"My name," the little man said, "is," he paused and smiled cryptically, "Demise."
"Glad to know you," Reggie said. "My name is—"
"I know your name," Mr. Demise said. "I know everything about you, Reginald Van Fiddler. I know things about you that you don't know yourself."
"Do you now?" Reggie said, becoming interested in spite of himself. "For instance?"
"I know that you are about to take a long trip," Mr. Demise said.
"That's not news," Reggie said. "My draft board just classified me 1-A. I'll be taking a long trip very shortly."
"That is not the trip I am referring to," Mr. Demise said. "You are going on a trip with me."
Reggie blinked. He couldn't think of anyone with whom he would rather not take a trip than this dark, sinister little man who called himself Mr. Demise. What did Demise mean, anyway?
"It's nice of you, and all that," he said, "but I don't think I'll be able to make it. My draft board might not like it."
"They will understand," Mr. Demise said.