“John, something you said earlier-the way you phrased something-made me think you were a lawyer.”
“Yes, I am. Why?”
“Can I make a privileged communication?”
“Hmm-are you asking me to accept you as a client?”
“If you want to put it that way, yes. I’m probably going to need advice.”
“Shoot. Privileged.”
“Okay. I’m from the future. Time travel.”
He didn’t say anything for several moments. We were lying stretched out in the sun. I was doing it to keep warm; May in Colorado is sunshiny but brisk. John Sutton seemed used to it and was simply lounging, chewing a pine needle.
“You’re right,” he answered. “I don’t believe it. Let’s stick to ‘dizzy spells.’”
“I told you you wouldn’t.”
He sighed. “Let’s say I don’t want to. I don’t want to believe in ghosts, either, or reincarnation, or any of this ESP magic. I like simple things that I can understand. I think most people do. So my first advice to you is to keep it a privileged communication. Don’t spread it around.”
“That suits me.”
He rolled over. “But I think it would be a good idea if we burned these clothes. I’ll find you something to wear. Will they burn?”
“Uh, not very easily. They’ll melt.”
“Better put your shoes back on. We wear shoes mostly, and those will get by. Anybody asks you questions about them, they’re custom-made. Health shoes.”
“They are, both.”
“Okay.” He started to unroll my clothes before I could stop him. “What the devil!”
It was too late, so I let him uncover it. “Danny,” he said in a queer voice, “is this stuff what it appears to be?”
“What does it appear to be?”
“Gold.”
“Where did you get it?”
“I bought it.”
He felt it, tried the dead softness of the stuff, sensuous as putty, then hefted it. “Cripes! Danny . . . listen to me carefully. I’m going to ask you one question, and be damned careful how you answer it. Because I’ve got no use for a client who lies to me. I dump him. And I won’t be a party to a felony. Did you come by this stuff legally?”
“Yes.”
“Maybe you haven’t heard of the Gold Reserve Act of 1968?”
“I have. I came by it legally. I intend to sell it to the Denver Mint, for dollars.”
“Jeweler’s license, maybe?”
“No. John, I told the simple truth, whether you believe me or not. Where I came from I bought that over the counter, legal as breathing. Now I want to turn it in for dollars at the earliest possible moment. I know that it is against the law to keep it. What can they do to me if I lay it on the counter at the mint and tell them to weigh it?”
“Nothing, in the long run. . . if you stick to your ‘dizzy spells.’ But they can surely make your life miserable in the meantime.” He looked at it. “I think you had better kick a little dirt over it.”
“Bury it?”
“You don’t have to go that far. But if what you tell me is true, you found this stuff in the mountains. That’s where prospectors usually find gold.”
“Well . . . whatever you say. I don’t mind some little white lies, since it is legitimately mine anyhow.”
“But is it a lie? When did you first lay eyes on this gold? What was the earliest date when it was in your possession?”
I tried to think back. It was the same day I left Yuma, which was sometime in May, 2001. About two weeks ago.
Huh!
“Put that way, John . . . the earliest date on which I saw that gold. . . was today, May third, 1970.”
He nodded. “So you found it in the mountains.”
The Suttons were staying over until Monday morning, so I stayed over. The other club members were all friendly but remarkably unnosy about my personal affairs, less so than any group I’ve ever been in. I’ve learned since that this constitutes standard good manners in a skin club, but at the time it made them the most discreet and most polite people I had ever met.