“Knock, knock.”

“Enter, if you dare,” Sam laughed with some surprise.

Bob pushed open the plank door, ducking his head to enter. “Quite the place you have here,” he nodded. “Planning on staying long?”

Sam shrugged, although it was difficult to see in the dim interior of the cave. “Define long,” he said. “You look remarkably dry.”

“Hmm?” Looking around, Bob moved to a stump stool near the fire pit. “Oh, yes... that.” he sounded embarrassed. “I suppose that you’ve already figured out—?”

“That it wasn’t any calibration error?” Sam arched an eyebrow, also unseen. “Yeah, I figured that out pretty quick.”

“Sorry, Sam,” Bob shrugged. “I’m working on it, but there may be other... calibration errors before I get it nailed down.”

“This Grand Council of yours?”

“Oh, no,” Bob waved a hand. “The Grand Council wouldn’t have anything to do with something like that. At least not as a whole. But they aren’t the only actors in this play, Sam.”

Sam thought about that as he worked.

“Oh,” Bob hoisted the bag from his back and moved to open it. “Would you like some coffee?’

Sam was up and across the cave in a flash, retrieving his canteen cup on the way.

Bob poured from a thermos container, smiling. “Sugar?”

“Abso-freaking-lutely!” Sam grinned. And cream, if you got it.”

“Non-dairy, I’m afraid,” Bob apologized.

“Good enough,” Sam told him, “although I’d kill for a glass of really to life milk. Or an egg.”

“Sorry, Sam,” Bob apologized again. “There are limits to what even I can get away with. I won’t even be able to leave any of this behind except for what you drink.” He poured himself a smaller dose, using the thermos lid and ignoring the way Sam’s pleading gaze followed the plastic cup. “Don’t worry, Sam,” he chuckled. I’ve got another thermos in the bag.”

Sam settled back down, cradling the coffee against his chest, drinking in the aroma. It was actually coffee, none of that supermarket garbage that was mostly floor sweepings. A thought struck. “Don’t supposed you brought any butter?”

Bob flipped him a small, sealed container, followed by a spoon. “I remembered, Sam. It was one of the things you put in your books, so I figured you liked it yourself.”

“That I do, Centauri my friend,” Sam sighed. “That I do.”

“You can call me Bob,” Bob told him.

Sam looked up through the steam rising from his cup. “Fine,” he said. “Don promise not to think Centauri, though.”

Bob smiled back.

“So, Bob,” Sam ventured after a few more swallows. “What brings you to my humble abode?”

“That, exactly,” Bob nodded, waving his cup to encompass the cave. “Why, exactly do you have a humble abode, Sam?” He waved a stern finger in admonition. “There are those who are concerned that you seem to have taken up residence rather than set out on your glorious journey west.”

Sam chuckled in his own right. “You among them, Bob?”

A shrug. “I will admit to some concern, Sam,” he admitted. “To be fair, you’ve moved less than fifty miles in two and a half months.” He paused for dramatic affect. “Tuck—”

“He had metal, Bob,” Sam pointed out. “You know how important that is?” he raised an eyebrow. “Well, I’ve been finding out.”

Bob stopped. “We’d considered that, Sam,” he seemed puzzled. “We went over it.”

Sam nodded. “Yeah, I remember.” he said. “That was a very long time ago, when I was much younger and very much more stupid. When I took things for granted that I’ve learned not to.

“It was also before I realized just how much of the flora and fauna that I took for granted doesn’t exist here either. Before I realized how crucial something as common as pig fat is to someone who’s never even considered a world without it.”

“I see,” Bob frowned. “So you’re stuck, then?”

“Not hardly!” Sam assured him. “It’s just going to take me longer. I mean, look around you, Bob,” he waved. “I’m doing okay so far, all things considered. I’m learning to live here, and I’m building tools,” he held up the device he’d been carving on when Bob had ‘knocked’.

“And what is that, precisely?”

“At some point soon, it’ll be a Japanese hand planer,” Sam replied offhandedly. “A kanna, I think they call it. For smoothing wood. I brought an iron with me, but everything else I’ll have to build as I go. Everything is made out of wood here, see?” he frowned. “Or stone. Or bone, or horn, or sea shells.... Anything I didn’t bring with me, at least. Maybe someday....”

“I see,” Bob nodded. “And those?”

Sam looked to the rough shelf along the wall and its rows of wooden containers. “This ‘n’ that,” he said. Haven’t you been watching? I couldn’t even begin gathering the components to build anything until I built the containers to store them in. And unless I wanted to spend a week or a month digging through frozen muck looking for clay, I was stuck woodcarving.”

“So...?”

“Salt, pine tar, seeds, nuts, acorn flour, that sort of thing. Whatever I could gather or make, or might potentially gather or make. Also most of the seeds I brought along.”

“And that? Centauri pointed to a low, rectangular frame filled with what looked like wet vomit.

“Wood pulp,” Sam grinned broadly. “Sawdust and water mixed with leaves and grass.”

“To what purpose?”

The grin widened. “Gotta make some paper, Bob.”

“Paper? Whatever for?”

