedroom he undressed and slipped
between the sheets and turned out the light. Sleep should have come readily, but it did not; and
when it finally did come, it came in fragments interspersed with tantalizing dreams.
"Day before yesterday I saw a rabbit," she had said, "and yesterday a deer, and today,
you."
On the second afternoon she was wearing a blue dress, and there was a little blue ribbon
to match tied in her dandelion-colored hair. After breasting the hill, he stood for some time, not
moving, waiting till the tightness of his throat went away; then he walked over and stood beside
her in the wind. But the soft curve of her throat and chin brought the tightness back, and when
she turned and said, "Hello, I didn't think you'd come," it was a long while before he was able to
answer.
"But I did," he finally said, "and so did you."
"Yes," she said. "I'm glad."
A nearby outcropping of granite formed a bench of sorts, and they sat down on it and
looked out over the land. He filled his pipe and lighted it and blew smoke into the wind. "My
father smokes a pipe too," she said, "and when he lights it, he cups his hands the same way you
do, even when there isn't any wind. You and he are alike in lots of ways."
"Tell me about your father," he said. "Tell me about yourself too."
And she did, saying that she was twenty-one, that her father was a retired government
physicist, that they lived in a small apartment on Two Thousand and Fortieth Street, and that she
had been keeping house for him ever since her mother had died four years ago. Afterward he told
her about himself and Anne and Jeff—about how he intended to take Jeff into partnership with
him someday, about Anne's phobia about cameras and how she had refused to have her picture
taken on their wedding day and had gone on refusing ever since, about the grand time the three
of them had had on the camping trip they'd gone on last summer.
When he had finished, she said, "What a wonderful family life you have. Nineteen-sixty
one must be a marvelous year in which to live!"
"With a time machine at your disposal, you can move here any time you like."
"It's not quite that easy. Even aside from the fact that I wouldn't dream of deserting my
father, there's the time police to take into consideration. You see, time travel is limited to the
members of government-sponsored historical expeditions and is out of bounds to the general
public."
You seem to have managed all right."
"That's because my father invented his own machine, and the time police don't know
about it."
"But you're still breaking the law."
She nodded. "But only in their eyes, only in the light of their concept of time. My father
has his own concept."
It was so pleasant hearing her talk that it did not matter really what she talked about, and
he wanted her to ramble on, no matter how farfetched her subject. "Tell me about it," he said.
"First I'll tell you about the official concept. Those who endorse it say that no one from
the future should participate physically in anything that occurred in the past, because his very
presence would constitute a paradox, and future events would have to be altered in order for the
paradox to be assimilated. Consequently the Department of Time Travel makes sure that only
authorized personnel have access to its time machines, and maintains a police force to apprehend
the would-be generation-jumpers who yearn for a simpler way of life and who keep disguising
themselves as historians so they can return permanently to a different era.
"But according to my father's concept, the book of time has already been written. From a
macrocosmic viewpoint, my father says, everything that is going to happen has already
happened. Therefore, if a person from the future participates in a past event, he becomes a part of
that event—for the simple reason that he was a part of it in the first place—and a paradox cannot
possibly arise."
Mark took a deep drag on his pipe. He needed it. "Your father sounds like quite a
remarkable person," he said.
"Oh, he is!" Enthusiasm deepened the pinkness of her cheeks, brightened the blueness of
her eyes. "You wouldn't believe all the books he's read, Mr. Randolph. Why, our apartment is
bursting with them! Hegel and Kant and Hume; Einstein and Newton and Weizsäcker. I've—I've
even read some of them myself."
"I gathered as much. As a matter of fact, so have I."
She gazed raptly up into his face. "How wonderful, Mr. Randolph," she said. "I'll bet
we've got just scads of mutual interests!"
The conversation that ensued proved conclusively that they did have—though the
transcendental esthetic, Berkeleianism and relativity were rather incongruous subjects for a man
and a girl to be discussing on a September hilltop, he reflected presently, even when the man was
forty-four and the girl was twenty-one. But happily there were compensations—their animated
discussion of the transcendental esthetic did more than elicit a priori and a posteriori conclusions,
it also elicited microcosmic stars in her eyes; their breakdown of Berkeley did more than point
up the inherent weaknesses in the good bishop's theory, it also pointed up the pinkness of her
cheeks; and their review of relativity did more than demonstrate that E invariably equals mc2; it
also demonstrated that far from being an impediment, knowledge is an asset to feminine charm.
The mood of the moment lingered far longer than it had any right to, and it was still with
him when he went to bed. This time he didn't even try to think of Anne; he knew it would do no
good. Instead he lay there in the darkness and played host to whatever random thoughts came
along—and all of them concerned a September hilltop and a girl with dandelion-colored hair.
Day before yesterday I saw a rabbit, and yesterday a deer, and today, you.
Next morning he drove over to the hamlet and checked at the post office to see if he had
any mail. There was none. He was not surprised. Jeff disliked writing letters as much as he did,
and Anne, at the moment, was probably incommunicado. As for his practice, he had forbidden
his secretary to bother him with any but the most urgent of matters.
