"Some humans with this gift often imagine ludicrous things, exciting things, horrifying things—depending don't you see, on mood, emotion. And the things these mortals imagine become real, are actually, created—only they don't know it, of course."
He stopped. He was probably giving me time to soak that up. Then he went on. "You've forgotten to keep trying to remember where you put that Luger, Mr. Anders. I just picked up the abandoned thought as it left your consciousness just now."
I gulped down something that tried to rise in my throat. I didn't like this guy.
"You created me when you were fourteen, Mr. Anders. You imagined me as a swashbuckling pirate. The only difference between me and the others who have been created in times past is that I have attained the ninth dimension. I am the first to do that. Also the first to capture the secrets of your own third dimension. Naturally then, it would be a pity for me to die."
"Get out," I said.
"Forgive me, Mr. Anders. My time is short. I die tomorrow."
"That's swell. Now get out."
"We're not immortal, you see. When our creators die their imaginations die with them. We too die. It follows. But for some time I've had an idea."
"Out," I said again. "Get the hell out of here!"
"You're going to die tomorrow, Mr. Anders, in that new flying saucer. And I must die with you. Except that I've had this idea."