"What's funny about it, Foster?" I yelled. "Your dough may buy you out, but what about me?" "Forgive me for asking," Foster said pleasantly, "But--who are you?" * * * * * There are times when I'm slow on the uptake, but this wasn't one of them. The implications of what Foster had said hit me hard enough to make my knees go weak. "Oh, no, Mr. Foster," I said. "You can't lose your memory again--not right now, not with the police looking for me. You're my alibi; you're the one that has to explain all the business about the guns and the ad in the paper. I just came to see about a job, remember?" My voice was getting a little shrill. Foster sat looking at me, wearing an expression between a frown and a smile, like a credit manager turning down an application. He shook his head slightly. "My name is not Foster." "Look," I said. "Your name was Foster yesterday--that's all I care about. You're the one that owns the house the cops are all upset about. And you're the corpse I'm supposed to have knocked off. You've got to go to the cops with me--right now--and tell them I'm just an innocent bystander." I went to the window and raised the shades to let some light into the room, turned back to Foster. "I'll explain to the cops about you thinking the little men were after you--" I stopped talking and stared at Foster. For a wild moment I thought I'd made a mistake--that I'd wandered into the wrong room. I knew Foster's face, all right; the light was bright enough now to see clearly; but the man I was talking to couldn't have been a day over twenty years old. * * * * * I went close to him, staring hard. There were the same cool blue eyes, but the lines around them were gone. The black hair grew lower and thicker than I remembered it, and the skin was clear. I sat down hard on my bed. "_Mama mia_," I said. "_¿Que es la dificultad?_" Foster said. "Shut up," I moaned. "I'm confused enough in one language." I was trying hard to think but I couldn't seem to get started. A few minutes earlier I'd had the world by the tail--just before it turned around and bit me. Cold sweat popped out on my forehead when I thought about how close I had come to driving off in Foster's car; every cop in the state would be looking for it by now--and if they found me in it, the jury wouldn't be out ten minutes reaching a verdict of guilty. Then another thought hit me--the kind that brings you bolt upright with your teeth clenched and your heart hammering. It wouldn't be long before the local hick cops would notice the car out front. They'd come in after me, and I'd tell them it belonged to Foster. They'd take a look at him and say, "nuts, the bird we want is fifty years old, and where did you hide the body?"