"So," he said. "So?" "Tell me what's in the crate you're trying to hide in the driveway." "Looks like a telephone booth to me. About the right size and shape, don't you think?" "Make a guess," he said. I told him it looked like a telephone booth or refrigerator; something like that. He shook his head and smiled. "You don't know?" "Don't know what?" "Richard, do you think Judson Templeton would write on the side of a telephone booth the date that he would appear in San Diego after having been gone for seventeen years? May I use your telephone?" I might have said no, but he had already dialed a number. He spoke briefly, told someone where he was, told them about the crate in the driveway, nodded, and hung up. Right to the point, was Dansforth. "You sending someone along to steal my telephone booth?" I asked. "It isn't a telephone booth and it certainly isn't yours." "In my name." "Meaningless. Are you curious enough to ask what it is?" I was. He told me and I wished he hadn't. But what he said explained how Judson Templeton had managed to appear out of thin air at the storage facility. "It's a time machine of some sort," Dansforth said. "More likely a matter transporter. Or a combination of both. Maybe one does the other automatically." I spilled my coffee.
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