sometimes.’
He lay staring up at the doctor. ‘Does it hurt your time sense?’
‘Panic sometimes does.’
‘Makes a minute seem like an hour, or maybe an hour seem like a minute?’
‘Yes.’
‘Let me tell you then.’ He felt the bed under him, the sunlight on his face. ‘You’ll think I’m crazy. I was driving too fast, I know. I’m sorry now. I jumped the curb and hit that wall. I was hurt and numb, I know, but I still remember things. Mostly – the crowd.’ He waited a moment and then decided to go on, for he suddenly knew what it was that bothered him. ‘The crowd got there too quickly. Thirty seconds after the smash they were all standing over me and staring at me … it’s not right they should run that fast, so late at night …’
‘You only think it was thirty seconds,’ said the doctor. ‘It was probably three or four minutes. Your senses—’
‘Yeah, I know – my senses, the accident. But I was conscious! I remember one thing that puts it all together and makes it funny, God, so damned funny. The wheels of my car, upside down. The wheels were still spinning when the crowd got there!’
The doctor smiled.
The man in bed went on. ‘I’m positive! The wheels were spinning and spinning fast – the front wheels! Wheels don’t spin very long, friction cuts them down. And these were really spinning!’
‘You’re confused,’ said the doctor.
‘I’m not confused. That street was empty. Not a soul in sight. And then the accident and the wheels still spinning and all those faces over me, quick, in no time. And the way they looked down at me, I knew I wouldn’t die …’
‘Simple shock,’ said the doctor, walking away into the sunlight.
They released him from the hospital two weeks later. He rode home in a taxi. People had come to visit him during his two weeks on his back, and to all of them he had told his story, the accident, the spinning wheels, the crowd. They had all laughed with him concerning it, and passed it off.
He leaned forward and tapped on the taxi window.
‘What’s wrong?’
The cabbie looked back. ‘Sorry, boss. This is one helluva town to drive in. Got an accident up ahead. Want me to detour?’
‘Yes. No. No! Wait. Go ahead. Let’s – let’s take a look.’
The cab moved forward, honking.
‘Funny damn thing,’ said the cabbie. ‘Hey, you! Get that fleatrap out the way!’ Quieter. ‘Funny thing – more damn people. Nosy people.’
Mr Spallner looked down and watched his fingers tremble on his knee. ‘You noticed that, too?’
‘Sure,’ said the cabbie. ‘All the time. There’s always a crowd. You’d think it was their own mother got killed.’
‘They come running awfully fast,’ said the man in the back of the cab.
‘Same way with a fire or an explosion. Nobody around. Boom. Lotsa people around. I dunno.’
‘Ever seen an accident – at night?’
The cabbie nodded. ‘Sure. Don’t make no difference. There’s always a crowd.’
The wreck came in view. A body lay on the pavement. You knew there was a body even if you couldn’t see it. Because of the crowd. The crowd with its back toward him as he sat in the rear of the cab. With its back toward him. He opened the window and almost started to yell. But he didn’t have the nerve. If he yelled they might turn around.
And he was afraid to see their faces.
‘I seem to have a penchant for accidents,’ he said, in his office. It was late afternoon. His friend sat across the desk from him, listening. ‘I got out of the hospital this morning and first thing on the way home, we detoured around a wreck.’
‘Things run in cycles,’ said Morgan.
‘Let me tell you about my accident.’
‘I’ve heard it. Heard it all.’
‘But it was funny, you must admit.’
‘I must admit. Now how about a drink?’
They talked on for half an hour or more. All the while they talked, at the back of Spallner’s brain a small watch ticked, a watch that never needed winding. It was the memory of a few little things. Wheels and faces.
At about five-thirty there was a hard metal noise in the street. Morgan nodded and looked out and down. ‘What’d I tell you? Cycles. A truck and a cream-colored Cadillac. Yes, yes.’
Spallner walked to the window. He was very cold and as he stood there, he looked at his watch, at the small minute hand. One two three four five seconds – people running – eight nine ten eleven twelve – from all over, people came running – fifteen sixteen seventeen eighteen seconds – more people, more cars, more horns blowing. Curiously distant, Spallner looked upon the scene as an explosion in reverse, the fragments of the detonation sucked back to the point of impulsion. Nineteen, twenty, twentyone seconds and the crowd was there. Spallner made a gesture down at them, wordless.
The crowd had gathered so fast.
He saw a woman’s body a moment before the crowd swallowed it up.
Morgan said, ‘You look lousy. Here. Finish your drink.’
‘I’m all right, I’m all right. Let me alone. I’m all right. Can you see those people? Can you see any of them? I wish we could see them closer.’
Morgan cried out. ‘Where in hell are you going?’
Spallner was out the door, Morgan after him, and down the stairs, as rapidly as possible. ‘Come along, and hurry.’
‘Take it easy, you’re not a well man!’
They walked out on to the street. Spallner pushed his way forward. He thought he saw a red-haired woman with too much red color on her cheeks and lips.
‘There!’ He turned wildly to Morgan. ‘Did you see her?’
‘See who?’
‘Damn it; she’s gone. The crowd closed in!’
The crowd was all around, breathing and looking and shuffling and mixing and mumbling and getting in the way when he tried to shove through. Evidently the red-haired woman had seen him coming and run off.
He saw another familiar face! A little freckled boy. But there are many freckled boys in the world. And, anyway, it was no use; before Spallner reached him, this little boy ran away and vanished among the people.
‘Is she dead?’ a voice asked. ‘Is she dead?’
‘She’s
