
Alpha Centauri. We cured cancer and stopped death. We did it—Oh Lord, much thanks—we did it. Oh,
future’s bright and beauteous spires, arise!”
He showed them pictures, he brought them samples, he gave them tapes and LP records, films and
sound cassettes of his wondrous roundabout flight. The world went mad with joy. It ran to meet and
make that future, fling up the cities of promise, save all and share with the beasts of land and sea.
The old man’s welcoming shout came up the wind. Shumway shouted back and let the Dragonfly
simmer down in its own summer weather.
Craig Bennett Stiles, 130 years old, strode forward briskly and, incredibly, helped the young reporter
out of his craft, for Shumway was suddenly stunned and weak at this encounter.
“I can’t believe I’m here,” said Shumway.
“You are, and none too soon,” laughed the time traveler. “Any day now, I may just fall apart and blow
away. Lunch is waiting. Hike!”
A parade of one, Stiles marched off under the fluttering rotor shadows that made him seem a
flickering newsreel of a future that had somehow passed.
Shumway, like a small dog after a great army, followed.
“What do you want to know?” asked the old man as they crossed the roof, double time.
“First,” gasped Shumway, keeping up, “why have you broken silence after a hundred years? Second,
why to me? Third, what’s the big announcement you’re going to make this afternoon at four o’clock,
the very hour when your younger self is due to arrive from the past—when, for a brief moment, you will
appear in two places, the paradox: the person you were, the man you are, fused in one glorious hour for
us to celebrate?”
The old man laughed. “How you do go on!”
“Sorry.” Shumway blushed. “I wrote that last night. Well. Those are the questions.”
“You shall have your answers.” The old man shook his elbow gently. “All in good—time.”
“You must excuse my excitement,” said Shumway. “After all, you are a mystery. You were famous,
world-acclaimed. You went, saw the future, came back, told us, then went into seclusion. Oh, sure; for a
few weeks, you traveled the world in ticker-tape parades, showed yourself on TV, wrote one book,
gifted us with one magnificent two-hour television film, then shut yourself away here. Yes, the time
machine is on exhibit below, and crowds are allowed in each day at noon to see and touch. But you
yourself have refused fame—”
“Not so.” The old man led him along the roof. Below in the gardens, other helicopters were arriving
now, bringing TV equipment from around the world to photograph the miracle in the sky, that moment
when the time machine from the past would appear, shimmer, then wander off to visit other cities