Ewing as a hopeless crackpot, he was disturbingly eager to see the pictures in the old album.

Ewing gestured for him to be seated. Joey sat in the chair near the table and the old man handed him the open album.

"So far," Ewing said, "I haven't been able to control the process. I photograph a subject and the picture may be projected ten years into the future or a hundred years into the past. There must be an infinite number of dimensions registered on the film, but my developer varies."

Joey's initial eagerness was quickly dissipated. The photographs in the album were disappointingly ordinary. True, there were some that seemed to be trick-shots and a few in which the costuming was unfamiliar, but certainly nothing to document the old boy's claim. Aside from a few shots that were interesting because of their violence, there was nothing in the album.

Ewing waited for Joey's reaction—the parchment face even more deeply wrinkled by excitement—the blue eyes blazing.

"Well, Mr. Barrett?"

Joey left the album open at the picture of a gruesome accident. Apparently, two cars had met head-on. The one had been a sleek convertible. The other was an old sedan. Both were terribly crumpled. Glass littered the street. Steam spewed from the twisted radiator of the old wreck.

A man sprawled from the front seat of the sedan—an elderly man, with a white beard—a beard spattered with blood. His sightless eyes stared accusingly at the small cluster of onlookers who surrounded the wreck. Nearby, thrown from the crushed convertible by the impact, lay a woman. She wore an extreme evening dress, and a fur cape had fallen not far from her body. All around her were pearls ... spilled from the broken strand at her throat.

Joey looked up at Ewing. He shook his head. "You've got some interesting pictures, but I can't see that they prove your theory. They could have been taken any time." He pointed to the photo of the wreck. "This one, for instance." He smiled up at the old man. "That looks like a shot I might have made."

Ewing's entire body seemed shaken by his eagerness to prove his point. "Mr. Barrett ... that picture is of an accident that hasn't occurred. One evening, I took a picture of the street out there ... at the corner ... where our street joins the Boulevard." His voice was low, urgent. "When I snapped that photo, the street was deserted. There were no cars—no people."

Joey took another look at the wreck. He closed the album with finality. "Mr. Ewing," he said, "I'm not questioning your sincerity. I can see that you're convinced your developer has extraordinary powers."

"But you don't believe me." There was despair in the old man's voice. "What can I say to make you believe that you've just looked at the picture of an accident that's yet to happen."

Joey laid the album on the table. "It's an interesting theory."

Ewing moved to his camera. "It's more than a theory. I can prove it." He ducked behind the camera. "Let me take your picture, Mr. Barrett, and I'll prove it."

"Wait a minute!" Joey half rose from the chair in protest, and then, with a shrug subsided. "Sure," he said. "Why not?"

"Thank you," Ewing answered. He focused the camera, cut on extra lights, posed Joey, took his picture.

The ordeal over, Joey moved toward the door.

"You'll see, Mr. Barrett. This picture will convince you."

Joey nodded. "Sure, sure. You give me a call."

They were in the entry-hall. "As I said," Ewing continued, "I haven't much time. That's why I'm very anxious to pass on my discovery. It could do great good—in the right hands."

Joey opened the door. "I understand," he said. "You give me a call."

"I will."

Joey was outside—the door between him and Ewing's pathetic eagerness. As he bounded down the steps, he was devising a revenge extreme enough for Nugent.

He slipped in behind the wheel. It was surprising that anyone as near psycho as Ewing should be loose. The old boy had