"Comfortable, Sir?"
"Quite."
Cavendish adjusted switches; the screen came to life, showing the earlier scene with the youthful Johnson just beginning his dash into the alley.
"We regress some twenty-seven hours more," he said. The scene dissolved and was replaced by one with the boy in a classroom. The clock on the wall read three-thirty; school had been out some fifteen minutes. Timmy Johnson placed the last of the erasers in the blackboard trough and checked the stack of workbooks with his eye, stopping to shift the top one a quarter of an inch into better alignment.
"We are now approaching the crisis point," said Cavendish. "The blending of the adult Id with that of the boy will enable you to control the actions of the boy."
"Get on with it!" said Johnson, impatiently, anxious to have the affair over with.
"Very well." Cavendish closed several switches and the hum of vast amounts of power pouring into the little room rose until it set the hackles of the men's necks rising. Still it rose, until Cavendish closed one final switch—
"All done, Mrs. Taylor."
"Thank you, Timmy." She glanced up from the stack of papers and smiled at the boy. "I swear, I don't know what I'd do without you. You're the best helper I ever had."