Time's Revenge

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On his last three visits my friend the Time Traveler had come to the front door, and I thought I had got him trained. I was all the more startled, therefore, when one evening, as I was microwaving my supper, he arrived through the door of the broom cupboard instead. He had not been in the broom cupboard, of course—he is the thinnest person I know, but two brooms, two mops and the vacuum cleaner leave barely room even for another broomstick. The interface between this Universe and the one he inhabits had been set up a millimeter or two in front of the door itself, and he came through that.

It was the first time I had actually seen the process—other times he was just there, when I turned around, or looked up, or opened the door. His most prominent features (in the sense of projecting further than the rest)—a tuft of hair, the tips of his nose and his little pointed beard, the knuckles of one hand—suddenly projected from the dark-stained wood, like those of a corpse not quite submerged in melted chocolate. I didn’t scream, but I emitted a definite squeak, by which time he had come all the way through and was standing in front of the undamaged door, in a pale grey suit, with a bow tie as usual a little on one side—looking thoroughly upset.

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