“Soft paper,” Sam corrected, lifting a cheek and swiping a hand in its general direction.

Bob nearly choked on his coffee. “How’s that working out for ya?”

Sam shrugged his shoulders. “John Wayne so far, I’m afraid,” he sighed. “Most of the tutorials on paper making that I was able to find started out with ‘take some paper....’ The rest mostly went into some great detail about how to accomplish the task using things I’d have to somehow get to Europe or the middle east to find.”

“And that?”

Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

“An experiment based on a video one of my guys sent me about something the video called Arab paper. It’s stiff as hell, but I’m working on ways to soften it.”

Bob looked around, his hands cradling the coffee cup. “Do you really think that’s the best use of your time, Sam?” he asked softly.

Sam shrugged again. “Isn’t taking much time at all, he said. Mostly I leave it to soak, trying to see if the cellulose will break down in the water. Meanwhile, I’ve got plenty of other things to do.”

“Like feeding the local natives?”

Sam looked up at him with a wry smile. “Hey, somebody gave me points for that.”

“Several somebodies, actually,” Bob corrected. “And quite a few points. You’re turning into quite the mystery show, Sam, and the highlight reels are starting to see some big ratings.”

“That’s good, isn’t it?”

Bob reached into his bag and retrieved the thermos, pouring himself another cup before offering the container to Sam. “It would be if the highlight reels were what the game was all about, Sam,” he lamented. “But they’re not. And there are those who are concerned that you aren’t really interested in playing the game you signed on for. There are those who are beginning to talk of stripping points.”

Sam peered through the darkness into the alien’s eyes, searching for some clue as to whether he was on the level. He looked around, wondering where the camera or camera analogs were, then back to Bob. “I can assure the Grand Council of the Game,” he intoned sonorously, “that I fully intend to arrive at... where the hell am I going again?”

“Southwest Oregon, Sam.” Bob sighed. “Near to what is curr— well, what will be, in your original timeline, Ophir.”

“Right,” Sam made the pistol firing sign, winking. “Ophir, Oregon. At some point.”

Bob scrubbed a hand across his face, sighing deeply. “That point is the point, Sam,” he said. “Some in the council are wondering at what point it is you intend to reach that point.”

Sam rose and moved over to Bob, taking the thermos and pouring what was left inside into his own cup, waiting for Bob to produce the second thermos so that he could fill it. Once the coffee was accessorized properly, he returned to his seat across the fire from his visitor. “Have they decided to introduce a time limit, Bob?” he asked mock casually after a few swallows.

“No,” Bob assured him. “Nothing like that. But, Sam, you have to understand that they have an interest.”

Sam nodded. “Oh, I’m not denying that,” he said. “But so long as I don’t have a deadline or a route I’m supposed to follow, isn’t the way I’m playing the game sort of by default the way it’s supposed to be played?”

Another deep sigh, and Bob excused himself. Sam heard the weird whistle-squeeks for a minute or two, and then Bob returned, his face less serious. “Alright, Sam, he said brightly. You played your part well, I must admit.”

“Well?” Sam wondered. “Played?”

“For the crowd, Sam,” Bob prompted. “For the Council. You’ve got them sufficiently worried that I was able to invoke client privilege to get us some privacy.”

“Alright?” Sam cocked his head, his eyebrow raised.

“These natives, Sam,” Bob went on as though there’d been no confusion. “They’re going to be your first Shandry village?”

Ah. “That’s the current plan, yes.”

“And that’s why you’ve been leaving them mysterious gifts in the forest, yes?”

“Well, not entirely, no,” Sam shook his head. “Mostly because I don’t like the idea of people starving when I can do something about it. But I won’t try to claim that possible influence wasn’t a happy coincidence.”

“And how much time are you really planning on spending in this area?”

Now Sam became even more reticent than he’d been for the unseen audience. There were probably areas even Bob wasn’t willing to stray to, and he wanted him on his side.

“Maybe a year?” he answered reluctantly. “Maybe a bit more? Don’t want to leave in the spring because of the melt. Early next summer, I was thinking.”

Bob sat stunned for a moment, trying to work his way through that statement. His hand went to the brim of his fedora, removing it and swiping through his hair with the same motion.

“So,” he said quietly. “You’re going to spend eighteen months a couple of days’ walk from where you were dropped?”

“About it,” Sam confessed.

“That’s going to be a hard sell,” Bob breathed. “The common timeline for these shows is about that front to back, and you’ll hardly have started.”

Sam swirled his coffee around in his cup, grinning a mildly evil grin. “Any of those other guys make it, Bob?” he asked, although they both knew the answer.

“Don’t get me wrong Sam,” Bob waved his hands. “I’m with you. All the way! But eighteen months just to get going? I’d hoped to sort of ease them into the idea that you were taking the slow and steady approach.”

“I’m not the one who dropped me in the fucking North Atlantic, Bob!” he snorted. “Inside the territory of a tribe who perfectly fit the bill of what I was looking for.

“Also,” he added, “I really do need a canoe.”

“A what?” Bob sputtered. “What has that got to do with anything?”

