* * * * *
There was a knock.
Betty bounced up with Olympic agility and had the door swinging wide
before the knocking was quite completed.
He was old, little and had bug eyes behind pince-nez glasses. His suit
was cut in the style of yesteryear but when a suit costs two or three
hundred dollars you still retain caste whatever the styling.
Simon said unenthusiastically, "Good morning, Mr. Oyster." He indicated
the client's chair. "Sit down, sir."
The client fussed himself with Betty's assistance into the seat,
bug-eyed Simon, said finally, "You know my name, that's pretty good.
Never saw you before in my life. Stop fussing with me, young lady. Your
ad in the phone book says you'll investigate anything."
"Anything," Simon said. "Only one exception."
"Excellent. Do you believe in time travel?"
Simon said nothing. Across the room, where she had resumed her seat,
Betty cleared her throat. When Simon continued to say nothing she
ventured, "Time travel is impossible."
"Why?"
"Why?"
"Yes, why?"
Betty looked to her boss for assistance. None was forthcoming. There
ought to be some very quick, positive, definite answer. She said, "Well,
for one thing, paradox. Suppose you had a time machine and traveled back
a hundred years or so and killed your own great-grandfather. Then how
could you ever be born?"
"Confound it if I know," the little fellow growled. "How?"