I took a puff. It felt raw in my throat. “John, I won’t make any trouble. That’s the last thing on earth that I want.”
“Mmm. . . probably. Just `dizzy spells’ then?”
I thought about it. It was an impossible situation. The man had a right to know. But he certainly would not believe the truth, at least I would not have in his shoes. But it would be worse if he did believe me; it would kick up the very hoorah that I did not want. I suppose that if I had been a real, honest, legitimate time traveler, engaged in scientific research, I would have sought publicity, brought along indisputable proof, and invited tests by scientists.
But I wasn’t; I was a private and somewhat shady citizen, engaged in hanky-panky I didn’t want to call attention to. I was simply looking for my Door into Summer, as quietly as possible.
“John, you wouldn’t believe it if I told you.”
“Mmm. . . perhaps. Still, I saw a man fall out of empty sky but he didn’t hit hard enough to hurt him. He’s wearing funny clothes. He doesn’t seem to know where he is or what day it is. Danny, I’ve read Charles Fort, the same as most people. But I never expected to meet a case. But, having met one, I don’t expect the explanation to be as simple as a card trick. So?”
“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?”