chemical-stained hands that held on to each other companionably. His head was bare, and egg-shaped. It bulged out in back. And it was bald as an egg. His features were ordinary, but there was a sardonic down-twist to his mouth.
Suddenly, as if he knew I was giving him the once-over, he raised up his head and opened his eyes.
They were twin black diamonds, and burned into mine.
I winced. They bored holes right through my head.
He yawned.
"Hullo," I stammered, forgetting the hot epithets that had trembled on my tongue a few seconds before.
"Good evening, Mason," he said, in a dry bored voice.
"HOW did you know my name?" I asked curiously, after a moment.
He yawned again. "I know nearly everything," he replied modestly.
I smiled thinly, reminded of a certain Morton Weinstock.
"I suppose you've travelled into the future?"
"No."
He closed his eyes again.
I glanced at Susie May. She was asleep, her frizzy blonde head resting cozily against the cushion she'd propped against the window. She snored gently.
The plane droned on into the night.
I turned back to our strange intruder. I didn't feel a bit sleepy. I was curious about him.
"Hey!" I whispered, and reached back to shake him easily. "What's this all about?"
"What's what all about?" his sardonic bored voice asked, before he opened his eyes.
"Who are you?" I asked. "And how come we landed miles off our course to pick you up? The driver didn't mention you in Los Angeles."
"He didn't even know I existed—then."
"Well, for cat sakes, tell me—"
"Why should I tell you anything?" he interrupted, stifling a yawn.
"This is our plane," I sulked. "I hired it. It seems to me I'm entitled to some explan—"
"All right, Mason," he broke in again. "I'll answer your questions. After all, you saved my life!"
"I did?" I blinked.
"Well," I went on. "First of all, who are you? And what do you mean when you say you know almost everything? And what do you know about Mister Chunky's peculiar behavior?"
His forehead corrugated.
"The crux of the whole business is my great discovery," he said at last.
"What's that?"
"The discovery that I—Mark Tyme," he went on, "am not only me, but that I am everyone else in the world too!"
I gaped at him in pop-eyed amazement. Here was a screwball among screwballs!
Then I giggled.
"Sounds silly," I told him frankly.
His frown deepened. Then he let loose a vibrant sigh.
"I guess I had better tell you the entire story."
"Guess you had," I grinned.
The ache in my head had subsided. I was wide awake, and just in the mood for a cock-eyed yarn. It would help pass away the time until we reached Las Vegas.
I settled down comfortably in my seat, pricking up my ears. . . .
IT ALL begins (said the mysterious stranger), the significant day last month when Horace Gibson swaggered into my little laboratory, and insisted on being shown the apparatus