He debated on whether to ask the wizened postmaster if there was a family named
Danvers living in the area. He decided not to. To have done so would have been to undermine
the elaborate make-believe structure which Julie had built, and even though he did not believe in
the structure's validity, he could not find it in his heart to send it toppling.
That afternoon she was wearing a yellow dress the same shade as her hair, and again his
throat tightened when he saw her, and again he could not speak. But when the first moment
passed and words came, it was all right, and their thoughts flowed together like two effervescent
brooks and coursed gaily through the arroyo of the afternoon. This time when they parted, it was
she who asked, "Will you be here tomorrow?"—though only because she stole the question from
his lips—and the words sang in his ears all the way back through the woods to the cabin and
lulled him to sleep after an evening spent with his pipe on the porch.
Next afternoon when he climbed the hill it was empty. At first his disappointment
numbed him, and then he thought, “She's late, that's all”. She'll probably show up any minute.
And he sat down on the granite bench to wait. But she did not come. The minutes passed—the
hours. Shadows crept out of the woods and climbed partway up the hill. The air grew colder. He
gave up, finally, and headed miserably back toward the cabin.
The next afternoon she did not show up either. Nor the next. He could neither eat nor
sleep. Fishing palled on him. He could no longer read. And all the while, he hated himself—
hated himself for behaving like a lovesick schoolboy, for reacting just like any other fool in his
forties to a pretty face and a pair of pretty legs. Up until a few days ago he had never even so
much as looked at another woman, and here in the space of less than a week he had not only
looked at one but had fallen in love with her.
Hope was dead in him when he climbed the hill on the fourth day—and then suddenly
alive again when he saw her standing in the sun. She was wearing a black dress this time, and he
should have guessed the reason for her absence; but he didn't—not till he came up to her and saw
the tears start from her eyes and the telltale trembling of her lip. "Julie, what's the matter?"
She clung to him, her shoulders shaking, and pressed her face against his coat. "My father
died," she said, and somehow he knew that these were her first tears, that she had sat tearless
through the wake and funeral and had not broken down till now.
He put his arms around her gently. He had never kissed her, and he did not kiss her now,
not really. His lips brushed her forehead and briefly touched her hair—that was all. "I'm sorry,
Julie," he said. "I know how much he meant to you."
"He knew he was dying all along," she said. "He must have known it ever since the
strontium 90 experiment he conducted at the laboratory. But he never told anyone—he never
even told me … I don't want to live. Without him there's nothing left to live for—nothing,
nothing, nothing!"
He held her tightly. "You'll find something, Julie. Someone. You're young yet. You're
still a child, really."
Her head jerked back, and she raised suddenly tearless eyes to his. "I'm not a child! Don't
you dare call me a child!"
Startled, he released her and stepped back. He had never seen her angry before. "I didn't
mean—" he began.
Her anger was as evanescent as it had been abrupt. "I know you didn't mean to hurt my
feelings, Mr. Randolph. But I'm not a child, honest I'm not. Promise me you'll never call me one
again."
"All right," he said. "I promise."
"And now I must go," she said. "I have a thousand things to do."
"Will—will you be here tomorrow?"
She looked at him for a long time. A mist, like the aftermath of a summer shower, made
her blue eyes glisten. "Time machines run down," she said. "They have parts that need to be
replaced—and I don't know how to replace them. Ours—mine may be good for one more trip,
but I'm not sure."
"But you'll try to come, won't you?"
She nodded. "Yes, I'll try. And Mr. Randolph?"
"Yes, Julie?"
"In case I don't make it—and for the record—I love you."
She was gone then; running lightly down the hill, and a moment later she disappeared
into the grove of sugar maples. His hands were trembling when he lighted his pipe, and the
match burned his fingers. Afterward he could not remember returning to the cabin or fixing
supper or going to bed, and yet he must have done all of those things, because he awoke in his
own room, and when he went into the kitchen, there were supper dishes standing on the
drainboard.
He washed the dishes and made coffee. He spent the morning fishing off the pier,
keeping his mind blank. He would face reality later. Right now it was enough for him to know
that she loved him, that in a few short hours he would see her again. Surely even a run-down
time machine should have no trouble transporting her from the hamlet to the hill.
He arrived there early and sat down on the granite bench and waited for her to come out
of the woods and climb the slope. He could feel the hammering of his heart and he knew that his
hands were trembling. Day before yesterday I saw a rabbit, and yesterday a deer, and today,
you.
He waited and he waited, but she did not come. She did not come the next day either.
When the shadows began to lengthen and the air grow chill, he descended the hill and entered the
grove of sugar maples. Presently he found a path, and he followed it into the forest proper and
through the forest to the hamlet. He stopped at the small post office and checked to see if he had
any mail. After the wizened postmaster told him there was none, he lingered for a moment. "Is—
is there a family by the name of Danvers living anywhere around here?" he blurted.
