"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 and vibrant. 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 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? I got up and started pacing. Foster had already told me there was nothing to connect him with his house in Mayport; the locals there had seen enough of him to know he was pushing middle age, at least. I could kick and scream and tell them this twenty year-old kid was Foster, but I'd never make it stick. There was no way to prove my story; they'd figure Foster was dead and that I'd killed him--and anybody who thinks you need a _corpus_ to prove murder better read his Perry Mason again. I glanced out of the window and did a double-take. Two cops were standing by Foster's car. One of them went around to the back and got out a pad and took down the license number, then said something over his shoulder and started across the street. The second cop planted himself by the car, his eye on the front of the hotel. I whirled on Foster. "Get your shoes on," I croaked. "Let's get the hell out of here." We went down the stairs quietly and found a back door opening on an alley. Nobody saw us go. * * * * *