A man returns from a trip to the future remembering just one small (but disturbing) thing about his adventure.

Under 1-minute read.

Before Williams went into the future he bought a camera and a tape recording-machine and learned shorthand. That night, when all was ready, we made coffee and put out brandy and glasses against his return.

“Good-bye,” I said. “Don’t stay too long.”

“I won’t,” he answered.

I watched him carefully, and he hardly flickered. He must have made a perfect landing on the very second he had taken off from.

He seemed not a day older; we had expected he might spend several years away.

“Well?”

“Well,” said he, “let’s have some coffee.”

I poured it out, hardly able to contain my impatience. As I gave it to him I said again, “Well?”

“Well, the thing is, I can’t remember.

“Can’t remember? Not a thing?”

He thought for a moment and answered sadly, “Not a thing.”

“But your notes? The camera? The recording-machine?”

The notebook was empty, the indicator of the camera rested at “1” where we had set it, the tape was not even loaded into the recording-machine.

“But good heavens,” I protested, “why? How did it happen? Can you remember nothing at all?”

“I can remember only one thing.”

“What was that?”

“I was shown everything, and I was given the choice whether I should remember it or not after I got back.”

“And you chose not to? But what an extraordinary thing to—” “Isn’t it?” he said. “One can’t help wondering why.”