The Man Who Folded Himself

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This book is for Larry Niven, a good friend who believes that time travel is impossible. He’s probably right.

In the box was a belt. And a manuscript.

I hadn’t seen Uncle Jim in months.

He looked terrible. Shrunken. His skin hung in wrinkled folds, his complexion was gray, and he was thin and stooped. He seemed to have aged ten years. Twenty. The last time I’d seen him, we were almost the same height. Now I realized I was taller.

“Uncle Jim!” I said. “Are you all right?”

He shook off my arm. “I’m fine, Danny. Just a little tired, that’s all.” He came into my apartment. His gait was no longer a stride, now just a shuffle. He lowered himself to the couch with a sigh.

“Can I get you anything?”

He shook his head. “No, I don’t have that much time. We have some important business to take care of How old are you, boy?” He peered at me carefully.

“Huh—? I’m nineteen. You know that.”

“Ah.” He seemed to find that satisfactory. “Good. I was afraid I was too early, you looked so young—” He stopped himself. “How are you doing in school?”

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