Mr. Glescu shook his head miserably. “Every scholar who wins the award has to sign a waiver of responsibility, in case he doesn’t return. The machine may be used only once in fifty years—and by that time, some other scholar will claim and be given the right to witness the storming of the Bastille, the birth of Gautama Buddha or something of the sort. No, I’m stuck here, as you phrased it. Is it very bad, living in this period?”

I slapped him on the shoulder. I was feeling very guilty. “Not so bad. Of course, you’ll need a social security card, and I don’t know how you go about getting one at your age. And possibly—I don’t know for sure—the F.B.I. or immigration authorities may want to question you, since you’re an illegal alien, kind of.”

He looked appalled. “Oh, dear! That’s quite bad enough!”

And then I got the idea. “No, it needn’t be. Tell you what. Morniel has a social security card—he had a job a couple of years ago. And he keeps his birth certificate in that bureau drawer along with other personal papers. Why don’t you just assume his identity? He’ll never show you up as an imposter!”

“Do you think I could? Won’t I be—won’t his friends—his relatives—”

“Parents both dead, no relatives I ever heard about. And I told you I’m the closest thing to a friend he’s got.” I examined Mr. Glescu thoughtfully. “You could get away with it. Maybe grow a beard and dye it blond. Things like that. Naturally, the big problem would be earning a living. Being a specialist on Mathaway and the art movements that derived from him wouldn’t get you fed an awful lot right now.”

He grabbed at me. “I could paint! I’ve always dreamed of being a painter! I don’t have much talent, but there are all sorts of artistic novelties I know about, all kinds of graphic innovations that don’t exist in your time. Surely that would be enough—even without talent—to make a living for me on some third- or fourth-rate level!”