furniture in Los Angeles--or anywhere else
that you know of--in 1954. That thing over in the corner--you can't even
guess what it is. So might your grandfather, at your age, have looked at
a television set.

You look down at yourself, at the shimmering garment that you found
waiting for you. With thumb and forefinger you feel its texture.

It's like nothing you've ever touched before.

_I am Norman Hastings. This is nineteen hundred and fifty-four._

Suddenly you must know, and at once.

You go to the desk and pick up the envelope that lies upon it. Your name
is typed on the outside: _Norman Hastings_.

Your hands shake a little as you open it. Do you blame them?

There are several pages, typewritten. Dear Norman, it starts. You turn
quickly to the end to look for the signature. It is unsigned.

You turn back and start reading.

"Do not be afraid. There is nothing to fear, but much to explain. Much
that you must understand before the time lock opens that door. Much that
you must accept and--obey.

"You have already guessed that you are in the future--in what, to you,
seems to be the future. The clothes and the room must have told you
that. I planned it that way so the shock would not be too sudden, so you
would realize it over the course of several minutes rather than read it
here--and quite probably disbelieve what you read.

"The 'closet' from which you have just stepped is, as you have by now
realized, a time machine. From it you stepped into the world of 2004.
The date is April 7th, just fifty years from the time you last remember.

"You cannot return.

"I did this to you and you may hate me for it; I do not know. That is up
to you to decide, but it does not matter. What does matter, and not to
you alone, is another decision which you must make. I am incapable of
making it.

"Who is writing this to you? I would rather not tell you just yet. By
the time you have finished reading this, even though it is not signed
(for I knew you would look first for a signature), I will not need to
tell you who I am. You will know.

"I am seventy-five years of age. I have, in this year 2004, been
studying 'time' for thirty of those years. I have completed the first
time machine ever built--and thus far, its construction, even the fact
that it has been constructed, is my own secret.

"You have just participated in the first major experiment. It will be
your responsibility to decide whether there shall ever be any m