Sunday was the day of chaos. Candles burned, churches burned, people drowned, beasts ran wild in the streets (or swam there), houses were torn up by the roots and bounced like paper boats along the waterways, the great wind came down upon us, and after that the madness. I was not able to drive to Town Hall, so Eleanor sent her flyer after me. The basement was filled with water, and the ground floor was like Neptune’s waiting room. All previous high water marks had been passed. We were in the middle of the worst storm in Betty’s history. Operations had been transferred up onto the third floor. There was no way to stop things now. It was just a matter of riding it out and giving what relief we could. I sat before my gallery and watched. It rained buckets, it rained vats; it rained swimming pools and lakes and rivers. For awhile it seemed that it rained oceans upon us. This was partly because of the wind which came in from the gulf and suddenly made it seem to rain sideways with the force of its blasts. It began at about noon and was gone in a few hours, but when it left our town was broken and bleeding. Wyeth lay on his bronze side, the flagpole was gone, there was no building without broken windows and water inside, we were suddenly suffering lapses of electrical power, and one of my eyes showed three panda-puppies devouring a dead child. Cursing, I killed them across the rain and the distance. Eleanor wept at my side. There was a report later of a pregnant woman who could only deliver by Caesarean section, trapped on a hilltop with her family, and in labor. We were still trying to get through to her with a flyer, but the winds…I saw burnt buildings and the corpses of people and animals. I saw half-buried cars and splintered homes. I saw waterfalls where there had been no waterfalls before. I fired many rounds that day, and not just at beasts from the forest. Sixteen of my eyes had been shot out by looters. I hope that I never again see some of the films I made that day. When the worst Sunday night in my life began, and the rains did not cease, I knew the meaning of despair for the third time in my life. Eleanor and I were in the Trouble Center. The lights had just gone out for the eighth time. The rest of the staff was down on the third floor. We sat there in the dark without moving, without being able to do a single thing to halt the course of chaos. We couldn’t even watch it until the power came back on. So we talked. Whether it was for five minutes or an hour, I don’t really know. I remember telling her, though, about the girl buried on another world, whose death had set me to running. Two trips to two worlds and I had broken my bond with the times. But a hundred years of travel do not bring a century of forgetfulness–not when you cheat time with the _petite mort_ of the cold sleep. Time’s vengeance is memory, and though for an age you plunder the eye of seeing and empty the ear of sound, when you awaken your past is still with you. The worst thing to do then is to return to visit your wife’s nameless grave in a changed land, to come back as a stranger to the place you had made your home. You run again then, and after a time you _do_ forget, some, because a certain amount of actual time must pass for you also. But by then you are alone, all by yourself: completely alone. That was the _first_ time in my life that I knew the meaning of despair. I read, I worked, I drank, I whored, but came the morning after and I was always me, by myself. I jumped from world to world, hoping things would be different, but with each change I was further away from all the things I had known. Then another feeling gradually came upon me, and a really terrible feeling it was: There _must_ be a time and a place best suited for each person who has ever lived. After the worst of my grief had left me and I had come to terms with the vanished past, I wondered about a man’s place in time and space. Where, and _when_ in the cosmos would I most like to live out the balance of my days? –To live at my fullest potential? The past _was_ dead, but perhaps a better time waited on some as yet undiscovered world, waited at one yet-to-be recorded moment in its history. How could I _ever_ know? How could I ever be sure that my Golden Age did not lay but one more world away, and that I might be struggling in a Dark Era while the Renaissance of my days was but a ticket, a visa and a diary-page removed? That was my _second_ despair. I did know the answer until I came to the Land of the Swan. I do not know why I loved you Eleanor, but I did, and that was my answer. Then the rains came. When the lights returned we sat there and smoked. She had told me of her husband, who had died a hero’s death in time to save him from the delirium tremors which would have