in the world but you sometimes went a
lifetime without meeting one. The big man sat there smiling at him,
calmly exuding the serenity of one who has seen life from its tangled,
inaccessible roots outward and testifies from experience that the
entire growth is sound.

The writer stopped pacing suddenly and drew himself erect. As he stared
into the big man's eyes his fears seemed to fade away. Confidence
returned to him like the surge of the sea in great shining waves of
creativeness.

* * * * *

He knew suddenly that he could lose himself in his work again, could tap
the bright resonant bell of his genius until its golden voice rang out
through eternity. He had another great book in him and it would get
written now. It would get written ...

"You've helped me!" he almost shouted. "You've helped me more than you
know. I can't tell you how grateful I am to you. You don't know what it
means to be so paralyzed with fright that you can't write at all!"

The Man from Time was silent but his eyes shone curiously.

The writer turned to a bookcase and removed a volume in a faded cover
that had once been bright with rainbow colors. He sat down and wrote an
inscription on the flyleaf.

Then he rose and handed the book to his visitor with a slight bow. He
was smiling now.

"This was my first-born!" he said.

The Man from Time looked at the title first ... THIS SIDE OF PARADISE.

Then he opened the book and read what the author had written on the
flyleaf:

_With warm gratefulness for a courage which brought back the sun._

_F. Scott Fitzgerald._

Moonson bowed his thanks, turned and left the cabin.

Morning found him walking across fresh meadowlands with the dew
glistening on his bare head and broad, straight shoulders.

They'd never find him, he told himself hopelessly. They'd never find him
because Time was too vast to pinpoint one man in such a vast waste of
years. The towering crests of each age might be visible but there could
be no returning to one tiny insignificant spot in the mighty ocean of
Time.

As he walked his eyes searched for the field and the winding road he'd
followed into town. Only yesterday this road had seemed to beckon and he
had followed, eager to explore an age so primitive that mental
communication from mind to mind had not yet replaced human speech.

Now he knew that the speech faculty which mankind had