I met a time traveler in the audience at one of Ray Bradbury's writing classes. By "writing class" I mean "Ray tell stories from his life," which is sublime and educational in its own way. I gradually became aware of a little man dressed all in silver sitting in front of me, because of his strange mannerisms: everything Ray said, he'd anticipate and nod in agreement or chuckle to himself. He looked around, once, caught my eye and nodded knowingly, as if to say "Oh, you'll like this next one." A little annoying, like the buddy who echoes the lines of a movie to show how well he knows it.

Usually annoying, odd people like this get drawn to me, so it was no surprise that I found him just ahead of me in the book signing line after Ray's talk. He continued fidgeting, looking around, taking notes, nodding to himself, grinning sometimes at me like a fellow conspirator. He arrives in front of Ray, and says, in an odd accent like slurred French: "I have nozzing for you to zign, Ray Bradburee, but I have one question: do you belize in Time. Travel?" Ray shot back "No, it's impossible." The little silvery man shook his head, smiling, indulgent. Handed Ray his pen, which lit up from within, like a miniature fluorescent tube. Or a lightsaber. "Well, zis is for you anyway. I brought it wiz me." Point proved, I guess, he walked away.