"Yeah, but—"
"But how did I know? That's a long story. Too long and too involved for you and probably you wouldn't believe it anyhow. Look, Mr. Foley. I would like to hire you. I am an inventor. Your job will be to protect me and my invention against harm—for as long as necessary. Perhaps the rest of my life."
"The rest of your life!"
"Oh, that isn't very long. You see, I die of a heart attack in 1959."
"I'm sorry to hear that," I said. "You mean, your doctor told you you only have three more years to live?"
"My doctor?" the chunky fat man said. "Dear me, no. My great great great great grandchild told me. And he, of course, knows."
"Your great great great great grandchild," I said.
"Yes, of course. Naturally the dear boy—if you can call a man your own age a boy—is very upset. He's marooned here, you see."
"This—uh—great great great great grandson is your own age, you say?"
"Perhaps a little older. I never asked him."