ended his days. Died as the bravest die–not knowing why–because of a reflex, which after all had been a part of him, a reflex which had made him cast himself into the path of a pack of wolf-like creatures attacking the exploring party he was with–off in that forest at the foot of Saint Stephen’s–to fight them with a machete and to be torn apart by them while his companions fled to the camp, where they made a stand and saved themselves. Such is the essence of valor: an unthinking moment, a spark along the spinal nerves, predetermined by the sum total of everything you have ever done, wished to do or not to do, and wish you had done, or hadn’t, and then comes the pain. We watched the gallery on the wall. Man is the reasoning animal? Greater than beasts but less than angels? Not the murderer I shot that night. He wasn’t even the one who uses tools or buries his dead. –Laughs, aspires, affirms? I didn’t see any of those going on. –Watches himself watch himself doing what he knows is absurd? Too sophisticated. He just did the absurd without watching. Like running back into a burning house after his favorite pipe and a can of tobacco. –Devises religions? I saw people praying, but they weren’t devising. They were making last-ditch efforts at saving themselves, after they’d exhausted everything else they knew to do. Reflex. The creature who loves? That’s the only one I might not be able to gainsay. I saw a mother holding her daughter up on her shoulders while the water swirled about her armpits, and the little girl was holding her doll up above _her_ shoulders, in the same way. But isn’t that–the love–a part of the total? Of everything you have ever done, or wished? Positive or neg? I know that it is what made me leave my post, running, and what made me climb into Eleanor’s flyer and what made me fight my way through the storm and out to that particular scene. I didn’t get there in time. I shall never forget how glad I was that someone else did. Johnny Keams blinked his lights above me as he rose, and he radioed down: “It’s all right. They’re okay. Even the doll.” “Good,” I said, and headed back. As I set the ship down on its balcony landing, one figure came toward me. As I stepped down, a gun appeared in Chuck’s hand. “I wouldn’t kill you, Juss,” he began, “but I’d wound you. Face the wall. I’m taking the flyer.” “Are you crazy?” I asked him. “I know what I’m doing. I need it, Juss.” “Well, if you need it, there it is. You don’t have to point a gun at me. I just got through needing it myself. Take it.” “Lottie and I both need it,” he said. “Turn around!” I turned toward the wall. “What do you mean?” I asked. “We’re going away, together–now!” “You _are_ crazy,” I said. “This is no time…” “C’mon, Lottie,” he called, and there was a rush of feet behind me and I heard the flyer’s door open. “Chuck!” I said. “We need you now! You can settle this thing peacefully, in a week, in a month, after some order has been restored. There _are_ such things as divorces, you know.” “That won’t get me off this world, Juss.” “So how is _this_ going to help?” I turned, and I saw that he had picked up a large canvas bag from somewhere and had it slung over his left shoulder, like Santa Claus. “Turn back around! I don’t want to shoot you,” he warned. The suspicion came, grew stronger. “Chuck, have you been looting?” I asked him. “Turn around!” “All right, I’ll turn around. How far do you think you’ll get?” “Far enough,” he said. “Far enough so that no one will find us–and when the time comes, we’ll leave this world.” “No,” I said. “I don’t think you will, because I know you.” “We’ll see.” His voice was further away then. I heard three rapid footsteps and the slamming of a door. I turned then, in time to see the flyer rising from the balcony. I watched it go. I never saw either of them again. Inside, two men were unconscious on the floor. It turned out that they were not seriously hurt. After I saw them cared for, I rejoined Eleanor in the Tower. All that night did we wait, emptied, for morning. Somehow, it came. We sat and watched the light flow through the rain. So much had happened so quickly. So many things had occurred during the past week that we were unprepared for morning. It brought an end to the rains. A good wind came from out of the north and fought with the clouds, like En-ki with the serpent Tiamat. Suddenly, there was a canyon of cobalt. A cloudquake shook the heavens and chasms of light opened across its dark landscape. It was coming apart as we watched. I heard a cheer, and I croaked in unison with it as the sun appeared. The good, warm, drying, beneficial sun drew the highest peak of Saint Stephen’s to its face and kissed both its cheeks. There was a crowd before each window. I joined one and stared, perhaps for ten minutes.