“You got any idea how long it takes to make a decent canoe, Bob?” Sam asked. “For a single person without any of the tools, components, or experience? Months, is what, if not a full year. With tools and a couple of decades of practical experience, sure, some of those old timers up north could knock one out in a couple of weeks. But I’m not a river Indian, let alone one with years of canoe building under my belt.

I’ve got the basic tools, I think... plans, instructions — hell, I’ve got some decent videos telling me how to make one in the ‘traditional’ way.” He snorted again. “Know what ‘traditional’ means in twenty-first century parlance, Bob?” he asked. “It means you only occasionally use power tools, that’s what it means.

“I don’t even know if these guys make canoes, either,” he told the alien. “The amount of historical revisionism going on online is kinda staggering. For all I know, they’re still floating around in dugouts. I’m not planning on portaging a hollowed out log clear across the country, Bob.”

“So, if they don’t know how,” Bob posited, “you’ll teach them?”

Sam nodded. “Hopefully,” he grinned. “Eventually. See, as I’ve already pointed out, I’ve never done it before either, and if I screw it up, my whole mystique gig goes belly up and I’m just a guy with shiny stuff.”

Bob whistled, and withdrew a flask from beneath his ever-present brown tweed jacket, taking a pull before offering the flask to Sam.

Sam hurriedly moved to acquire. Coffee and hooch? He thought. Best agent ever! He took a long pull of what turned out to be pretty good bourbon. He’d have preferred a nice single malt scotch, but he’d take what he could get.

“This privacy hack you’re using,” he ventured.

“It not a hack, Sam, Bob corrected him. “It dispensation. They turned the recording devices off temporarily.”

“Oh,” Sam was disappointed. “That's a shame. I was hoping to get strike a deal for a bit of it.”

Bob’s frown deepened. “Sorry, Sam,” he shook his head. “Does work like that, I’m afraid. Part of the deal. Nobody wants to pay for a blank screen, don’tchaknow.” then his eyes narrowed. “Any particular reason? You can’t think you’ll be able to sneak anything by the council, surely?”

“Nah,” Sam chuckled. “Nothing like that. There’re just some things I’ve never quite gotten used to doing in public, if you know what I mean.”

Bob’s face brightened and his familiar smile was back. “Oh ho! I...ah, think I understand, Sam,” he laughed. “Not to worry. Y’see, ah... evacuation is a pretty common area where most species seem to agree. While the cameras don’t shut down, they also don’t broadcast during such, ehem, activities.

“That” Sam grinned wide. “You should pardon the pun, is a relief.”

They sat and talked for the better part of an hour, Sam filling Bob in on the current state of his plans insofar as they’d changed since he’d hit on the ground.

“I still can’t promise how much of this the Grand Council will put up with,” Bob told Sam at last. “It’s kind of unprecedented, and they’re not known for their forbearance.”

“Meh,” Sam was feeling mellow. “You told me to remember who I am, Bob.” he said. “Well, this is who I am.”

“Well, then,” Bob stood, slapping his knees. “I suppose that’s that, then.”

“I suppose,” Sam replied.

“Anything else I can do for you before I go back?” Bob asked.

“I really like that hat,” Sam gave him an owl eye.

Bob looked at him like he was waiting for the punch line. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” Sam insisted. “It’s got style.”

Bob regarded him for a long moment, all but glaring. Then he shrugged and tossed the hat to Sam.

“Hey,” Sam started.

“I’ll work it out,” Bob hrumphed irritably. “They still owe me for dumping my client in the ocean. Fifty points indeed! You got ten times that for singing an old song. And badly at that. And it’s not like that hat will make your life any easier, or artificially affect your ability to reach the west coast, is it?”

Sam tried the fedora on, settling it with a nice Robert Mitchum cant. It fit surprisingly well. “Got a mirror, Bob?”

“Are you saying that you didn’t bring one?” Bob asked. “You brought everything else.”

“Don’t be that way, Bob.” Sam chided. “I’ll bet you’ve got hundreds of these things hanging on a giant hat rack somewhere.”

He didn’t, but he supposed he was more likely to find another than Sam was.

“Now, if there isn’t anything else?” he raised an eyebrow. “No? Then I’d better get back on the grid and let them put you back up as well.”

It was quite awhile after Bob left before Sam moved again. Funny how lonely he was all of a sudden. Or maybe he had been all along and just hadn’t let himself think about it.

It was even longer before he realized that he hadn’t remembered to pursue the troubles with people who liked flinging him into oceans. More calibration errors, Bob had warned of. Good to know.

The weather was warming, and that should have been a good thing. Instead, he was racing to get sufficient trees down to build the cabin before April showed up with its characteristic rain. Trying to muscle logs around in a muddy downpour wasn’t a thing he was much looking forward to. He decided to concentrate more on getting the logs ready and less on his side projects.

Like the apples, he couldn’t help but chuckle. It was about time to start rooting the apple cuttings he’d been hopefully preserving all this time. If the Council was bitching about the cabin, what would they do when they saw him planting fruit trees that wouldn't bear fruit for years?