“About as much of a friend as he’s got in the world,” I told him, “which isn’t saying much.”

And all the time I was trying to figure it out. But the more I figured, the more confused I got. The paradoxes in the thing. How could Morniel Mathaway become famous five hundred years from now by painting pictures that he first saw in a book published five hundred years from now? Who painted the pictures? MornieI Mathaway? The book said so, and with the book in his possession, he would certainly do them. But he’d be copying them out of the book. So who painted the original pictures?

Mr. Glescu looked worriedly at his forefinger. “I’m running out of time—practically none left!”

He sped up the stairs, with me behind him. When we burst into the studio, I braced myself for the argument over the book. I wasn’t too happy about it, because I liked Mr. Glescu.

The book wasn’t there; the bed was empty. And two other things weren’t there—the time machine and Morniel Mathaway.

“He left in it!” Mr. Glescu gasped. “He stranded me here! He must have figured out that getting inside and closing the door made it return!”

“Yeah, he’s a great figurer,” I said bitterly. This I hadn’t bargained for. This I wouldn’t have helped to bring about. “And he’ll probably figure out a very plausible story to tell the people in your time to explain how the whole thing happened. Why should he work his head off in the twentieth century when he can be an outstanding, hero-worshipped celebrity in the twenty-fifth?”

“But what will happen if they ask him to paint merely one picture—”

“He’ll probably tell them he’s already done his work and feels he can no longer add anything of importance to it. He’ll no doubt end up giving lectures on himself. Don’t worry, he’ll make out. It’s you I’m worried about. You’re stuck here. Are they likely to send a rescue party after you?”