The old man was determined to stay awake to see what went on. But in spite of himself, his eyes closed, his head drooped forward. He dreamed a long and involved dream about cities of the future, where all the people had miraculous powers. It seemed to go on for days, yet when he awoke, with a start, the train still had not reached Oakland. He stood up abruptly as he realized that he was alone in the compartment. Where was Sandane? Next he realized that he was standing, that he _was_ Sandane, or at least in Sandane's body. He took two steps to the mirror and stared at it. Cutaway, striped pants, face the spitting image of Wyatt Earp. It was the old man in the wheelchair who had left the compartment. When he disembarked at San Francisco, he scanned the crowd for the wheelchair and soon spotted it. Edna had spotted it first--she was pushing it herself while a redcap followed, carrying the blanket and the old battered valise that the occupant of the chair had insisted on taking into his own coach. George tipped his derby to Edna. "Mrs. Bowers, I presume? Your father was telling me many nice things about you on the train." Edna laughed. "So you're the gentleman he was with! I guessed from his breath he'd had company!" "Now, Edna," a cracked old voice complained, "ain't no harm in buying a few drinks for an old man." * * * * * George looked at the man in the chair in amazement. Was that the way he had sounded? Somehow, through the hearing aid, his own voice had seemed louder, less faltering. "Only too happy to do it, sir," George said. "The pleasure was all mine." He wanted to add that Sandane was acting his part superbly, but didn't know just how to say it before Edna. "We could give you a lift to your hotel," Edna suggested. "Thank you, madam, but I don't believe I shall check into a hotel as yet. I shall leave my bags here until later in the evening." George was surprised how quickly he had assumed the manner of speaking that went with his clothes. "Well, take a couple of drinks for me," the old voice interjected. "Say hello to them pretty girls for me, too. So long, Sandy, and good luck." "So long, George," George replied, his voice choking up with pity for an old man who could not do what he wanted to do on this beautiful evening, in this beautiful city. When they had gone, he walked out of the station, enjoying every step of the vigorous young legs, feeling every muscle of the vigorous young body, glowing with life. Outside, he paused for a moment on the sidewalk before calling a cab. Two weeks, give or take a day or so, would be long enough to do the town. And two thousand dollars, give or take twenty, would be enough to do it on. The young-old man from elsewhen and the present was going to have one hell of a good time. End of Project Gutenberg's Young Man from Elsewhen, by Sylvia Jacobs