You are dressed now. You look at the door--the only door of the room except that of the closet (closet?) from which you entered it. You walk to the door and before you try the knob, you see the small typewritten sign pasted just above it that reads: This door has a time lock set to open in one hour. For reasons you will soon understand, it is better that you do not leave this room before then. There is a letter for you on the desk. Please read it. It is not signed. You look at the desk and see that there is an envelope lying on it. You do not yet go to take that envelope from the desk and read the letter that must be in it. Why not? Because you are frightened. You see other things about the room. The lighting has no source that you can discover. It comes from nowhere. It is not indirect lighting; the ceiling and the walls are not reflecting it at all. [Illustration: Illustrated by VIDMER] They didn't have lighting like that, back where you came from. What did you mean by _back where you came from_? You close your eyes. You tell yourself: _I am Norman Hastings. I am an associate professor of mathematics at the University of Southern California. I am twenty-five years old, and this is the year nineteen hundred and fifty-four._ You open your eyes and look again. * * * * * They didn't use that style of furniture in Los Angeles--or anywhere else that you know of--in 1954. That thing over in the corner--you can't even guess what it is. So might your grandfather, at your age, have looked at a television set. You look down at yourself, at the shimmering garment that you found waiting for you. With thumb and forefinger you feel its texture. It's like nothing you've ever touched before. _I am Norman Hastings. This is nineteen hundred and fifty-four._ Suddenly you must know, and at once. You go to the desk and pick up the envelope that lies upon it. Your name is typed on the outside: _Norman Hastings_. Your hands shake a little as you open it. Do you blame them? There are several pages, typewritten. Dear Norman, it starts. You turn quickly to the end to look for the signature. It is unsigned. You turn back and start reading. "Do not be afraid. There is nothing to fear, but much to explain. Much that you must understand before the time lock opens that door. Much that you must accept and--obey. "You have already guessed that you are in the future--in what, to you, seems to be the future. The clothes and the room must have told you that. I planned it that way so the shock would not be too sudden, so you would realize it over the course of several minutes rather than read it here--and quite probably disbelieve what you read. "The 'closet' from which you have just stepped is, as you have by now realized, a time machine. From it you stepped into the world of 2004. The date is April 7th, just fifty years from the time you last remember. "You cannot return.