The postmaster shook his head. "Never heard of them."
"Has there been a funeral in town recently?"
"Not for nigh onto a year."
After that, although he visited the hill every afternoon till his vacation ran out, he knew in
his heart that she would not return, that she was lost to him as utterly as if she had never been.
Evenings he haunted the hamlet, hoping desperately that the postmaster had been mistaken; but
he saw no sign of Julie, and the description he gave of her to the passersby evoked only negative
responses.
Early in October he returned to the city. He did his best to act toward Anne as though
nothing had changed between them; but she seemed to know the minute she saw him that
something had changed. And although she asked no questions, she grew quieter and quieter as
the weeks went by, and the fear in her eyes that had puzzled him before became more and more
pronounced.
He began driving into the country Sunday afternoons and visiting the hilltop. The woods
were golden now, and the sky was even bluer than it had been a month ago. For hours he sat on
the granite bench, staring at the spot where she had disappeared. Day before yesterday I saw a
rabbit, and yesterday a deer, and today, you.
Then, on a rainy night in mid-November, he found the suitcase. It was Anne's, and he
found it quite by accident. She had gone into town to play bingo, and he had the house to
himself; and after spending two hours watching four jaded TV programs, he remembered the
jigsaw puzzles he had stored away the previous winter.
Desperate for something—anything at all—to take his mind off Julie, he went up to the
attic to get them. The suitcase fell from a shelf while he was rummaging through the various
boxes piled beside it, and it sprang open when it struck the floor.
He bent over to pick it up. It was the same suitcase she had brought with her to the little
apartment they had rented after their marriage, and he remembered how she had always kept it
locked and remembered her telling him laughingly that there were some things a wife had to
keep a secret even from her husband. The lock had rusted over the years, and the fall had broken
it.
He started to close the lid, paused when he saw the protruding hem of a white dress. The
material was vaguely familiar. He had seen material similar to it not very long ago—material that
brought to mind cotton candy and sea foam and snow.
He raised the lid and picked up the dress with trembling fingers. He held it by the
shoulders and let it unfold itself, and it hung there in the room like gently falling snow. He
looked at it for a long time, his throat tight. Then, tenderly, he folded it again and replaced it in
the suitcase and closed the lid. He returned the suitcase to its niche under the eaves. Day before
yesterday I saw a rabbit, and yesterday a deer, and today, you.
Rain thrummed on the roof. The tightness of his throat was so acute now that he thought
for a moment that he was going to cry. Slowly he descended the attic stairs. He went down the
spiral stairway into the living room. The clock on the mantel said ten-fourteen. In just a few
minutes the bingo bus would let her off at the corner, and she would come walking down the
street and up the walk to the front door. Anne would … Julie would. Julianne?
Was that her full name? Probably. People invariably retained part of their original names
when adopting aliases; and having completely altered her last name, she had probably thought it
safe to take liberties with her first. She must have done other things, too, in addition to changing
her name, to elude the time police. No wonder she had never wanted her picture taken! And how
terrified she must have been on that long-ago day when she had stepped timidly into his office to
apply for a job! All alone in a strange generation, not knowing for sure whether her father's
concept of time was valid, not knowing for sure whether the man who would love her in his
forties would feel the same way toward her in his twenties. She had come back all right, just as
she had said she would.
Twenty years, he thought wonderingly, and all the while she must have known that one
day I'd climb a September hill and see her standing, young and lovely, in the sun, and fall in love
with her all over again. She had to know because the moment was as much a part of her past as
it was a part of my future. But why didn't she tell me? Why doesn't she tell me now?
Suddenly he understood.
He found it hard to breathe, and he went into the hall and donned his raincoat and stepped
out into the rain. He walked down the walk in the rain, and the rain pelted his face and ran in
drops down his cheeks, and some of the drops were raindrops, and some of them were tears.
How could anyone as agelessly beautiful as Anne—as Julie—was, be afraid of growing old?
Didn't she realize that in his eyes she couldn't grow old—that to him she hadn't aged a day since
the moment he had looked up from his desk and seen her standing there in the tiny office and
simultaneously fallen in love with her? Couldn't she understand that that was why the girl on the
hill had seemed a stranger to him?
He had reached the street and was walking down it toward the corner. He was almost
there when the bingo bus pulled up and stopped, and the girl in the white trench coat got out. The
tightness of his throat grew knife-sharp, and he could not breathe at all. The dandelion-hued hair
was darker now, and the girlish charm was gone; but the gentle loveliness still resided in her
gentle face, and the long and slender legs had a grace and symmetry in the pale glow of the
November street light that they had never known in the golden radiance of the September sun.
She came forward to meet him, and he saw the familiar fear in her eyes—a fear poignant
now beyond enduring because he understood its cause. She blurred before his eyes, and he
walked toward her blindly. When he came up to her, his eyes cleared, and he reached out across
the years and touched her rain-wet cheek. She knew it was all right then, and the fear went away
forever, and they walked home hand in hand in the rain.
The End