big and shallow. All I knew was that the Professor was working on a new, short-duration field which would make his time-travel demonstrable to all, and that one evening I went back to the hollow and couldn't get home. And life here is so complicated, so much more documentation that I don't fully understand—"
"I could help you understand it," said Michaelson quietly. He had been gradually moving the suspect closer to the bed. He added, "But you will have to do something for me."
"Even before I traced the old newspaper references," the other went on, "I knew that I was marooned here. I had a large enough stock of stamps to be able to make enough money to set up a legitimate philatelic business if I could only sort out the red tape. But I wanted to find my wife if she was still alive. We didn't make much money on the songs I had memorized and most of it went on buying stamps, anyway. She must have moved to this place before our house was leveled to make room for the new development, but the new owner changed the name and made it difficult to trace...."
"But you found her," Michaelson broke in softly, "and she'll be glad to see you after all this time."
"No," said the other, beginning to back away, "I can't."
Michaelson gripped him very firmly by the arm and said, "You are going to need help and advice and I'm willing to give it, but if you don't go to that old lady I will make you wish that you'd never been born. With your ridiculous story and lack of documentation I could easily get you in trouble—a charge of espionage, perhaps, or committal to a psychiatric—"
"She's so old!" he burst out in a tortured whisper. "Letting her see me still young would . . . would ... it wouldn't be fair to her!"
"That's a risk we both must take," said Michaelson more gently. "But I talked to her doctor. She is pretty far gone, far enough gone perhaps and senile enough to be living in the past, and you are exactly as she remembers you..."
Michaelson moved toward the bed taking the other man with him. On the bedside table there was a framed wedding picture showing them together. The faces were identical to those in the cropped photographs in the suspect's wallet except that this picture was old and yellowed and had not had the old-fashioned suit and dress and bouquet trimmed away to make period identification difficult. The terribly wrinkled and shrunken and caved-in face on the pillow close by bore no resemblance to the picture at all except for the eyes. They were the same as in the photograph and the same as Michaelson remembered them as a boy.
He stared intently at the suspect's face, looking for the slightest sign of revulsion in the other's expression as he bent over the bed, but could not find it.
As the nurse closed the bedroom door behind him she said, "He's holding her in his arms, sir. Is the young man a relative?"
Michaelson rubbed his eyes and said, "Only by marriage."
ASSISTED PASSAGE
HE knew himself to have that rare knack of making friends with everybody, and the corporal, who was also a keen amateur gardener, and himself had become very pally. Now, glancing at the stiffly marching figure beside him, Mathewson wondered if he reached for his pipe whether the corporal would shoot him.
He would have liked to say something, but the grim set of the soldier's jaw, and the hurt, ashamed look in his usually friendly eyes made him keep silent. The major's hut was only three minutes away at this pace, and any explanation he could give would be long, complicated and quite incredible, especially if it was the true one.
The corporal halted at the green-painted door of the Nissen hut and rapped three times. His other hand hovered over the butt of his pistol, and his eyes were grimly watchful, though he never looked any higher than the level Of Mathewson's tie. The orderly who escorted them to the inner office also avoided meeting his eyes, and the little
"I could help you understand it," said Michaelson quietly. He had been gradually moving the suspect closer to the bed. He added, "But you will have to do something for me."
"Even before I traced the old newspaper references," the other went on, "I knew that I was marooned here. I had a large enough stock of stamps to be able to make enough money to set up a legitimate philatelic business if I could only sort out the red tape. But I wanted to find my wife if she was still alive. We didn't make much money on the songs I had memorized and most of it went on buying stamps, anyway. She must have moved to this place before our house was leveled to make room for the new development, but the new owner changed the name and made it difficult to trace...."
"But you found her," Michaelson broke in softly, "and she'll be glad to see you after all this time."
"No," said the other, beginning to back away, "I can't."
Michaelson gripped him very firmly by the arm and said, "You are going to need help and advice and I'm willing to give it, but if you don't go to that old lady I will make you wish that you'd never been born. With your ridiculous story and lack of documentation I could easily get you in trouble—a charge of espionage, perhaps, or committal to a psychiatric—"
"She's so old!" he burst out in a tortured whisper. "Letting her see me still young would . . . would ... it wouldn't be fair to her!"
"That's a risk we both must take," said Michaelson more gently. "But I talked to her doctor. She is pretty far gone, far enough gone perhaps and senile enough to be living in the past, and you are exactly as she remembers you..."
Michaelson moved toward the bed taking the other man with him. On the bedside table there was a framed wedding picture showing them together. The faces were identical to those in the cropped photographs in the suspect's wallet except that this picture was old and yellowed and had not had the old-fashioned suit and dress and bouquet trimmed away to make period identification difficult. The terribly wrinkled and shrunken and caved-in face on the pillow close by bore no resemblance to the picture at all except for the eyes. They were the same as in the photograph and the same as Michaelson remembered them as a boy.
He stared intently at the suspect's face, looking for the slightest sign of revulsion in the other's expression as he bent over the bed, but could not find it.
As the nurse closed the bedroom door behind him she said, "He's holding her in his arms, sir. Is the young man a relative?"
Michaelson rubbed his eyes and said, "Only by marriage."
ASSISTED PASSAGE
HE knew himself to have that rare knack of making friends with everybody, and the corporal, who was also a keen amateur gardener, and himself had become very pally. Now, glancing at the stiffly marching figure beside him, Mathewson wondered if he reached for his pipe whether the corporal would shoot him.
He would have liked to say something, but the grim set of the soldier's jaw, and the hurt, ashamed look in his usually friendly eyes made him keep silent. The major's hut was only three minutes away at this pace, and any explanation he could give would be long, complicated and quite incredible, especially if it was the true one.
The corporal halted at the green-painted door of the Nissen hut and rapped three times. His other hand hovered over the butt of his pistol, and his eyes were grimly watchful, though he never looked any higher than the level Of Mathewson's tie. The orderly who escorted them to the inner office also avoided meeting his eyes, and the little
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